A/N: The second chapter, that I've prewritten, the rest will have to be fresh. I hope there's enough to gain your interest.
A morning with no breakfast.
The next Saturday morning found Harry awake at seven sizzling up some bacon in the kitchen by himself. Weekend mornings meant fried food and a quick escape outdoors while Vernon and Dudley snored upstairs and, used to the routine, Petunia was content to let him do what he wanted as long as she got a cup of tea and a bit of peace in the front room.
Dudley's sly punches and piggy eyes this last week had hardly bothered Harry at all. An absence of cruelty at Number Four would have made the whole thing feel quite unreal. And, anyway, he had encouraged Petunia to crow on the Dursley's role in his improved prospects with almost every dinner. The reflected glory that found its way to him needled Dudley and Harry enjoyed that immensely.
Harry took in a deep lungful of smoky, cooking bacon and leaned against the kitchen countertop. Outside, sunlight showed flowering Daffodils.
A sharp rat-a-tat-tat on the door knocker disturbed the peace. He frowned, it was at least an hour too early for the postman.
"Harry! Door!" Snapped Petunia, her voice shrill.
"I'm cooking!" Harry shouted back. From beyond the double doors the recliner gave out a twang of defeat. She grumbled and her slippers dragged over the carpet irritatingly toward the front door. Harry sighed. God forbid she should have to answer her own front door when there was a skivvy nearby. The door unlocked with a click and gave a sort of heavy swoosh as it opened.
"Hello Pet -" Said an unfamiliar, but unmistakably male, voice. That was all it was able to get out before there came a terrified shriek and the slam of the door. Harry jumped up, already running toward the front door.
His aunt was pulling her dressing gown across herself as she backed away from the door like it was all that stood between her and the devil himself. She was pale and shaking her head and something was terribly, terribly wrong.
"What is it? Who's out there?!" Asked Harry. Petunia turned to stare at him, her lips pressed tight, refusing to speak. Another sharp knock came and Petunia literally jumped half a foot into the air. She snaked a bony hand out and gripped Harry's arm with white knuckles. Harry wasn't used to seeing his aunt look this small. "Who is it, Aunt Petunia?!" asked Harry.
Still, she refused to speak. Instead, her free hand pointed at the door.
A green tinge subtly illuminated the entire door before being sucked towards the bolts the key and the deadlock becoming darker and more real. Within the space of a second the strange sheen was gone. Harry's eyebrows furrowed in confusion. What had he just seen? Before he could ask the deadlock's chain gave a little jink of movement and a wave seemed to run through it, of its own accord.
The various locks began to turn, and draw, and slither by themselves, pulling back until they were all undone. As soon as the door was unlocked the deadlock's traitorous little chain fell and went limp while the key practically leapt from its place to land on the doormat.
Harry stood perfectly still, the moment stretching out. If he didn't move, if nobody moved, it hadn't happened - it wasn't real. It dragged on, until, as if to add insult to injury, that same knock rang out again from the other side, a little softer this time. It was real. He felt hot, angry, trapped. Scared.
"Blow this." He said. He reached out and tugged the door open in one sharp movement, even as Petunia tried to pull him back.
In the door stood the most spectacularly odd old man that Harry had ever seen. Tall, very tall, he had a great white beard, which reached almost to his navel. He wore a rich, purple cape, bordered by a strange pattern of blue and purple circles which followed the line of his shoulders and covered something like an old army red coat. Underneath that orange and yellow striped pyjama bottoms and brown riding boots were apparent. The top end had a huge and teal flared collar drawing the eyes to half-moon spectacles on top of a long crooked nose. All together it stung.
"Harry, my boy, my wonderful boy. Look at how you have grown," said the strange man, "May I come in?" He stepped through the door, inspecting Harry every bit as thoroughly as Harry inspected him.
"Ahh, I see you are appreciating my muggle disguise. It is quite fabulous taken all together. The high boots quite offset the whole thing, I find." He finished with a deep, throaty sort of 'hmm' of approval and waggled his eyebrows at Harry as if taking him into his confidence.
Harry, however wasn't quite as at ease. He had been forced a step back by the old man's intrusion, he had an arm out to make sure Petunia was behind him. He could punch the old man in his nose and try to rush past him, or he could shout for Dudley and Vernon and they could punch him in the nose, or he could . . .
The image of the door key betraying them flashed in his mind. Nose punching might not get them very far. And the man seemed to be content waiting for a reply.
"I'm afraid you've got the better of me. I don't know who you are, I don't know what you want and, this is what I want to stress, I don't know how you got in here," said Harry.
The old man's smile dimmed slightly for a moment there as his eyes flickered between Harry and Petunia.
"Yes, that does appear to be the case. It appears I have been most remiss, Harry, forgive me. I am Professor Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and this most enchanting creature behind you, if I am not mistaken, is Mrs. Petunia Dursley? A pleasure Petunia, it was to my discredit that our relationship was hitherto limited to quill and parchment."
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Harry began to have suspicions.
The Professor gave a deep bow as he introduced himself, long arms and long fingers cast out with practiced grace. Aunt Petunia was still speechless, although a little colour was returning to her face, and her mouth was starting to move soundlessly to build momentum for a rollicking.
"I see you are on the cusp of offering Harry and I a pot of tea, Petunia, my dear. How gracious. I take honey and lemon, if you have it. Thank You. May I close the door, Harry?" said Dumbledore.
Aunt Petunia spoke hoarsely, "For goodness sake, Harry. Get out of his way. Any one could see him from there." She began to walk to the kitchen.
"Aunt Petunia, should I go and get Uncle Vernon and Dudley?" He asked in a low voice.
"No. No. Let's just. I think. No, Harry. I need to just -"
She entered the kitchen and Dumbledore was good enough to be inspecting a framed Ordnance Survey map in the hallway as she left - 'Marvellous, marvellous' - whether he had actually heard or not.
"Far be it from me to impose, Harry, but perhaps we might begin our discussion somewhere more comfortable than the hallway. In my old age I have found it is wise to never be too distant from a cushioned seat." Harry opened the door to the sitting room but stayed standing as the professor sat.
"Why are you here?" He asked. Dumbledore seemed surprised at Harry's bluntness and his folded arms, he didn't invite Harry to sit but answered him directly. A point in his favour.
"I entrusted you to the care of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, fifteen years ago. It seemed appropriate that I be the one to bring you back, Harry."
Whatever Harry had been expecting, it wasn't that. He found himself sinking onto the arm of the couch.
"You put me here?"
Dumbledore was silent in affirmation. Harry wasn't going to fall apart, not in the face of this opportunity for answers.
"Why?" He insisted. Dumbledore was silent for a moment longer.
"It would help me better answer your questions, Harry, if I had a greater understanding of what you know about yourself, your world and your history. I expected you to know who I am. I expected you to know why I am visiting you today. It appears this is not the case."
"My world? My history? I don't know what you're asking me. I'm Harry Potter. I'm studying Physics, English Literature and Maths at Stonewall sixth form. I play centre-midfield and my preferred race is the 400 meters. I live with my Aunt and Uncle and a cousin the size of rhinoceros because I'm an orphan and I have a social worker I have to visit every three months because they all used to be kind of shitty to me! How's that? That's pretty much my about me section." Harry's voice was raised toward the end. Emphatic but not quite shouting.
Dumbledore bowed his head before Harry's pain. He looked up and his eyes were old and sorrowful. Ok, maybe Harry could fall apart, just for a minute or two.
"How did James and Lily Potter die, Harry?" said Dumbledore, softly. Aunt Petunia chose that moment to come through the double doors with a tray bearing a teapot and cups and it was to her that Harry spoke as he replied,
"James Potter was a waster and a drunk. He crashed into the central reservation at eighty miles per hour killing himself and your sister."
"Oh, Petunia," said Dumbledore, turning his gaze on her.
Petunia was shaking her head, spitting huffs in a bluster, searching for words.
"We told him what he needed to know. Maybe we changed the gory particulars but the message was the same! They died! And they died as a product of their unnatural lifestyle. A lifestyle we didn't want him growing up into. And it worked! Didn't it? He's here now, not at your school. He's not done anything freakish in years. He should be thanking us. He's got good prospects! He's got a good life ahead of him." Harry had never hated her nasal, shrill voice more than he did at that moment.
"That was in spite of you! Not because of you!" he shouted. He turned to Dumbledore, "What really happened to my parents?"
"James and Li-"
"No, wait. I want to hear it from her. Be honest with me for once in my life. What. Happened?" said Harry. Dumbledore didn't seem offended in the slightest.
"They got involved in their little civil war, even though they had a child on the way! Then predictably they went and got blown up and you landed on our doorstep."
"Blown up? What, the IRA?"
"No, you idiot! Witches, wizards, wands and curses. Teacups into Rats. Freakishness! You want me to apologise? You should be thanking me!"
Harry's face was thunderous, his eyes dark as he stared down at his aunt.
"Fuck you!" He spat.
"Harry," said Dumbledore rising to his feet and placing a hand on Petunia's shoulder, he continued, "Petunia, it would, perhaps, be best if Harry and I spoke now in private. You might wake your husband and your son and inform them that today may be accused of novelty."
Petunia gave no sign of having heard him, her eyes never leaving Harry's until she turned and stomped from the room.
Harry paced the front room. After a time he unclenched his fists and stopped.
"Thank you," said Harry, "Although, considering you put me here, perhaps I shouldn't."
"Perhaps," said Dumbledore. Harry turned to him,
"So you're really a wizard? Or witch?" He added.
"A wizard, of that I find myself most certain. The two terms have been sexed these last two centuries, much to the displeasure of the male students of Salem Witches' Institute." He said, that benign smile returning.
"And teacup rats, 'freakishness', that's all true?" asked Harry. Dumbledore reached into the sleeve of his red coat and drew what looked to be a dark wand. He jiggled both arms in Harry's direction.
"You will observe I have nothing up my sleeves. And. Voilà!" A flourish and suddenly a rather pathetic, motley bunch of flowers extended from the tip of Dumbledore's wand.
"That's very impressive." He snorted, despite himself. Dumbledore beamed at him.
"Laughter has a powerful magic all its own, Harry." He said.
"I suppose so, is comedy an important subject at your school?" Harry replied.
"Unfortunately, no. A source of inexhaustible disappointment to me, I assure you." Dumbledore placed the bouquet beside himself and poured two cups of tea. Harry held his while Dumbledore sipped, it was hot to his hand and unappealing.
He was on the brink of breaking the silence when Dumbledore gestured at the bland, mudane walls of Number Four with a sweep of his long arms.
"I do not believe, my dear boy, that I am here today to convince you that you are a wizard. Nor do I think the Dursleys would thank me if I were to perform any magic more, shall we say, grand. No, Harry, I believe you already know who you are, what you want is knowledge of where you belong."
Harry bit down on his immediate response, his denial. Dumbledore was looking over his half-moon glasses at Harry as if to say, think. He thought about the strange things the Dursleys had punished him for as a child. He thought about the things he could do which he couldn't quite explain. The things he ignored because he couldn't pretend they were normal. The things the Dursleys would disapprove of. Dumbledore knew. He could tell him.
"I can make things happen if I want to," said Harry, slowly. Instantly, he knew he'd said the wrong thing.
There was a new tension, an inflexibility to Dumbledore's too controlled recline into the chair.
"I can make myself feel 'fresh' if I want to. When I'm studying and get tired, or when I'm running and get fatigued or hurt. I can make it go away if I try. And when I was really young all kinds of strange stuff happened." Dumbledore's eyes met Harry's own.
"What else can you do?"
He could make people feel things they didn't want to. Make them calm or happy when they were angry or sad. For a period of 4 or 5 months living with the Dursleys had been very, very easy and very, very hard. His heart sunk in chest.
"That's it." He lied.
Dumbledore turned from Harry to look at the double doors leading to the dining room. He drank his tea.
The atmosphere wasn't exactly uncomfortable and Dumbledore's manner, while suddenly less engaging, was not exactly cold. He seemed absent.
Harry was alone with a stranger, and while the silence was perhaps safer than pushing onward Harry needed to find out why this headmaster had come for him after so long.
"Professor Dumbledore, you said you're here to take me back, but -"
"Ahhh, yes. The invitation. I always carry a spare in case of calamity or younger siblings." He reached into the breast of his red coat and this time withdrew a thick envelope.
It was addressed to Harry and he'd seen one like it once before. It did not take him long to read.
"I can't join your school in September, I'm in the middle of sixth form," said Harry. Incredulous, he reread the letter twice more.
"Rash words may lead to rash decisions," said Dumbledore, "The choice is, of course, yours, Harry. But let me show you today the world your parents belonged to. Let me plead the case of my school. Let me, if it is not too bold, tell you your own history. The choice is yours Harry, but let it be an informed choice."
Harry looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was quarter to eight in the morning. The house was deathly silent. Had Vernon woken up, what was Petunia doing?
"I don't think the Dursleys would be keen for a trip anywhere with us today. Though, that's probably an incentive. Sorry, maybe we should just talk today, I've got months yet."
"I would be happy to answer anything you might ask, Harry. I still consider myself a teacher but, I fear, we should encounter a snag on that course," said Dumbledore.
"What's that?" He asked.
"Today, Harry, you believe you may be being tricked but tomorrow you would be certain." Harry screwed up his face in that grimace you give when you accept you've lost but don't want to make it too easy.
"The Dursleys won't be any happier if I leave with you and take it all seriously."
"I rather imagine Harry, it will be easier on all involved if we remove ourselves for a few hours. It will certainly not be any harder, we must strike once the iron cools, to appropriate a phrase."
Harry looked the old professor over once again, in his strange attire, as the man stood.
"We're leaving now, are we? How will we get there, wherever there is?" From upstairs a tremendous crash came, probably from Uncle Vernon's dresser which lay directly above the lounge door.
Dumbledore paid it no mind. He drew himself up and extended an old, open hand,
"I could tell you, Harry, or I could show you." He gave that eyebrow waggle again like a conspirator and Harry made his choice.
A tightness pressed in on him from all directions crushing his ribs, his skull. He couldn't breathe. His arms were pinned against his sides and he couldn't move, couldn't wiggle even a little bit. A spark of brightness, a lengthening of colours and he felt his knees buckle as he was smashed into the ground. He was aware of a hand releasing his and he fell toward the ground, banging his knees then his fist against brick.
The remedy of cool brick against his cheek was disturbed by an instant's warning. There came the unmistakable rising of vomit and he rolled onto all fours to spray a watery mix of nothing all over the ground before sucking in deep, gasping breaths of air.
In an instant the vomit and the nausea were gone, utterly gone. He looked up and Dumbledore's blue eyes were twinkling down at him as he tucked his wand back into his sleeve.
"Yes, it is quite exciting isn't it? Ah, I remember my first apparition. My father was taking me to meet Emma Albini - I had all her sheets at that time - whom he supposed I had quite apotheosised as a muse in witchly form. Well, to cut to the chase, I suffered such excitation from the journey that I quite covered Bathilda Bagshot's kneazle despite my best efforts. Alas, the poor chap could never stand my company again.
"But still, it was certainly no worse than my first use of an international portkey." Dumbledore clasped his hands together in front of himself and smiled at Harry. Harry was beginning to understand that Dumbledore was not one to rush a conversation or explanation. The twinkling eyes and wry smile made him appear privy to a great cosmic joke to which he was earnestly looking forward to your catching up. For Harry, however, everything felt more urgent.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, where are we?" He asked.
"Albus or Professor Dumbledore, please, you are not my student yet. To answer your question you are in the Leaky Cauldron's beer garden, off Charing Cross road, London," he raised a hand to forestall Harry's next question, "I try not to drink before noon, we are here for another reason. For a welcome to the wizarding world I can think of few places more suited. Observe."
His wand was back in his hand as quick as thought, he prodded the wall and with a great krrscch bricks began to move and turn to form a grand archway. It was amazing but quite in keeping with his experience of magic and doors so far.
No, what made Harry's jaw drop was the view beyond. It was like stepping back in time, and stepping across to somewhere altogether more strange.
A long cobbled alley led away to a corner where it curved behind an old, tall thatch building and was lost. The alley was hemmed by anachronistic buildings, squished together like sardines and in between was awash with a river of pointy, colourful hats. Closest to him he could see that cloaks and robes were the order of the day, some short, some long, some glittering, some grubby.
The silence of the beer garden was overcome by the flow of a thousand conversations, and whizzes and cracks and bangs.
Dumbledore was watching him.
"Incredible," Harry gave weakly.
"May I?" Dumbledore was gesturing at his pyjamas and bare feet. He nodded. Dumbledore flicked his wand and Harry felt something, like he'd been hit by a cobweb for the tiniest instant. His clothes stretched and pulled and changed and he was stood in a three piece brown woolen suit.
"Incredible," Harry gave weakly. "No cloak?"
"Seventeen sickles are better than a galleon, or, that is to say, let us walk before we run. Are you ready, shall we cross this ferocious portal together?"
Harry followed the headmaster into the alley and was swept along in his wake. Following Dumbledore was an experience. As he walked through the crowd they moved around the professor like fish around a whale. For his part, he seemed to know practically every other person they passed.
He never stopped walking, or even slowed his pace, but every witch or wizard they spoke to seemed as happy as if they'd had a lengthy conversation with the man. Harry was not excluded from this as Dumbledore politely included him each time - And how is young master Patterkwill? Excellent, may I introduce Harry Potter? - Every quick conversation was finished with a handshake until he felt like he was swinging his way up the alley from hand to hand. Following Dumbledore he almost felt famous himself.
Harry could begin to see that, underneath the unusual clothes and in front of the unusual scenes, the people he was speaking to were quite real. Here was a scouse, there a manc, and here a fellow from the home counties. Without really meaning to, he began to accept magic into his life.
When Dumbledore stopped Harry found himself in front of a small shabby shop.
"Here we are Harry, shall we go in?" Dumbledore said.
Above the door in peeling golden letters was Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. and inside was no better. The narrow shop was hemmed in by thousands of boxes and in one corner was a spindly chair and a selection of magazines. On this side of the window Harry could see there was, on display, a single wand on a threadbare purple cushion.
Apart from themselves, the shop was empty.
Dumbledore moved to the far corner and began investigating the chair.
"Do you think this rocks by design or habit, Harry?" He asked.
"I don't know, Professor," answered Harry truthfully. Dumbledore was picking up a magazine - The Alembic Retort - and seemed perfectly content to sit there.
"Professor, why are we in a wand shop? It's just, I haven't decided I'll be coming to your school. In fact, it still seems quite a difficult thing to imagine and I don't want to be rude or anything . . ." Dumbledore looked up at him.
"You will have a wand Harry, certainly, and quite independently of whether you decide to attend Hogwarts. I must admit however that it was my intention to help you procure the items on your supply list while - if you will forgive me the conceit - you have an expert eye to assist you. On the optimistic chance I may convince you yet."
Harry looked at the brown shoes on his feet, the old, familiar shame settling on him in this new world.
"It's just that, sir, even if I wasn't in this suit of pyjamas . . ."
"Go on, Harry," said Dumbledore.
"I don't have any money. I can't buy things like this." Harry's fists were clenched. This magical world was going to be snatched away from him, because he couldn't afford it. The injustice of it, the misery of the Dursleys, made his eyes prick; that his choice should be made for him was unbearable and all of Harry's effort went toward focusing on a spider climbing across the top of the shop window.
"My dear boy, I have made quite a mistake and I have ruined what should have been one of the happiest events of your adult life." Harry chanced a glance and saw Dumbledore was looking up at him, not unkindly. Held between his index finger and thumb was a black key, perhaps an inch long.
"You have suffered many things but not, I believe, destitution. You must forgive me Harry, this is the key to a bank vault at the end of this alley in which your parents placed your inheritance. It has been in my keeping these last sixteen years and I am pleased to return it to you."
Harry took the key in wonder. It was the first concrete proof of his parent's existence that he had ever held and he treated it like it might vanish if he took his eyes off it for a second.
"Harry, I had planned to pay here, on your behalf, for which you could repay me at your convenience. However, if that would make you uncomfortable, you need only say and we will amend our plans," said Dumbledore.
Harry didn't really have to think about it. He felt a deep discomfort at other people paying for him and being a stranger in a strange land didn't alter that at all. He'd rather go and find what had been left to him by his parents and return for a wand later. Who knew, perhaps he'd find they'd left him something more personal than money, too.
"I wouldn't want to put you out Professor. If we're getting these things for me, I'd really feel more comforta-"
"My, my, Harry Potter, I wondered when I would be seeing you in here, it seems only yesterday I was -"
"Garrick, would you mind awfully giving us the room. I am afraid you have caught us in the middle of a discussion."
There, behind the desk, was a small man in a cravat with a puff of white hair sticking out from his head like a dandelion. He had rheumy blue eyes that goggled at Dumbledore.
"Oh, Albus. Yes, I er-, yes. There's just something in the back I should be attending to."
"Forgive him," Dumbledore set his magazine down on his lap, "He has a flair for the dramatic. What would you like to do, Harry?"
It seemed rude to the poor shopkeeper to drag him out then leave, and if Harry could afford it then he would have to accept that he could be in a man's debt for a couple of minutes.
"There's no point coming back twice, I'll owe you," said Harry. After a moment he added, "And those in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, Professor."
Dumbledore opened his magazine and held it right in front of his nose.
"I prefer to think of it as a flair for the eccentric, my boy. And you can come out from behind that stack, Garrick."
A couple of minutes proved to be overly optimistic. First, Garrick Ollivander measured him with a tape and peppered him with questions. They can't have done much good though because the next half an hour were filled with dozens of wand. He introduced each with a short description - Hawthorn and dragon heart-string, 10 and ¼ inches. Tenacious - and then invited Harry to give it a swish, or a flick or a jab. He didn't always make it that far before it was snatched from his hand.
Harry was certain that Dumbledore was laughing at him but whenever Harry turned to look he appeared engrossed in his magazine. It would have been more convincing, however, had he ever turned the page.
Harry was beginning to feel like a disappointment when Ollivander came back slowly with a particular wand 'I wonder, I wonder'. He held it out and as soon as Harry held it he knew he had found the right one.
He gave a swish and a spray of golden sparks shot forth rebounding off the shop's wall and fizzling into nothing.
"Bravo, Harry." Dumbledore clapped and Ollivander joined in.
"Eleven inches. Holly with a phoenix feather core and supple. Oh yes, quite, quite supple. But how curious. How very, very curious." Ollivander said.
"What's curious? Is something wrong?" He asked.
"Wrong? No, nothing is wrong at all. The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. The wand chooses the wizard. As for curious, I shall let Albus answer that." Harry turned to Dumbledore, quizzical. A look had passed between the wandmaker and the professor and Harry couldn't figure out the meaning.
"I imagine Garrick is referring to the fact that your wand's core comes from a phoenix to whom I owe a great debt. Anything else, must I fear wait until a more opportune moment - we have practical matters to attend to first. To which end, Garrick, how much for this fine tool?"
Ollivander was slow to take his eyes off Dumbledore and went to the till to ring up the wand for 52 galleons and 2 sickles.
"My, my, so dear?" said Dumbledore. Ollivander commiserated with the elderly wizard at the price while Harry goggled at the transfer of gold and silver. He hadn't realised at Dumbledore's earlier idiom that wizards and witches might have their own currency.
The discovery led to a host of questions and as they left Ollivander's Harry did his best to ask them.
"So, Voldemort killed my parents and, ever since, anyone who followed him or was generally well-disposed towards the guy has been out to do me in?"
They were sat at one of the public tables of the Leaky Cauldron. The table was a dark wood, covered in ring stains from a history of strange drinks and was lit by a red tallow candle.
"Or raise you in his place, but yes. That is indeed the general thrust of it," said Dumbledore, "You have a gift for the concise. From a great tragedy came a miracle- You. And although many of us have theories there can be no authoritative account."
Dumbledore's explanation certainly rang true with the current atmosphere in the pub. Even now, after the handshakes and questions on his initial entrance, a crowd filled the pub beyond the boundary of the professor's subtle magic. While their voices were softened it did nothing to hide the obvious staring and occasional cheerfully optimistic wave.
Still, it had yet to hit him personally. The death of Lily and James Po - No, the death of his mum and dad was ancient history. This new account didn't quite feel real, even on top of the events of the day.
Ollivanders had been followed by the grand, white pillars of Gringotts. His vault had been stuffed with gold, silver and bronze but had contained nothing more valuable. Learning the Potters had left him something, had had time to plan, Harry had hoped for a letter or a picture or some heirloom worthy of a vault. Then again, when they died they had only been five years older than Harry was now. Dumbledore said the magic that had taken their lives had destroyed their home, had destroyed everything but him.
Discovering he was morbidly famous as well as magical was only a little more incredulous. And it turned out the truth was soon to set him free.
"But, regardless of how it happened, it's because of that and the people who might want to hurt me that I'm stuck at the Dursleys?"
"The protection you gained from residing with the Dursleys was perhaps not equal to the harm they have inflicted on you, but yes, that's why you were 'stuck' at the Dursleys," said Dumbledore.
The Dursleys had been neglectful, cruel and bigoted. He had spent his childhood dreaming of rescue by distant relations and his teenage years working toward a more mundane escape. He had never understood, deep down, why they hadn't loved him like they did Dudley. Harry had always known Aunt Petunia bitterly resented his mother because of some oppression she'd suffered from being her sister as they grew up. Now, seeing the magical world and knowing that she'd seen it too, many years ago. . .
Aunt Petunia had always been envy and anything she envied but couldn't have she despised. Understanding this didn't make him angry though perhaps it should have. If anything, Harry pitied her. Resenting her sister had bundled her up until it was in everything she was.
"And from my birthday onward, I'm unstuck?"
"I would go so far as to suggest you will be actively loosed."
"Ahh, right," Harry traced one of the table's ring stains with a finger, "I'll be surprised if they even let me stay till then."
"I will speak to them before I leave you, Harry," Dumbledore stated firmly.
"So what does this mean for me? If this protection was the only thing that kept me safe it doesn't seem like I can go back to school. My school, I mean, not yours."
"There are arrangements that can be made, you would have to learn magic with minimal instruction and you could not live by yourself or with a muggle family. But Harry, trust me when I say, I would do everything in my power not to let circumstance impel you. It is our choices that define us, Harry, and I will not take one from you again."
Dumbledore was stung, or doing a very good impression of stung, at the 'poor turn' he had done to Harry. The hours in the alley had allowed Dumbledore to investigate Harry's childhood - Harry did his best to emphasise how mildly unhappy the last few years had been compared to earlier years, and he never talked about the Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs - but Dumbledore's frowns and the wave that ran through his beard whenever he shook his head showed the old man's ability to look behind the words and get a firm grasp on the things he wasn't saying.
"And after that . . . if I joined the RAF like I'm supposed to do. There's not much they could do to stop a wizard entering the camp, is there?"
Harry knew that there wasn't. They'd spoke about more things in the last few hours than just the Dursleys.
The amazing goblins and minecarts of Gringotts had led to an explanation on wizarding history from the professor - Of course, William and Mary nearly vetoed the whole statute because of an unfortunate incident involving the replacement of a soup spoon with a dessert spoon - in which Harry had learnt about the divorce of the wizarding world from the muggle one. Some particulars had been missed as, sat behind Dumbledore, the man's great beard had frequently whipped into his mouth on the straights.
"We can conjure that bridge when we meet our brothers. I am sure that, between the two of us, there is some fabulous defense waiting to be imagined." Dumbledore's optimism effectively halted the objection, he was determined to let the decision be Harry's but it wasn't a decision Harry could make now. The more time he spent in this world the more feasible it seemed that he could live in it, but reality was waiting for him around the corner, presumably with a short length of lead pipe to dissuade him.
Gringotts had been followed by Scrivenwells, where Harry had learnt that wizards and witches still wrote with quills and inkwells, and then a shop that sold cauldrons and telescopes - which had seemed a bit odd to Harry, taken together.
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions had come next. While Harry was fitted for school robes and more casual clothes, all self-ironing and self-folding, Dumbledore hummed to himself and admired several vomit-yellow thick cotton items.
Harry was still viewing the robes as a 'just-in-case' purchase, but the process had allowed Dumbledore to discuss the structure and nature of the school with Harry, - 'Of all the changes that have resulted from our admission of adult students however, the addition of Hippocras at dinner has been my great favourite. As Headmaster the sequelae of introducing alcohol to Hogwarts has not affected me quite as much as my heads of house'.
Dumbledore described changes that had occurred for many reasons, but discovering he was the precipitating factor for something that was still making waves almost two decades later, well, at this point, it was just one more thing. The third of four, so to speak,
". . . 'when we meet our brothers'. And I have his brother-wand. That's quite coincidental, isn't it?"
Harry's left hand was resting on the handle of the wand that stuck out from the book bag beside him. So new, the warmth of the wand's magic still filled him at the contact.
Madam Malkin's had been followed by Flourish and Blott's Esteemed Book Sellers and it was here that he saw Dumbledore in his element. The man was a font of knowledge - 'Ahh and here we have Gosforth's Magic in Our Times. An excellent beginning on Internalisation but once she moves onto Charm Theory she rather loses - Ah! My word! Wonders of the Universe, by Sadal Melik. This was the first astronomy text I ever purchased for myself, observe the movement of his illustrations, hand-drawn you know . . . '
They had spent a great while in that particular shop and Harry ended up with over a dozen textbooks on the things with which Dumbledore had got most carried away. In fact, they had only stopped when Harry's stomach had given an audible growl and Dumbledore realised he had stolen the young man away without breakfast.
In the Leaky Cauldron, after they had been able to get a seat and a bit of privacy, the very first thing Dumbledore had explained was the relationship between Harry's wand and Voldemort's.
"I am afraid, Harry, that in the wizarding world coincidence is a slippery quarry. Turning seventeen, lightning-bolt scars and brother wands. Sometimes things are entirely symbolic and quite, quite substantive," Dumbledore's blue eyes were fixed on Harry's.
"I see," said Harry. "In fact, no, no. I don't see. Are you saying that I'm destined to become him, to take his place like they want?"
"Certainly not." Dumbledore's face was craggy, his crooked nose casting odd shadows from the flickering light of the candle. "I am saying Harry, most emphatically, that our choices define us and you are on the brink of a very large choice."
"I see," said Harry.
Harry wasn't satisfied but was unable to continue as Tom the barman was limping his way towards the table, the two hot plates of toad in the hole dribbling gravy over the far edges, and the moment was gone.
"So witches and wizards share completely different dormitories, do they?"
Returning from the beer garden had not been so bad as getting there. Harry had bent his knees, kept his back straight and raised his head up for a lomg breath out. It probably hadn't helped a jot but he managed to keep his lunch down.
Dumbledore hadn't taken them back into Number Four, instead they looked to be somewhere along Wisteria Walk, near Mrs. Figg's house.
"Why not pop back into the house?" Harry asked. Dumbledore was setting a brisk pace with his long stride and Harry hurried to catch up.
"I thought you might appreciate the walk." Dumbledore said no more, he held himself tall and led the way.
Harry was looking around at the tidy lawns of Little Whinging. He was home. The familiarity of his surroundings didn't comfort him and it didn't make him happy. It wasn't long before Number Four, Privet Drive came into sight on the far right of the road - Dumbledore's pace didn't slow in the slightest but Harry found he wanted nothing more than to dawdle.
Dumbledore stopped on the front step. He turned back to look at Harry, reaching out and squeezing him on the shoulder but saying nothing.
The Dursleys did not respond to his sharp knock this time.
"They won't come, you know. They'll have been watching from the front bay window and locked the door again."
Dumbledore gave a deep sigh at the door of Number Four. In the alley the professor had been serious, eccentric, enthusiastic, didactic but, most of all, energetic. Harry couldn't pretend he knew this man after half a day but he'd like to pretend he had a good feel for people, and this was something he had seen before. The Dursleys tended to inspire this effect in those not from the extremely immediate area.
"Nobody's ever accused them of being quick. If it helps they'll probably be as surprised as they were the first time."
"Thank you, Harry." Dumbledore didn't even test the handle. The door flared green and opened and Dumbledore strode into the hallway, a returning conqueror. "I have returned your nephew," he announced, "No doubt, you have been wondering where he has been and awaiting his return with many questions."
Harry followed him in to see the corridor empty of Dursleys and Dumbledore opening the white door to the living room.
"He has been quite safe today, he has been under my guardianship."
It, too, was empty of Dursleys. As Harry entered, Dumbledore was bursting through the double doors to the dining room and turning toward the kitchen.
"I hope I have not arrived at an inconvenient moment," said Dumbledore.
The Dursleys were huddled in the kitchen. Dudley, twice the size of Aunt Petunia, was being held behind his mother and his eyes were wide as he looked at Dumbledore.
"Tea?" squeaked Aunt Petunia. In contrast to her pale face Vernon's was that familiar mottled puce.
"INCONVENIENT! INCONVENIENT! NOW, LISTEN HERE-" He shouted.
"I am listening. Trust me, Vernon, when I say am listening. I have spent my day listening." Dumbledore spoke softly and Harry could only see his back, but his words had an incredible effect on Vernon, the colour draining from his face as he sat back onto his stool.
"Ah, it appears to have slipped your mind. Let me continue then. In our last correspondence, I explicitly stated Harry must remain with the last members of his family until his seventeenth birthday, for the benefit and safety of you both. This is still the case.
"I have complete faith that this morning of reflection has helped you realise a wish for these last two weeks to be considerably more pleasant for Harry than all the time before. I do not believe you wish to lose my admiration by distressing a young man as he prepares to leave his childhood home." It didn't sound like a question, it didn't, in fact, appear to be a question, but Vernon was shaking his fat face from side to side.
"Excellent. An amicable resolution is always preferable to the alternative. Now that is all settled, I would hate to intrude" said Dumbledore, "Harry would you mind showing me to the door?"
Harry followed Dumbledore out through the kitchen door, his eyes trailing across the Dursleys in the far corner of the kitchen as he passed them.
The professor was waiting for him on the front door step and as he joined him Dumbledore pulled the door to.
"I suspect they view me as something of an authority, even with all this," Dumbledore gestured at all of himself.
"Harry, my boy, I feel like I am taking a great liberty leaving you here, once again."
"Don't worry, Professor. If they can ignore me today they'll be back to normal tomorrow."
"Yes, though that is perhaps not as comforting as you intended. I have been amazed by your forbearance and your fortitude today Harry, discord and enmity was your lot and you have fought it splendidly with levity and hope.
"I will not maroon you here again, Harry. Should you wish not to remain here for even two weeks more you can contact me through Arabella Figg, or leave for the Leaky Cauldron and Tom will inform me."
"Mrs. Figg?" Harry exclaimed. Dumbledore smiled at him in answer.
"She is more pleasant than she has pretended all this time, but I am afraid that the smell of cat is quite genuine. "
Harry laughed.
"Well, Harry, I must take my leave, give my regards to your Aunt and Uncle. Unless you have changed your mind and no longer wish to remain here?"
"Today was amazing, Professor, but I need a few days," said Harry.
Dumbledore reached up for a hat that was not there then, instead, gave a deep bow, his beard brushing against the little chips of stone on the front path.
"Until we meet again, Harry," said Dumbledore.
"Good bye, Professor Dumbledore," said Harry. Then Dumbledore was striding away, mindless of the twitching net curtains of Privet Drive. Harry followed him until the headmaster turned off then went back inside.
"He's gone!" Harry shouted, kicking the door shut behind him. He still had all his bags in each hand and he set them down now, next to the umbrella stand.
The Dursleys were still in the kitchen, now a bit more animated than when Dumbledore had been with them. Harry went for his stool next to the fruit bowl and picked an apple. He took a deep bite, a Granny Smith's, it was sweet and not at all bitter.
Harry looked up at Vernon, whose whiskery moustache was twitching at him in an agony of conflicting emotions.
"So," Harry laughed, "How was your morning?"
A/N - let me know what you think. I'd be happy to hear any criticisms, what worked for you, what didn't.