He will be Harry Potter, and the world will know him as the boy who will grow up to accomplish many things. He will be what they call him – for he

"- is the Boy who Lived! That's Harry Potter! That's him!"

Harry tightens the scarf around him and continues his walk towards Dogsweed and Deathcap, the baneful herbology shop that Aunt McGonagall always seemed to send him to for his weekly errands. If she had some underlying desire to see him flourish into a herbologist, she was wishing for the impossible. The chime above the door jingles as he steps foot into the musk-scented shop. The wizard manning the counter is nowhere in sight, but Harry is familiar enough with the layout of the room to be able to spot the ingredients he has on the list. Carefully, he reaches up and grabs the nearest pair of gloves from an adjacent shelf and shoves them on. Snipping leaves here and there, Harry accumulates a decent pile of weeds and petals before the owner of the shop finally makes an entrance through the backdoor. Upon sighting Harry's familiar mop of ragged brown hair, he chuckles and begins itemizing his purchases.

"On an errand again, Potter?" he inquiries. Lewis is old and humble, and knows better than to treat the infamous boy with anything more than the regular hospitality. However, in the past few years he notices that it has become increasingly difficult to see the boy as anything but a nephew of his with the amount of times he has frequented the shop. He also knows Minerva, and how little of a fan she is in concern to herbology.

"The usual," Harry provides the correct amount of coin for the purchase as Lewis places everything into a respectable bag. He hands it all over to Harry, just as a whirlwind of blue and silver stumbles through the front door.

"Father!" Evangeline Brussels looks nothing like her father, and holds no love for his plants and flowers either. However, she is kind like him, and greets Harry by mussing up his hair before she dropping a small pot of tentacle-like leaves on the countertop. "Special delivery, courtesy of some mistress over in Wales."

Wales? Harry figures he had fixed on her an incredulous look as she turns to him with a wink. "You were in Wales? But you've been here for the past week!"

The girl laughs. "Oh, Harry," she fixes the scarf around his neck. "So young and naïve. You'd think Professor McGonagall has taught you everything already." It's a touchy subject for Harry, but nevertheless he shakes his head. Minerva McGonagall, the woman who's raised him since his parent's death, was but a ghost at their cottage home. Too busy with Hogwarts, she was either always at the school or in her study. She is all he could ever ask for, however, given that she had saved him from his arrogant, magic-phobic relatives; their impromptu Quidditch nights a testament to how much she tries for him.

He manages a small smile, and he's confident it comes across more as a grimace, but Evangeline takes it and ushers them both out the door. "I will see you later, father!"

Harry stumbles to keep up with her long strides. "Have any more chores, Harry? Have any time to spare for little ol' me?" McGonagall had always been lenient with how Harry spent his time. As long as he did his chores, kept up with his readings, and came home in time for supper, she did not put a leash on who he went out with or how he spent his leisure time. He told the older girl the following and she gladly takes his free hand to guide him over to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. She seems to spot a few familiar faces upon entering the overly feminine shop, but otherwise does not approach them and steers Harry over to corner booth.

"When you grow up Harry, you must take your girlfriend here." She orders for both of them, some sweet concoction only privy to the store, and leans back against her chair.

Harry pushes his purchases over to the corner as he observes the superfluous decorum of the shop. "Must?" he repeats, noting how half of the patrons consist of couples.

Evangeline nods her head, her black hair following each dip. "Yes, must," she closes her eyes. "Or else you two will not be official. Here," the orders arrive, and Harry counts not two but three glasses of pink liquid. "It won't turn you into a girl, Harry," Evangeline takes out her wand and waves it over the third drink, covering the top with a lid of ice. "For Professor McGonagall, tell her its from me – and maybe I'll get a better score from her class this upcoming year."

Harry takes a chance and a sip of the drink, finding it not overtly sweet or special. Just warming and savory, like the cookies Aunt McGonagall sometimes makes when her classes become too overbearing. "It's good!" He meets Evangeline's grin tooth for tooth as they calmly finish their meal with two blueberry muffins and one shared hot chocolate.

By the end of it, Harry finds his stomach protesting at the intake of coy sweets as Evangeline pays for their food. "Until this fall, Harry!" she pats his shoulder as they exit the shop. Harry manages a nod as he watches her figure disappear among the throngs of black and gray cloaked wizards and witches. He wonders what special event there was in the fall until he quickly realizes that the sun has set and he had but less than half-an-hour to return home. Hugging the brown bag of weeds and petals, he fixes his scarf to sit higher over his face before he sprints towards the cottage.

The door swings wide open, prepared for his return. "Aunt McGonagall, I've got the herbs!" He rambunctiously shoves and locks the door close, and shakes the dandruff of snow off his clothes. Despite it being summer, wizards-in-practice found a way to create a climate catastrophe in the midst of all the heat. The Ministry of Magic spent at least one week trying to be rid of it, but found that they could only contain the mistake to Hogsmeade – a compromise they were willing to be content with while they punished the young wizards responsible for the mess.

"Put them in my study, Harry – gods know, I can't do anything outside with the snow and all." Minvera mutters. She is clothed in dark greens, and has her hair tied off in its traditional chignon. She is the very picture of rules and academia, but without the severity she often carries in her features. She sighs as she takes in Harry's winter-kissed cheeks and the pink glass of Madam Puddifoot's infamous concoction. "Run in with Evangeline, again?" she takes the drink and moves it towards the kitchen. "Tell that girl that bribing will not get her extra points in my class."

Harry hangs his scarf on a hook and maneuvers himself towards the study. The doors creak open on their own accord, revealing a circular room full of stacked books and floating parchments of aged paper. He gently steps through the maze of student reports to get to his Aunt's immaculate desk; clear of everything but a quill and an inkpot, he puts the bag of herbs in the middle before making a quick and careful retreat into the living room. The smell of supper wafts through the small cottage, tempting Harry to pilfer a taste from one of the pots, but he knows better and plops himself into the large couch.

"I think she knows that by now," Harry grabs today's edition of the Daily Prophet and flips it open to the section containing news about last night's Quidditch game. Minvera enters the room, both hands orchestrating the going-ons in the kitchen.

"Well, she's a Ravenclaw, Harry – she knows," Minerva shoots a glare at his feet curled on the couch, and does not continue on until he shuffles his shoes off to resume his position. "At this point, she's simply choosing not to remember."

A lightbulb goes off in his head. "Hogwarts!" his eyes search for his Aunt but she is no longer in the room anymore. Instead, he hears the unmistakable sound of running water and realizes that supper is almost done. Putting the newspaper back on the side table, he rushes to fix the table just as Minerva returns with the meals floating above her head.

"And what of Hogwarts, Harry?" her green eyes dim in the candlelight.

"I go this year, don't I?" he tries not to sound too expectant about the idea, but after having spent an afternoon with one of the school's students, and a lifetime with one of its professors, his eyes are left just a tad bit too wide and brimming with excitement.

McGonagall lifts a spoon up to her lips, savoring the unsuspected curling aftertaste. "You've yet to touch your meal, Harry." She is dancing around the topic, she knows. She shouldn't – the boy had been stealing stories both from her, their neighbors, friends, and even shopkeepers about the school when he thought his victims were none the wiser. At the same time, his own magic kept bubbling mayhem, breaking pots, disappearing windows, and burning scrolls. She is both apprehensive and excited for the boy to finally unravel his powers and learn how to hone them. Yet his dedication to his assigned studies, (courtesy of her), and his small outbursts of magic also has her wanting to delay the letter just a little bit more; it had arrived through owl post one week ago, and both Dumbledore and Hagrid had been pestering her to give it to him in their own concealed and bumbling way.

Unfortunately, Harry is stubborn like his father. He does not see a dead topic until it slaps his face, and he multitasks eating and talking at his aunt. "Evangeline told me she'll see me this fall, and I saw Mrs. Weasley the other day buying clothes for the twins – "

"Harry." The chattering stops, the boy looks up from his bowl. "Finish your reading on the game last night, and then it's off to bed." Dead topic? Meet Harry's face.

The boy visibly deflates as he helps move the emptied dishes towards the sink. He takes his Aunt's bowls and utensils as well before vacating the kitchen and dining room altogether. Harry falters by the living room, eyes lingering on the abandoned Daily Prophet, before he makes his way upstairs to his room. Thoughts of Hogwarts have defeated his interest in the latest match, and he is seven seconds shy from staying long enough to meet the headmaster of the school of his dreams.

Quietly, the fire in the living room changes from a warm orange-red to a neon green – its tendrils reaching just a bit too high than normal. However, this change is miniscule, the colors return to orange and leave a tall wizard rising from the floor in its wake.

"You really must get a higher fireplace, Minerva." Albus feels his age as his back whines in protest to him stretching it out. He sidesteps the modest furniture and gratefully accepts the waiting cup of tea.

"There is always the front door, Albus." She bewitches the broom in the corner and has it clean the soot that the headmaster trails into the kitchen. "I assume you are here about the letter?"

Albus's eyes twinkle. "Letter? I have no idea what you are talking about. I'm just here to inquire if you've heard about the latest batch of first years we are receiving this upcoming year." He does not miss a beat.

"Harry will there, Albus, I will not deny him that." Minerva has protected Harry from the worst of the wizards. Has kept him as sheltered as she could; set curfews, limited who came in contact with him, censored news. However, she has no doubt that once he learns of how far her influence has stretched across his life, he would retaliate – run away. Harry is so much like his father, that it still surprises her that they have managed to evade large quarrels to this date.

"And so, that visit to Durmstrang and Koldovstroetz..?" he hums.

Minerva gathers her cloak, pulls it closer to her person. "The latter one was purely because of interest, Albus," she beckons for the whistling teapot to pour more tea into her cup. "Durmstrang is too cold. Too far."

"And Harry should be closer to home, to his family's roots," Dumbledore agrees. The words wash over Minerva like a frigid wind. Her eyes betray her, instinctively narrowing on the headmaster. For years, they have danced around the boiling subject concerning Harry's upbringing, and for years, they have willingly conceded to stalemates. Minerva had a mind to send Harry to the glacial school, but knew the boy would only learn how to foster anger in that institute – all her work would be undone. Koldovostroetz, a school hidden in the depths of Russia, would have been her other option – but ultimately, she knew where he belonged – at Hogwarts. Flying tree trunks instead of broomsticks were interesting, but they were not convincing enough to send him to the unknown. Harry belonged in Hogwarts.

With her, with his parents' legacy – under Dumbledore's watching eyes.

"Aunt McGonagall, why do they give me weird eyes?" She is too old for this, too inexperienced for this responsibility. But she braves on and hefts the six-year-old with the scar on his forehead, onto her knee. She fixes his shirt, runs her fingers through his hair, and wishes she were able to ignore those beseeching eyes.

"Who gives you weird eyes, Harry? The wizards?" she knows the answer.

"And witches! And goblins and an-"

"You are special, Harry." McGonagall plants the seed. "You are the B -"

"Boy Who Lived!" Harry's bright green eyes flash. They are the same color as Lily's, but they do not express like hers. They squint and harden, and narrow like the fire that raged behind James' eyes. And James had not a righteous flame like his wife, but one that was untamed and unruly, weak to emotion and free of careful thought. Minerva had to tread carefully.

"But no one calls you the Witch that Lived! Or Mr. Jules as the Werewolf that Lived. What makes me so special? "the storm brewed quietly in the shores of Harry's irises. "Is it the scar?" his hand stretched to cover the lightning mark.

"No, Harry," she forced a laugh. "It's because of your parents." She didn't protect him from his truth. From the day he could comprehend, Minerva had told him about their death, about how they protected him from the forces of evil – from Voldemort.

"My parents? The ones who left me?" Ice crept around Minerva's chest. She forced Harry's blurry eyes to look at her.

"They left to protect you. They died because they loved you, Harry – and they still do," she had to convince him that Lily and James were not names to be forgotten. They were not people who had died in vain. "They died to save you and the other little boys and girls like you. They died to be your heroes."

Big, fat tears rolled down Harry's plump cheeks. "But why am I the only one they call the Boy Who Lived? Why couldn't someone else protect us instead?"

"Because no one else in the world was brave enough to save the world.

Because no one but them saw the good anymore.

Because they knew their life was worth giving if it meant you could survive and pass on their story. About –"

"Being stupid?!" Harry was inconsolable to the passing eye, but Minerva had faith in the hiccupping child furiously rubbing his eyes.

"About love," she called over a clean cloth to gently dab at his eyes. "People look at you differently because they want to see the love that was greater than evil. They are jealous of you Harry, because they have never seen such strong of a love in their life. They are hoping that you could one day show them an inkling of it. So that they too, may know how it feels like to be loved so much. "

"in – inl – inkl-" his tiny nose scrunched up. "In – ink – inkling?"

Minerva lifted the boy up and set him against her hip. Together, they made their way to the kitchen and she placed him upon a clear space on the counter. She began to collect the ingredients for her mother's cookies. "Inkling," she nodded. "An idea."

The bowls magically assorted themselves and the eggs began hopping out of the refrigerator. "S – so, I am special because my pa – parents loved me?" his fingers stretched out to reach for the levitating whisk. It teased him, flitting in and out of his reach before flying over to the bowl.

Minerva wiped the remaining tears off of his face.

"So much, Harry. They loved you so much."

"He only knows you as the muggle Santa Claus, to this day, did you know that, Albus?" Minerva turns the tiny spoon in her tea to stir the settled honey. Albus' eyes twinkle, and the Professor of Transfiguration again wonders if he is a covert clairvoyant. No one could possibly know so much as he did, yet for some reason, she still feels as if had been privy to her inner turmoil seconds before.

"I will be sure to remedy that this upcoming school year, Minerva. As for another worry of mine, Professor Quirinus Quirrell has made an application to become the newest Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Snape has been an ardent advocate against it, while the others are tentative about the proposed transfer." He leans against the chair.

"He is returned from his sabbatical? And what of Galatea?" Minerva's stature shifts. She takes the seat across from Dumbledore and folds her hands in front of her – her tea finding itself abandoned by the crook of her elbow.

Albus sighs. "Professor Merrythought is old, Minerva, very old. We were fortunate enough that she had agreed to cover last year's position. I have a thought to reach out to Horace, however –"

"You will get nowhere with that man," agrees Minerva. "And what are Severus's reasons to object the transfer," she pauses. "Aside from desiring that role?"

Dumbledore smiles. "Suspicions. He is concerned that Quirinus has spent his sabbatical looking for the Dark Lord and his supporters."

"Albus!" Harry did not need any supporters of his parents' murderers teaching him. Nor did he need to be in contact with any of them at all in his lifetime.

"Do not worry, I am very doubtful that he has been successful. As such, I see no reason to deny him his transfer. I am merely seeking your opinion and if you had any other suggestions for the position." He spreads his palms open on the table.

She sighs. "Amelia Bones – she is in training to be the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If you find fault in Quirrell, I can send her an owl and see if she would be willing to become a temporary professor if time permits her. She was a lovely woman to work with, and was equally a wonderful student to teach. However," she reaches out for her teacup. "If Snape only has suspicions and you, yourself find no fault in him, then I will support his transfer."

Dumbledore dips his head. "Thank you, Minerva. Your sound reasoning is always a joy to have in my counsel." He stands up.

"Tell young Harry, happy birthday from Santa Claus, for me tomorrow, will you?" He glances at the boy's baby picture hanging behind his acquaintance's head. "Good night, Minerva."