Professor McGonagall had regarded him strangely when he came out, but didn't press the matter of his surprising show of magic. They then proceeded to visit the rest of the shops around Diagon Alley and purchase whatever supplies were listed on his letter. When lunchtime came around, she insistently treated him to a much fancier meal at a small scale restaurant ran by French witches than the one he'd had the previous week at the Leaky Cauldron.

Afterwards, to Harry's surprise, she took out a wrapped package from an expendable pouch and handed it to him. It was a long and slender box that was even taller than him.

"Happy eleventh birthday, Mr. Potter," she smiled.

Harry striped off the wrapping paper and was left with a black, expensive seeming case balanced over his leg. He lifted the lid and a polished and varnished length of black wood that ended in what appeared to be slicked down faux-fur. At the top of the long handle were small, golden letters that read Nimbus 2000. It was a broomstick.

"Thank you," Harry said sincerely to the professor. He had already learned about Quidditch from the book he bought on Wizarding traditions. Additionally, he recalled the wonderful sensation of having the world spread out beneath him from his childhood memory. Thinking to that point, he looked up.

"Professor, did my father play Quidditch?"

Professor McGonagall started at the unexpected question before smiling fondly.

"Why, yes he did, Mr. Potter. He was the most talented Chaser the Gryffindor team had seen in many years. The other house hardly stood a chance during his Hogwarts years."

Harry nodded in understanding, running a hand down the smooth handle of his broom. He knew he probably wouldn't be joining the school team—he wasn't willing to commit large portions of his time for practice sessions when it could be spent on more important things, such as learning as much as he could from the Hogwarts library, or even exploring the castle.

He was more than interested in the so-called Come and Go Room, as well as the mythical Chamber of Secrets. But since the latter was said to have been opened a few decades ago, it wasn't so much a myth as it was well hidden. Considering Harry could speak Parseltongue, which was thought to be a talent unique to Salazar Slytherin, Harry thought that he probably would have a much easier time locating the chamber. But strangely enough, he hasn't found anything on the Potter Family Tree to indicate that he was even loosely tied to Slytherin…

Pushing the stray line of thought from his mind, Harry thanked Professor McGonagall again for her gift. He did enjoy flying, or at least he enjoyed the memory of flying. If not for Quidditch, Harry could still fly recreationally. With some concealing charms, it could probably be used as a convenient method of transportation.

After lunch, Harry said his goodbyes to the professor. He had told her that the matron of the orphanage would be picking him up right outside the Leaky Cauldron in Muggle London. While it took some time to convince her that he'd be safe without supervision for a few minutes, Professor McGonagall eventually relented and gave him the instructions for getting on Platform 9 and 3/4 before leaving.

With the early afternoon hours came a new wave of excited shoppers, most of whom were children accompanied by their parents to finish some last minute school shopping. Harry had already placed all of his newly acquired stationary and tools in his trunk, which was shrunk and placed back into his bag. Therefore, he had little difficulty moving through the crowd of witches and wizards carrying bags from various shops.

Harry hadn't truly planned to return to the orphanage. Why would he, when the Matron was only too willing to be rid of him for the school year and there was only a month left until Hogwarts opened?

He darted into one of the narrower alleyways, a destination already forming in his mind.

The book he had bought did not do Knockturn Alley much justice. It had only mentioned that it was a place where less reputable goods were sold, some of which not quite legal and by Dark sources.

As the rambunctious clamour from Diagon Alley fell further and further behind him, Harry pulled up the hood of his cloak and stared around in open wonder.

The air felt much cooler there while the streets were less maintained and was covered in a layer of dark dust. The path that Harry was currently strolling along curved and wounded around dark corners and up and down crumbling steps. Actual shops were scattered, the distance between each much further than the closely built structures in Diagon Alley. Instead, there were street side stalls and thickly covered figures wheeling carts while shouting out prices.

Harry strode forward purposefully. Something about the way he held himself must have convinced others that he did not wish to be bothered since none of the roadside merchants or storekeepers tried to intercept him or advertise their goods when he neared.

Only when he saw a flash of familiar blonde hair did he pause in his steps.

Harry watched as Narcissa Malfoy, clutching a wrapped parcel, slip quickly out the doors of a dingy seeming pawn shop with the words Borgin & Burkes displayed across its grimy storefront. Harry supposed what she said about Draco having duties to finish were true, as the blonde was no longer following behind her. She glanced around, chin lifted proudly. When she failed to see anyone she recognized, her wand flicked and she disappeared with a soft but sharp crack.

His interest piqued, Harry made for the shop in question. He barely batted an eye at the unwashed, tainted steps leading up to the entrance and the numerous shrunken heads—which appeared to be human—hanging from the display case. The doors groaned loudly at his entrance.

The interior of the store was dimly lit, if at all. Harry had to pause to let his eyes adjust to the dark room before carefully making his way around, inspecting the various trinkets and devices set upon the shelves. There was no one at the counter, and for the owner to be so comfortably absent, Harry guessed that there must have been countless curses and hexes set in place to prevent any attempt of robbery.

Within moments, Harry's attention was drawn to where several shelves stood filled with books. Making his way over, Harry thought of all the topics he had been interested in reading about. He had to squint to see the faded titles, but these aged and dusty tomes seemed much more promising than the strictly regulated books that Flourish & Blotts carried.

Harry began to slide out certain books he found intriguing, levitating them behind him as he went. He slid his wand out into his hands so it was visible to anyone who might see him, even though he didn't actually use it for that simple act of magic. Still, he wanted to avoid drawing attention to himself through his talent in windless magic, for now.

He was so absorbed in his task that his foot caught on a sizeable pile of old binders when he turned the corner. Only years of honed instinct prevented him from tumbling over along with the stack he tripped on.

Carefully setting his books on the ground, Harry bent down to pick up a thick folder that now laid open at his feet. The parchment within were stained brown with age, and he distantly noted that it must have been decades old before his eyes were drawn to the lines of elegant, flowing letters that filled the page.

Suddenly, Harry realized that these weren't goods, at all. Rather, they were the store's sales records, and from the late 1940s, if the date at the top were anything to go by.

That was over fifty years in the past.

The entirety of the binder was filled with charts and logs describing the time of each sale made, the value of the object sold, and the profit the store made. At the very left were the names and signatures of the one who had made these sales. Harry initially planned to swiftly return the volumes to their original place before the store owner caught him looking through something he shouldn't, but a name caught his attention before he can.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

It was the second time the name had popped up that day, and Harry had never been a believer of coincidences. There must have been something unique about this Tom Riddle for him to first be mentioned in a comparison to Harry, and then for his name to again turn up in the corners of a shabby, prominently Dark store in the middle of Knockturn Alley.

Harry's hand paused mid-flip, and he read the page more carefully. It seemed that the elegant handwriting was Tom's, and he had been a shop assistant at Borgin & Burkes back in 1945. He must have been an excellent salesman, for nearly every recorded sale within that year had his signature sitting smugly beside it.

A vial of Felix Felicis, Harry read from the long list, goblin-made dagger, cursed bracelet, A Guide To The Darkest Arts, half-ounce of Basilisk venom-

Harry did a double take as he flipped several pages back. The Locket of Salazar Slytherin.

The locket of Salazar Slytherin? Harry's eyes widened when he saw the price that it had originally been bought by the shop for. A mere 10 galleons for a priceless Founder's artifact? Its original owner must have been either ignorant, desperate, or both. Harry leaned towards the latter. He saw the price that it had been sold at to one Hepzibah Smith. It had been a sale made before Tom Riddle started working there, since the names on the log then mostly read Caractacus Burke and were written in a messy, barely legible script.

Harry quickly closed the binder and reordered the pile that he had displaced. He gazed around with more seriousness than he had before. If Salazar Slytherin's locket could be discovered hidden in this small antiques shop, there was no knowing what other misplaced treasure might be tucked away alongside the other assortments of goods.

He made his way slowly to the back of the store, looking at everything and touching nothing. His experience at Ollivander's had already taught him enough about the dangers of magic-infused objects. Who knew what sort of nasty curses might have been placed on the seemingly innocuous objects that lined the store's shelves.

It was in a corner near the farthest wall where he stopped his slow trek.

Before him stood what almost appeared to be a rounded, obsidian bird bath, except for there were no fountains. Instead, the entirety of the wide rimmed bowl at the top was filled to the brim with a thick, silvery fluid.

Harry had a guess as to what it was, and he found himself proven correct when he neared and saw the tag lying on a table at its side.

Pensieve, 17th Century. Price negotiable.

Beside the tag was a moderately sized case that held multiple identical vials of some whitish substance. Harry knew that they were stored memories.

He cautiously reached out with his magic and, upon feeling no foreign resistance from the case, reached out a hand and took one of the vials carefully in his hands.

Slug Club Christmas Party, Hogwarts, 1931, denoted a slip of parchment handing from its cork.

Harry went through a few others, which were labelled as either sorting ceremonies from various years, Hogwarts Quidditch matches, magical duels, celebrity encounters at obscure bars or diners, interesting interviews, news reports, or eavesdropped conversations. The vials were organized into rows of twelve, and Harry counted more than six dozen of them in total.

Suddenly remembering what he read, Harry rummaged through the case until his hand eventually stilled. He held the vial up in silent victory, inspecting it in the soft white glow of the nearby pensieve.

The Chamber of Secrets, First Petrification Victim Found, Hogwarts, 1942. Harry's smile grew until it was almost all teeth.

Indeed, Borgin & Burkes was a hidden treasure hoard, if one really took the time to search.

Another vial beside it read The Capture of the 'Heir', Hogwarts, 1943.

"Whatcha doing, boy? Where're your parents?" a harsh growl sounded from behind Harry.

Casually, Harry slipped the two vials back beneath the rest, turning and glancing expressionlessly at a grouchy looking man limping down the stairs.

"Who are you?" Harry asked instead.

"The name's Borgin, and it's you I should be askin' the question to, boy," the wizard narrowed his eyes. He suddenly paused when he took in Harry's apparel. Harry casually slid his wand back in his sleeves to his wrist holster and held himself straighter. He was the heir to two Ancient and Noble Pureblood houses and numerous smaller, less significant ones. As the owner of such a store, Borgin was most likely well versed in client confidentiality and had a businessman mentality. Dressed in robes that could match Malfoy's in quality, Harry knew that Borgin won't take his words lightly.

"Then all you need to know is that I'm a customer at your shop," Harry drawled, turning his eyes to the pensieve and the case of memories. "How much for these?"

Almost an hour later, Harry reemerged from the shadowy side streets of Diagon Alley and found himself once more surrounded by the jovial atmosphere of a number of energetic first years practically vibrating in excitement as the time of Hogwarts neared.

He was over a thousand galleons short, but he knew that pensieves were rare to find and the memories that came along with it were priceless, at least to him. He also cleared away practically a fifth of all the books that Borgin & Burkes held, and the only reason he hadn't taken more was that he knew that he wouldn't be able to understand the more complicated subjects until after a few years at school. The books had been much more expensive than the ones at Flourish & Blotts, but considering that most of them were either illegal, ages old, or long since out of print, Harry considered himself to have gotten quite a bargain.

After leaving Borgin & Burkes Harry had only spent a short amount of time circling around Knockturn Alley before deciding to make his way back and leave for the day. He had already acquired enough things to occupy himself with for the remainder of the summer, anyways. There were just over five weeks before he had to leave for Hogwarts, and he doubt he'd be able to finish even half of the books he bought within that amount of time.

So, Harry walked along Diagon Alley until he stood along a wide stretch of road that was less crowded due to it mainly having an assortment of restaurants and bars and less shops. He held out his wand directly before him and steadied himself as a sudden burst of wind threatened to throw him off his feet.

A towering purple bus materialized before him, coming to a screeching stop. Harry tucked his wand back in his sleeves and stared appraisingly at the three levelled Knight Bus. He stepped backward just in time as the door swung open right where he had stood.

"Why, hello there!" a cheerful voice sounded from the driver's seat. "I'm Ernie Prang, at your service. Where to today?"

Harry stepped up onto the bus and gave the driver, who was clad in the same bright purple as the bus, a nod.

"I'm-"

"Aren't ya gonna introduce me, Ernie!?" A heavily accented voice cut him off. Harry turned at stared at the shrunken head that was not unlike the ones he'd seen at Borgin & Burkes. It hung from the rearview mirror of the bus and was currently cackling loudly.

"Dre Head can get a little crazy around strangers," Ernie turned back to Harry apologetically.

Harry ignored the head's continued protests. "Can you take me to Grimmauld Place, please?"

"Grimmauld Place, he says," Dre Head exclaimed loudly. "Ya heard that, Ernie?"

"Alright," Ernie flashed him a smile. "Sit back and hold tight. We'll be there in just a minute!"

Harry paid his fare beforehand and sat at the very back of the bus.

He remembered seeing 12 Grimmauld Place as the location of the Black ancestral home back in Gringotts. It was supposedly Unplottable and buried under more secrecy charms and protective spells than even the Malfoy Manor. Not to mention it was also under the Fidelius Charm, which meant that with the rest of the Black family put away in Azkaban, Harry was the only one that knew its exact location. He had thought carefully for the entire time while he had been at Diagon Alley, and he eventually decided that there was no safer place for him to spend the last month of his summer before school came to a start.

Also, seeing as he was the heir to the House of Black, he should have little trouble bypassing the wards and any curses meant to obstruct outsiders most likely wouldn't affect him either.

Harry watched the world quite literally fly past as the Knight Bus zipped down along the streets of Muggle London. He tuned out the shrunken head's occasional yells or badly timed jokes, instead leaning back in his seat and focusing on not toppling to the floor from one of the bus's sharp turns.

After what felt like mere moments and half a dozen other stops, the bus lurched forward skidded right onto the curb of a muggle neighbourhood.

"Grimmauld Place, here we are!" Ernie announced loudly.

"Have a good night! Get it? 'Knight'? AHAHAHAHAHA!" Dre Head swung from his perch as Harry descended the steps. The moment both his feet touched the ground, he felt a surge of gust behind him and when he turned, the bus was already long gone.

It took another few minutes of walking and navigating through the quiet streets before Harry found himself standing before the two buildings labelled No.11 and No.13.

Harry concentrated, closing his eyes. He reached forward with his magic and, in response, the ancient and heavy magics that the Black family home was saturated with crawled forth and submerged him. For a moment, it was almost overwhelming.

Then, as it recognized him as the next in line to be the family head, the magic gave off a warm hum and retracted. Harry gradually opened his eyes again and now saw, in between No 11 and No 13, the age-stained walls of No 12, Grimmauld Place. This was home to one of, if not the most, powerful Pureblood families in existence. This was home to his Godfather, and it was about to become his for the next month.

Mentally preparing himself for the no doubt busy days ahead, Harry strolled forward and ascended the granite stairs of his new house.

When the time for Hogwarts came, he would be prepared. Reaching his hand forward, Harry grasped the knocker and pushed.

On September the first, Harry woke in the late morning, rubbing the soreness from his arm, where he had laid his head when he'd fallen asleep at his desk. The last month had been a blur of flipping through the books he'd bought from Borgin & Burkes and sleeping at scattered intervals during the day. He hadn't had a chance yet to look at the memories in the pensieve that he had bought, but he knew that there would be more than enough time once he arrived at Hogwarts.

Harry had wanted to be ready by the time he was to leave for Hogwarts. He knew he had a lot of catching up to do as opposed to some of the other children who had been raised in the magical world.

Especially considering the houses that he was most likely to be sorted into. Harry knew his chances of ending up in Gryffindor were minimal at best. While he was far from a coward, in the end, Harry still prioritized his own safety. He would rather build strength before fighting back than charge in recklessly and risk his life.

As for Hufflepuff, Harry thought that while the likelihood still wasn't high, it still had a greater possibility than Gryffindor. He was patient and hardworking and when he set his mind to do something, he would put in the best of his efforts. But Harry knew that he lacked the famed Hufflepuff loyalty and honesty. It wasn't that he couldn't be loyal, rather, he hadn't anything to be loyal to.

All his life he had to look after himself simply because there was no one else who would. Therefore, his only loyalty was to himself, and he doubt that would impress the sorting hat enough to place him in Hufflepuff.

Harry wouldn't mind being sorted into either Ravenclaw or Slytherin, and he knew he had a close enough chance at both. But he did know that the two houses were the least tolerant of ignorance, so he had spent his last month at No. 12 Grimmaud place learning all he was able to from the books he had bought.

At the moment he was sat at the dining table, finishing up the breakfast the Black house-elf, Kreacher, had prepared for him. Over the last few weeks, he and Kreacher had formed a tentative friendship.

While he wasn't a Black nor was he a pureblood, the fact remained that he had Black blood running through his veins. He was also willing to learn the older traditions of the House of Black and did not show any prejudiced judgement towards some of their more questionable practices. This made Kreacher, who had been hesitant and irritated at first, much more willing to accept him as the appointed Black heir.

After finishing with his meal and packing the last of his book and notes into his trunk, Harry had Kreacher Apparate them to King's Cross Station. He was already dressed in his plain black Hogwarts robes since he could no longer stand the sight of his tattered orphanage clothes that reminded him so much of what he used to be just a month prior: an insignificant nobody.

But that no longer mattered.

He was Harry James Potter, Parselmouth and prodigy at wandless magic, amongst his other more unsavoury titles. He already had a gleaming reputation that he didn't even have to work for and vaults with more gold than he could ever hope to spend. The Wizarding World had practically been handed over to him on a silver platter.

He smiled as he strolled down the platform, blending in with the steadily growing crowd of witches and wizards seeing their children off to Hogwarts. One of the things he had learned over the years was how to draw attention when he needed it and how to fade into the background when he didn't. At that moment, he couldn't be more thankful for that. He could almost imagine the maelstrom that would break loose should it be known that the Boy Who Lived was currently on Platform 9 and 3/4.

Near the back of the train, he hoisted himself up through the doors and hauled his trunk in behind him. The lighting within the Hogwarts Express was much dimmer than the morning light outside. Harry had to wait for his eyes to adjust before setting off again, glancing in through the slitted windows on the compartment doors. Most of them were already occupied, and he could hear snippets of muted conversation as he passed by.

Finally, he came across one that was empty. Shrinking his trunk so that it would fit more easily into the racks, Harry put away his belongings and settled down into the seats. In his hands, he held one of his newer purchases, a thin volume that contained grey magic that bordered on the dark. He stared down at its unassuming black cover and let his mind drift.

The moment of silence that followed was pure bliss, as the reality of the situation finally caught up with him.

He was going to Hogwarts and he was going to learn magic.

The fabric of his robes was cool against his skin, the gentle thrum of outside activity was music to his ears, and the soft light filtering through the windows cast the compartment in an ethereal glow. At that moment, Harry was completely and utterly content.

Somehow, he just knew that he was going home.

Unfortunately, he didn't have long to dwell on the thought before the compartment doors were rudely flung open.

Harry's eye twitched. It took more effort than it should to curb his instinctual reflex of blasting the intruder into the walls. He felt his magic roil unpleasantly before reluctantly settling. It was enough to destroy all traces of the unadulterated joy he had been feeling just minutes before.

However, the redhead that had just barged inside didn't seem to catch on to his displeasure.

"Hiya," the other boy waved awkwardly. "Do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full."

Harry glanced at him briefly out of the corner of his eyes, then shrugged. The red-haired wizard took that for acquiescence and plopped clumsily into the seats across from Harry. "I'm Ron Weasley," he offered.

Harry straightened up slightly, feeling a tinge of annoyance. He wasn't particularly in the mood for small talk.

Ron Weasley was a pudgy, freckled boy clad in rumpled hand-me-downs. His hair was so bright a red that Harry almost averted his eyes and his expression was a mix of awkward embarrassment and uncertainty.

Finally, Harry let out a quiet sigh. "The name's Potter. Harry Potter."

Seeing as he had an image to maintain, and as Ron was the first to speak to him on the train, Harry decided that he could spare a few moments indulging the other boy. He considered adding on his titles, but since the other Pureblood—Harry knew that the Weasleys were a part of the Sacred 28—hadn't bothered to do so, he wouldn't, either. After all, Purebloods usually only attached their titles to their introductions to other Purebloods of equal standing.

" Harry Potter!? "

Harry winced. That squeal had been inhumanely high. Ron was gaping back at him, reverence and envy displayed openly across his face.

"Harry Potter?" he repeated, as if the name was a mantra of sorts. "You're Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived?"

"I am," Harry said dryly.

The next second was passed in breathless anticipation. Or, in Harry's case, growing exasperation.

"Do you have the…" Ron finally recovered enough to whisper. He gestured vaguely with his hands. "The…you know. The scar."

Harry raised an unimpressed brow. He wondered why it was that the magicals made such a big deal of the remnant of injury he had gotten on the night he supposedly defeated the Dark Lord. No one even knew what had happened, yet everyone seemed content to continue to worship him as their 'saviour'.

Faced with Ron's wide, expectant eyes, Harry bit back a scoff. Instead, he tilted his head slightly to the side so that his fringe parted to either side of his head. Ron's sharp intake of breath followed immediate.

"That is wicked," the boy huffed, leaning forward in his seat.

Harry leaned back so that his unruly hair once again covered his forehead. The red head's gaze of disappointed loss brought a vicious tinge of amusement to him.

"Not really?" he mused. "I don't remember anything from that night. It's not that important."

"Not that important!?" Ron nearly screeched. Harry felt the telltale signs of a small migraine beginning to emerge from the loud noise. "What do you mean it's not that important? You defeated You-Know-Who! You saved the world! "

Harry took in the sight of the Weasley's red face, disbelieving stare, and trembling hands, and felt a sharp spike of ire.

"...Right."

How could the other children all so blindly believe in something that was so obviously false? Harry was no hero. He had been a child caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, who had made it out alive by some miracle.

And now, he was suddenly thrust into a world where everyone expected him to own up to his supposed acts of heroism, as if it even mattered what he did as a one year old baby.

Before his thoughts could spiral any further, the compartment doors slid open once more. This time it revealed the angular face of one Draco Malfoy, chin raised in all his haughty glory.

"Potter!" he snapped. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

Ron scoffed, attitude doing a complete one-eighty. Draco's steely grey eyes narrowed at the sound and the blonde turned, sneer turning more venomous.

"Weasley. Hoping to have some of Potter's wealth and fame rub off on you, eh?"

Ron blushed a furious red and, for a moment, it seemed as if he was going to punch the Malfoy heir right then and there.

"What do you mean by that, you slimy git? If anyone's after Harry's, it'd be you."

Draco strode forward, expression fouling. "How dare you. You're a mere blood traitor whose family couldn't even afford proper wands for their children." His eyes darted mockingly down at Ron's obviously second-hand wand. Ron's face was almost the same shade as his hair by that point. "And you're making digs about me?"

As entertaining as it was to watch the two boys to go at each other's throats, Harry wasn't in the mood for being caught in the middle of a childish squabble. He slipped through the doors while neither were paying him attention, leaving his trunk back in the compartment. It would get sent to the dorms later, anyway. For the moment, he just wanted to distance himself from the other two.

Draco was an interesting enough conversationalist on his own, but he also happened to be a naive and spoiled brat. When provoked, he was just like any other eleven year old boy. Harry pushed back his disappointment as he slipped down the corridor.

If the young Malfoy wanted to befriend him, he would have to act more of the part of the noble Pureblood heir that he had been groomed to be. Harry had already tolerated his fair share of obnoxious children back at the orphanage. In all honesty, he would prefer being alone to putting up with any more.

But before he was able to distance himself from his prior compartment, he was suddenly being grabbed by the arm and pulled into another.

The unexpected turn of events, combined with the sudden onslaught of words he was faced with, shocked him so thoroughly that he didn't even have time to retaliate with his magic, consciously or subconsciously.

In fact, his book would have clattered to the ground had he not exerted a forceful burst of wandless magic, freezing it in mid air mere centimetres from the ground. He let out a disgruntled puff of breath, bending down to retrieve it.

"What do we have here, Forge?"

"Oh, I don't know, Greg. Look like a lost little lion to me."

Harry bristled at the insinuation of his house placement, before his anger quickly morphed to irritation at the terrible sight before him.

Now, instead of one red head, there were two. To make things worse, they were identical, and vaguely resembled the other Weasley that Harry had just abandoned moments earlier. It was obvious that these two were older, however, though the same couldn't be said for their maturity.

Harry gingerly checked his book for any damage, and finding none, he tugged his arm out from their grip and levelled them with an icy glare. "Don't assume what you don't know. Now, if you will excuse me, I still have to find myself another compartment to pass the next few hours, since your brother has so graciously invaded mine."

Normally he was more discreet and quieter in his anger, but it seemed that being constantly hounded by children was beginning to grate on his patience.

The redheaded twins faltered for a moment, surprise clearly shown in the simultaneous widening of their eyes and slacking of their jaws. Harry dully noted that they would've done amazing in theatre.

"Hey, Greg." One of the Weasleys suddenly smiled broadly, eyes twinkling with joyous mischief. "I think we've found ourselves a feisty one."

Before the other could reply, Harry pushed past them and reached for the doors.

"If that's all, I'll be…leaving."

"Wait!" A hand reached over his head and slammed the door closed.

Harry's eye twitched in irritation. He was short, even for an eleven year old, and the sheer difference in height between him and the twins only further prodded at that sore spot for him.

"Let's properly introduce ourselves," the one who closed the door stepped back and decided.

"I'm Fred Weasley."

"I'm George Weasley."

"And together, we're the Prankster Twins of Hogwarts!" The two finished off together, hands sweeping out in a dramatic flourish.

"…Right," Harry raised a brow, looking back at them expectantly. "I'm Harry Potter."

To their credit, neither twin so much as blinked at the mention of his name. Instead, they exchanged a quick and razor sharp smile before flopping back onto one side of the seats.

"Well, Harry," Fred begin cheerfully, "Why don't you sit with us?"

Harry tilted his head, his expression not showing even a hint of the incredulousness he felt. He wasn't sure what he expected from the twins, but it certainly hadn't been an invitation to share a compartment.

"We have to somehow apologize for the trouble our little Ronniekins gave you," George continued, sounding and looking entirely unapologetic. "So? How does sitting with the big boys sound?"

Harry was seconds away from outright rejecting the idea when a thought gave him pause. Fred and George were third-year students, regardless of their lack of decorum. That meant they would have access to third-year resources and may know much more about the castle than Harry.

So, instead of wandlessly hexing the two and leaving the compartment like he wanted so much to do, he threw the Gryffindors a bemused look.

"And what exactly will the…big boys…be doing?"

Fred and George shared a devious smirk. Fred reached into his robes and pulled out a worn out notebook.

"I was thinking we could get some Charms practice in before the school year starts," he said, tone suggesting that whatever he had in mind had nothing to do with the actual class. He held out the book and it took Harry a moment to realize that he was meant to take it.

Quietly, he flipped open the leather book and leafed through the pages. At some point, however, his eyes widened slightly. He looked up, honing in to the slight strain in the Weasleys' faces. They knew they were taking a risk, and rightfully so.

"These are practically derivatives of dark curses," Harry muttered to himself, turning his attention back to the small book he held.

"Prank magic," George corrected, shifting from one foot to the other. "Technically, they're not illegal."

"Prank magic," Harry repeated disbelievingly. He took a much more thorough read of a select few pages in the book and noted with fascination that George was right. While the concepts behind several of the suggested mechanisms were based off of darker ranged magic, there wasn't anything specific enough to be deemed entirely as dark. "This is absolutely-"

The twins tensed.

"Brilliant," he finally declared, snapping the book closed with a thud.

Fred and George barely sagged in relief before they were fist bumping each other, smug smiles back in place and radiating satisfaction.

"So why did you decide to show me this?" Harry asked, sitting down in the empty seats. He figured that he would be staying for quite a while, and it would be much better to be comfortable while doing so. Fred and George quickly followed suit and sat opposite of him.

The twins looked at each other, as if mentally communicating who would be the one to explain.

Harry waited patiently. He was curious. After all, the twins were in their third years, so even if they required assistance on their 'prank magics', they would've have asked a first year. Moreover, Harry's status as the Boy Who Lived and Symbol of the Light should have only further deterred them from showing him anything that was even remotely dark in nature. Yet, they had chosen to confide in him.

"Well," George finally said, "We have a few, namely one, reliable source who claimed to have witnessed your wand ceremony in Diagon Alley."

Harry's jaw clenched. "A reliable acquaintance?" He asked.

"Lee Jordan," Fred answered quickly. "Don't worry about him. He's very discreet, and he only told us because he knew we were searching for someone to help us."

"And of course, we also just had the chance to see your display of wandless magic," George continued.

Harry nodded along.

He had been so surprised earlier that his usage of wandless magic hadn't even registered in his mind. It was something that he'd casually done for so long, and only recently learned to actually be of high importance.

"When you became annoyed at us hinting that you are set for Gryffindor, we thought that perhaps there was much more to you than the books made out," Fred grinned. "And we are right. So, what do you say? Have we convinced you enough to stick around a while longer?"

There wasn't that much to consider. Harry could either leave and wander meaninglessly for the entirety of the day, and risk gaining even more attention because of his name. Or he could stay there with Fred and George, two third years who were obviously flexible when it came to dark or light magics, and learn more about complex spells and concepts. The answer was clear.

"Need you ask?" Harry smiled. He opened the volume he had been reading and slid it across the table to the twins. "This may help."

The widening of their eyes as they scanned the book only widened his smirk.

"So that's why your alteration of this spell is unstable," Harry finished, setting aside his quill while the twins leaned forward, studying his simplified runes circle.

"Oh," they exhaled simultaneously after a long minute.

"That's rather ingenious," Fred commented, plucking the paper from the table and examining it closely.

"You know, Harry," George started, peering over his brother's shoulder at the drawing. "I never took you for one to be interested in the Dark Arts."

"The term 'dark arts' is highly inaccurate and misleading at best." Harry shrugged nonchalantly. "What I am interested in is magic. And if the Ministry is going to be classifying every powerful or interesting branch as Dark Magic, then so be it. I might as well go Dark."

A beat passed in complete silence.

Then Fred and George both broke into applause, wearing identical expressions of admiration.

"Bravo!"

"Well said!"

Harry huffed at the Weasleys' antics, but couldn't help the slow smile that formed on his face. While their dissatisfaction with the Ministry's regulation of magic wasn't nearly as intense as his, Fred and George shared in his opinion that there was simply no justification for banning any branch of magic. That was more than he had dared to hope for from wizards hailing from a prominently Light family, and it was enough for him to work with.

The only thing that was holding them back from dabbling in darker magic was their upbringing and ignorance of what the Dark side actually stood for. Harry was almost certain that once they knew the true extent the Ministry went to suppress certain magical arts, they would lose faith in the Light side altogether.

Furthermore, the twins were also inventive and admirably unconventional in addition to having relatively powerful magic. On the more practical side, they seemed to catch wind of every rumour before they even begin to spread. Harry knew that it would definitely be a boon to have the two on his side.

"If you want," he spoke up, instantly garnering the two redheads' attention. "You can bring the finished product to me after you've revised it. Or if there are any further theories you are interested in exploring, I'd be happy to listen and provide tips."

Fred and George looked at each other and Harry could tell that they knew exactly what he was offering—an alliance. As he had expected, it didn't take either of them long to decide and they turned, wolfish grins splitting their face.

"It's a promise," they said. Fred stood forward and offered his hand. "All for the sake of furthering magic, of course," he said jokingly.

"All for the sake of magic," Harry agreed much more seriously, taking the proffered hand and giving a firm shake.

It was then that the announcement sounded, informing the students that they were nearing Hogwarts. For the next few minutes, Fred and George chattered on cheerily about their plans for once classes officially started. Harry looked out the window, thoughts turning to the scenes of the brilliant castle he had seen on the pages of textbooks, and wondered how his own years at the school of magic would unfold.

Silently, he decided that whatever happened, he would still make the best of it.

After all, seven years could pass in the flash of an eye. Hogwarts was a treasure hoard, and it was one that he was determined to unearth.