AN: I should have written an SI-fic years ago — apparently, it can actually make me update in something of a timely manner. . . .


Chapter Five: In Which Filler Happens, But It's Character- and World-Building Filler, So There!


So, despite doing well for themselves on the surface level, Harry was acutely aware their situation would come crashing down as soon as their Hogwarts letter came. The security and relative comfort they experienced was dependent on the Dursleys believing Harry was 'normal', and that would be out the window at the drop of a hat. And considering they were still sleeping the cupboard under the stairs even with the Dursleys significantly fonder of them than canon-Harry, this was something they'd been dreading for a while.

Granted, this was still a handful of years away, but it was inevitable, and Harry was the sort that tortured themselves by wallowing on things they could not change.

When they weren't wallowing, though, they were planning.

First and foremost, Harry wanted to get out from under the Dursley's thumb as soon as they could. In many fics they read, that meant staying in Diagon Alley after the shopping trip with Hagrid. This was mainly dependent on them having piles of money tucked away in their vault, something they weren't certain if they could count on.

Now, based on both the books and the films, they knew there was indeed an impressive stash in that vault, but what they didn't know was if what was in that vault was literally everything to their name or if there was a source of income swelling it. Both canon-Harry and his father had jobs, but Harry didn't know if those two did so because they had to or because they wanted to; the ancestry Harry knew of boasted at least one politician and a couple of inventors, the latest of which — Fleamont, Harry's grandfather — having 'quadrupled' the family's coffers from developing Sleakeazy's Hair Potion. Harry remembered reading that he later sold the company for a massive profit when he retired, but they weren't certain if he'd made certain to retain the rights for royalties.

If the Potter vault was getting royalty payments, then Harry wouldn't have to worry about investing right away, never mind getting a job. Harry wasn't against getting a job or anything, but they didn't do well under pressure and would rather not have that need hanging over their head. Also, if Harry didn't need to worry about maintaining a steady source of income, they could move out without fear. Harry didn't care if there was no Potter Manor or whatever — as long as they had the means to ensure a safe place to sleep, they'd be satisfied.

Moving out before they were seventeen, though. . . . Harry wasn't sure if they wanted to risk it even if they did have the money for it. They didn't want to potentially incite Dumbledore's attention.

Controversies and discourse about Dumbledore as well as Harry's own thoughts aside, they didn't want him investing any consideration about where Harry was living outside of the cursory acknowledgement. Harry did not want their comings and goings monitored any more than it already was with Mrs Figg where she was. Leaving Number Four would draw attention.

And so, they had to get creative.

Harry wasn't willing to stay with the Dursleys any longer than strictly necessary, but they couldn't let Dumbledore catch on that they weren't where they were supposed to be. And they knew they had to spend at least two weeks within the wards every summer so that they didn't collapse and leave everyone involved vulnerable — they remembered reading that somewhere. So, what better way to recharge the wards, avoid the Dursleys, and dupe Dumbledore than to get themselves a travel bag with an Undetectable Expansion Charm on it like Moody's trunk and Scamander's suitcase and take up residence within a rose bush for the required length of time before running off to parts unknown? And if things followed canon closely enough that Dumbledore still returned the Invisibility Cloak to Harry on Christmas, Harry could cover their Expanded bag with the Cloak and be unreachable to friend as well as foe indefinitely no matter where they went.

Thus Harry was snatching up any money they could get their hands on while they still had time. They hustled older kids; they did chores for neighbours; they did homework for their classmates; they skimmed what they could from Dudley's allowance when the boy wasn't looking; they lifted a few bills from Uncle Vernon's wallet when it was left unattended. If they could somehow manage to get enough money for an Expanded bag before Hogwarts came calling — they had no doubts it would cost a pretty penny — then no one would have any inkling they bought such an item, not even if they could somehow check Harry's bank statements.

But there was just only so much Harry could do within the neighbourhood to pull cash no matter how fervently they worked.

Harry was very seriously considering biting the bullet and start taking the Knight Bus into London to go busking despite how much the thought terrified them. They shook just on contemplating it, but the thought wouldn't leave them be; they didn't have any option with the same potential to be lucrative. They weren't even close to old enough to do it alone, but they morph themselves to look so, and that might ease their stage-fright as well.

They didn't have any equipment, though — they didn't have an instrument either. Hell, they had no experience performing publicly at all. They were planning on layering coercion in their voice to nudge the most stubborn of listeners into parting with their cash, but that couldn't actually happen until they had something more than just their voice to work with — it'd be suspicious as Hell if a kid doing nothing but singing drew in a generous crowd, no matter how good they were at it; Harry didn't want to tempt fate and potentially get discovered by magical law enforcement.

Harry liked to imagine wowing donors with a lively violin performance — ooh, or maybe with a cute little pochette or rebec! — but the fact of the matter was that even if they did have a violin, they weren't exactly amazing at it; lacked the pizazz, not enough passion — wasn't even their primary instrument, they were trained for viola. Even if that was just their self-deprecation talking, they were nearly a decade out of practice either way — not in any state to be performing for a crowd. To put another damper on that little fantasy, there was no way they'd be able to get away with owning one past the Dursleys even if they could somehow afford one.

They really fancied a Neapolitan mandolin — peak aesthetic for them — but that was even more improbable than a violin; where would they find a luthier in the first place? No, any thirst for lovely instruments would have to remain unquenched until they could get their hands on their wizarding funds. In the meantime, Harry's best bet would be a ukulele.

Now, a proper ukulele would be on the same level of Not Going to Happen™ as a violin, but the discount shop had four-stringed toy 'guitars' that were the perfect size to fit in Harry's backpack with their other belongings, so they were banking on the thing being small enough to not be discovered. And also on it being cheap enough that the Dursleys wouldn't care if it was discovered. The things cost around five or ten quid from last they checked, an amount Harry was willing to part with, so it was only a matter of taking a free Saturday afternoon to run out and get one.

Surely enough, after Harry's chores were finished the next Saturday morning, Aunt Petunia pushed them out the door without a backwards glance.

Harry strode down the pavement at a brisk pace, almost jogging, hoping their intentful countenance would prevent anyone who happened to look upon them to think anything out of place. As they went, they slowly shifted into something unrecognisable, using the cover of their hooded jumper for concealment.

By the time Harry got to the discount shop, they appeared to be a plain-faced child with flat dirty-blond hair and a square head. They gave themselves some inches and made their hands and feet over-sized. Given their newly awkward proportions, they looked like a child a handful of years older than they were who was on the brink of a growth spurt. With the baggy clothes they'd chosen that day, they greatly resembled the year seven boys that hung about the basketball court in the park across the street.

Needless to say, nothing about them currently resembled Harry Potter.

There was an older girl at the check-out. It wasn't yet the best hours for business, so she was occupied with a book as Harry came in. She looked up and gave them a perfunctory once-over and a nod as they passed her on their way.

Harry started their search from the back, wandering at the ends of aisles with their eyes out for anything interesting as well as the thing they originally came for (it wouldn't do to overlook something amusing). Household supplies, toiletries, pet equipment—

Ah! There they were! Just beyond the disposable eating utensils, sat amongst other children's instruments, were the toy guitars in question.

With a bounce, Harry dropped into a crouch in from of their prize, their eyes sliding over xylophones, recorders, et cetera. They surveyed the selection.

Well, despite being advertised as guitars, they were definite ukuleles; they were all in the pineapple shape, something Harry was certain guitars never used. Not that they were complaining — that body shape made the sound more resonant and mellow, and that would help them coax out something that resembled actual music. There was assorted decal of fruit amongst the expected shades of brown as well.

Huh, they . . . they actually looked pretty nice; they were actually wood! Bless the '80s for their still decent merchandise standards for inexpensive goods.

Harry wondered if going with one with the fruit designs would buff their adorableness and improve their earning rate. They were tempted by a bright green one painted as a sliced kiwi. They'd seen nail polish a similar shade an aisle over; they could make it a theme. It would bring out and brighten the colour of their eyes when they were their natural shade again as well.

Alright, fully convinced, Harry indeed went with the kiwi ukulele. They tucked it under one arm as they went to retrieve the aforementioned green nail polish, taking care not to muss the packaging.

Oh, hey, the polish was the peel-off kind — Harry wouldn't have to worry about polish remover or doing touch-ups. They were two for a quid, so Harry took both a dark and light shade of green.

Before they turned and went, they stalled a moment longer in front of the display. After a pause, Harry took a bottle of light blue, light purple, pale pink, and lemon yellow as well.

The girl at the check-out side-eyed them when she noted the nail polish, but Harry just muttered, "Sister's birthday," as they dug in their pocket for their money.

The girl hummed and lost interest, efficiently bagging their purchases.

The next moment found Harry ducking into the alley on the side, fingers already prying open the package as they sped their way back the way they'd come.

They eventually came to a stop a few streets down from Mrs Figg's house on Wisteria Walk at an empty house with a back gate that couldn't lock. Carefully scanning the area to make certain no eyes were on them, Harry unlatched the wooden gate and slipped into the back garden.

The entire garden was overgrown despite its minuscule allotment, the grass tall and uneven. Vines climbed the wall of the house, curling up the trellis there. A stone bench, cracked and dull, stood underneath a ragged tree, and this was where Harry seated themselves to properly inspect their goods, morphing back into their usual form.

Renewed green eyes took in the instrument on their lap with awe, the sixteen inches of cheery pigment drawing a smile onto their face. Harry traced a digit down one side of the fingerboard and around the soundhole, delighting in the smooth glide. They ran a thumb across the nylon strings and then clicked their tongue at the sound — out of tune. Very out of tune.

Their school had a piano in the music room, so Harry would properly tune it later, but for now, they'd make do with matching it to their voice. It took some time — tuning for the first time always did — but it was eventually made serviceable.

Harry pressed their third finger onto the third fret of the fourth string and strummed down with their thumb. The C chord rang out bright and clear.

Their eyes prickled with moisture. They laughed, rubbing the heel of their palm into their eye.

Well, even if they ended up chickening out from busking, they finally had something to play on, so there was that if nothing else.


In Harry's opinion, one of the best parts of being neglected was no one giving a damn when they disappeared for hours upon hours at a time. Like, they wouldn't wish it on an actual still-being-raised-and-needs-love-and-attention child, but being free to run buck-wild with no guardian sparing a thought made this shitty excuse for a reincarnation/transmigration thing kind of worth it. Case in point: Harry could spend days and days at the library, and neither Aunt Petunia nor Uncle Vernon cared as long as their chores were done.

The librarians at the Little Whinging public library were all well used to seeing Harry coming and going by now, hauling stacks after stacks of books back and forth. They were slowly warming up to Harry as Harry inched their way up the reading levels.

Harry wanted to leave the children's books behind already — they'd never liked books about children from ages of six to ten even when they themselves had originally been in that demographic — but it would be suspicious as all get out if they suddenly started going for New Adult, Mature, or Classic fiction. Hell, even Young Adult would draw eyes at this stage. So they had to work up to it. It was slow going from their point of view, but it was likely something curious from the other side.

Harry imagined the librarian ladies were also coming to suspect things were 'not quite alright at home' with Harry considering Harry was being very Matilda-esque in the rate they appeared to gobble through books while never having a guardian present, but Harry made it a point to behave as cheerful and well-adjusted as possible to stave off their suspicions.

Harry was not there for fiction that day, though — well, not right away, at least. For now, they needed books on music. Nearly a decade without practice called for a thorough refresher, so Harry had brought a notebook to write down chord formations so they could review it later. Maybe if they were lucky, they'd find some songbooks for pieces they didn't already know, too.

For whatever reason, the music section was up on the second floor with the adult content and antique collection. For obvious reasons, Harry had never had permission to go up there. Now, though, the lady at the front desk wrote Harry a pass to show the librarian that supervised the second floor so that they wouldn't be sent out immediately because of their age.

As expected, the second-floor supervisor wasn't happy to see them, but she dutifully directed Harry to the section requested.

"It's down that direction," she said pointing. "There are reading tables past this first section of shelves, and then there's a section beyond that on Music Theory. Off to the side of the blue tables. Books on chords . . . should be near the material on guitars and the like. There are signs."

Sure enough, Harry found them. The section was hard to miss, boldly labelled and painted bright white. They skimmed a few books and took down any that looked promising. With a stack of books in their arms, they made themselves at home at the nearest reading table.

Harry took out a pen and notebook from their backpack and began drawing out the formations.

They didn't know how long they sat there working before they felt eyes on them.

Feigning nonchalance, they sat up and stretched, twisting this way and that. A yawn closed their eyes.

Blinking them open again, Harry's gaze met with a child a bit older than they were — they appeared to be a boy. He was standing maybe a few metres away at a bookshelf within the antique collection section.

The said boy blushed at being caught and ducked his head, but did not run off.

Harry smiled curiously, tilting their head. This was new.

Despite being visibly abashed, the boy apparently took Harry's nonplussed reaction as an invitation to approach them.

"Hi," the boy breathed, fiddling with his fingers.

Harry's smile widened without their behest. They were endeared despite themselves; being regarded as intimidating was pretty novel so far in this lifetime, and they couldn't help but enjoy the smugness that came with it.

"Hello," they said in return, keeping mind to keep their voice low. "You alright?"

"Y-yeah," said the boy. "Sorry, but, u-um. . . . Are you. . . ? That is, erm — y-you're Harry Potter, right?"

Harry blinked, their mouth falling ajar.

"How. . . ?" they started. Their hand flew to their forehead, where their fringe was decidedly not covering their scar. Oh, of all the days to be wearing an Alice band!

The boy correctly assumed Harry's action to be confirmation and somehow became even more flustered and agog.

"Alright, alright," said Harry, waving the boy over to sit. "I'm flattered, of course, but we really can't make a scene here, you know. You obviously know I'm Harry, so what's your name?"

'Towler!" he cried before wincing at his exclamation. He glanced around guiltily before saying, "That is, erm, I-I'm Kenneth Towler. It's . . . it's an honour!"

"It's nice to meet you, too," said Harry, trying to remember why that name was familiar. "So, you, erm," they lowered their voice further, "you have magic, too, then?"

"Y-Yeah! My entire family, actually!" he said eagerly. "W-well, not my dad's parents — they're Muggles. Heh, they live in this area — that's why I'm here, I'll be staying with them for the summer, and there's really not much else to do around here, is there? Mum suggested making friends with muggle kids, but I'm not exactly keen — don't really know how much I can say without giving myself away, and I don't exactly know what muggle kids do, so what would we even talk about, yeah? So, here I am at the library my gran works at for lack anything else to do—

"And, wow, what are you doing here? Do you live around here, too? I'd have never guessed — though, I supposed that's the point; you wouldn't exactly be hidden safely away if anyone could just guess where you are and show up there, but even knowing that, this is still the last place anyone would expect you to be — there's a magical population of, like, a single handful including the two of us within this entire town, and half of my count are the half-kneazles my grandparents have—

"Oh, Merlin, I'm rambling, aren't I?" he gasped, turning red again. "I'm totally rambling! I'm sorry! It's just — sorry!"

He clammed up looking like he wished the ground would open up and swallow him.

Harry couldn't do anything but giggle, reaching out to pat the boy on the arm.

"It's fine!" they said. "I wasn't expecting to see another magical around either — pretty certain this place was chosen specifically because of how muggle it is on top everything else. Certainly wasn't expecting to be recognised."

"I wasn't sure at first when I saw your scar," Kenneth said slowly. "I thought I was just seeing things. But then I got a closer look, and, wow, it really is shaped like a lightning bolt, huh? It's wicked cool!"

Harry finally remembered where they knew Kenneth's name from — Fred and George mentioned him in the fifth book! He was a Gryffindor in the twins' year!

The two of them talked for a while longer. Kenneth was actually pretty fun to talk with after he came out of his idol-strickenness some and lost his timidity as well. He didn't seem to mind Harry didn't have overly much to add to the conversation and happily chattered enough for the two of them on everything from his family, how cool Harry was, how weird Muggles were, what things he liked to do, how cool Harry was, what he was excited about when he'd finally get to Hogwarts, and how cool Harry was.

Harry wasn't going to lie, they did enjoy hearing about how cool they apparently were.

"I can't believe I met the One Who Lived by visiting my grandparents!" Kenneth gushed. "Mum is going to go mad when she hears!"

Harry's heart jumped.

"'The One Who Lived'?" they echoed.

No way — this was too good to be true. . . .

"Oh, that's . . . that's what you're known as," said Kenneth. "It's because of how you survived and offed You-Know-Who. Did you not know?" He looked shocked that Harry of all people wouldn't know their title.

Thinking quickly, Harry improvised.

"I've lived with my muggle aunt and her family for as long as I can remember," they said. "They don't actually know anything except my parents died and I survived. I figured I was known for my scar for some reason since I sometimes run into people who see my scar and call me by name, but that's really it." They put on their most innocently confused tone. "Who's 'You-Know-Who'?"

Aghast, Kenneth launched into an explanation of everything he knew on the topic. It was actually a surprising amount considering he wasn't more than a mentioned name in the books and still a kid at this point at that, but Harry remembered that he was implied to be something of an over-achiever, so it was at least in character.

Harry eventually had to leave since they had to prep and make dinner, but Kenneth and they promised to meet up again the next weekend. Harry left satisfied that they now had an excuse to know as much as they did about the war and wizarding society despite being raised muggle.


THUMP-thump-thump-thump-THUMP-thump-thump-thump

A steady pounding beat could be heard over the sounds of the busy foot-trafficked road. Conversations stalled. Heads turned and people paused.

Eyes alighted on a small figure sitting on the pavement.

"Trapped and spellbound I am."

THUMP-thump-thump-thump-THUMP-thump-thump-thump

A child who couldn't have been more than fifteen — pale as milk with bright, red corkscrew curls fluttering in the breeze — sat against the side of a bakery, drumming the face of a small stringed instrument with their knuckles. A hat with a few notes and coins sat next to them.

"I am./ An enchanter enraptured me,/ captured me./"

Many couldn't help but stare. Tantalising tones pulled at them. More than one person wandered closer. What a pretty girl! What a lovely voice!

Hands dug into pockets and purses.

"Trapped and spellbound deep within my soul," she sang, blinking sweetly at the crowd. Her lips curved up at those that approached with their offerings. "Within my soul./ Within my heart burns a seething flame,/ a seething flame./"

THUMP-thump-thump-thump-THUMP-thump-thump-thump

Though it could not be said they she raised her voice, the sound of her reached and washed over everyone in sight.

If later asked how long they stood there or what they even listened to, no one in the audience would have been able to answer. They only knew it was time that they didn't regret spending — and money they didn't regret tipping either.


AN: The song used in this last scene is my translation of Trøllabundin by Eivør Pálsdóttir. I recommend listening to it because it's a Hell of a banger on top of being magical as shit.

My Tumblr handle is hi-pot-and-news, so come gimme a follow if you're interested in my BS.