Introduction
Welcome to my newest project. This story will likely be a seven-part series re-work, covering the first year to the end of the seventh, and possibly then some. It will be a very long-term project, updated hopefully over the course of several years.
I will be trying several new things with this story. The story will be heavily focused on world-building a magical world that makes sense, both socio-politically and scientifically. The intention is to 'scientifically' and 'mathematically' structure the world so that the principles of magic appear less nonsensical than canon. In addition to this, I will also be introducing a lot of personal interpretations of the canon institutions, re-structuring physical geography, and adding and discarding individual elements where I believe make sense. Canon characterisations will also be slightly re-colourised, although not by too much, to try to alleviate J.K.R.'s problem of cardboard-cut-out personages divided along tropes. I hope to also introduce some philosophical interpretations and historical allegories, which I hope I will leave open-ended enough for you, the reader, to interpret.
This story will also make heavy use of a constructed language of my own design, in this story to be termed 'Eltrys'. For more on that specifically, see here: view/conlang-proton/home. Please understand that no explicit translations will be provided for 'Eltrys' or any of the non-English languages I use in my story. This is not done in an intention to inconvenience you, the reader, who may not speak these languages or 'Eltrys', but rather because I deem translations to be unnecessary. It is my philosophy that the reader should see only as much as the POV character sees, so if e.g. Harry cannot understand a certain language, the reader should not be expected to, either. Of course, if you are a polyglot (or use a translator), then I hope you enjoy the bit of bonus you get out of the story. However, everything the reader needs to understand to follow the plot will be explained in context - in narration, in other characters' dialogues, or otherwise. If it is not, you may safely assume that it is simply there for scene-setting.
Stories are rarely the work of one and only one, and this work is no exception. There are many acknowledgements that I would like to give for those who have helped me through the process of refining this story. My thanks go out to WhisperingAFantasy, Ewind, dragonfly117, TheOxen, NoirWolf5, and MasterChaos1 for their various contributions through the process of pre-writing and plotting. This story would not be what it is now without your input. You will see many original characters in this work, and several of them are representatives of the aforementioned, as my way to say thanks by making fun of them. Thank you also to matteo caputo for the cover art, and Latrice for the beta work.
I would, however, like to thank maschl most of all. If it were not for all your help, this story would never have gotten off the planning board. Thanks to you, this story was able to go from a mere concept to the realisation that it is today. Without your feedback, I would certainly not have the confidence to start such a large and expansive project that will, without a doubt, grow to one of the most complex things I have ever attempted. Our more philosophical discussions, too, have influenced a lot of what I plan to do later in this story. Vielen dir Dank für alles, was du während dieses Prozesses für mich getan hast. Ich weiß das alles viel zu schätzen.
In addition, almost all non-canon characters (that is, OC's) that you will see in this story has been provided by someone as a sort of 'self-insert'. Thank you to everyone who submitted character sheets for this story. I appreciate very much your excitement, and it made the writing process so much more fun.
I have also created a Discord server where you can interact with me directly and discuss aspects of the story that may be difficult to discuss in comment form. You can join it using the link in my profile.
And now, with this first and, by my plans, the only personal note of the story, we begin the journey. I hope that you will enjoy Stars Glow, Shadows Fall.
NACED DELAT OJWISSNENE
'We are all shouting "Hurray!", we are all dashing ahead, and above all this, rises a new day.' – Viktor Tsoi
It was, or at least should have been, in every regard, a great day.
The temperature outside was in the mid-twenties, the early summer rays of the Sun were gentle and not yet at all harsh and scorching. It was also a Friday afternoon. The final lesson of the day dismissed, and Harry Potter grabbed his bookbag and slung it over his shoulder as he made his way out of the classroom and into the corridor.
Harry pushed his way through the crowd, muttering his excuse-me's and I'm sorry's. It was a Friday afternoon, and surely, many of the neighbourhood children would be heading to the local park to play.
He shuddered as he caught a glance of a head of blond hair that he would recognise from anywhere. It was unmistakeably that of his cousin, Dudley Dursley's. As always, on his right was a tall, stalky, sinister-looking boy – that would be Piers – and to his right, another boy, almost as big as Dudley, though far more muscular – Malcolm.
Normally, Harry would have little to fear from them. They were big, mean, and brutish, but the less Dudley's little gang had to do with Harry, the better for them. They stuck to themselves, mostly, or with the little band of girls that followed them around like shadows. That, however, was not going to be guaranteed today.
The weather outside was as pleasant as it had looked from indorrs, and Harry let the sunlight wash over him for a split-second – before he was rudely shoved out of the way by Alexandra, a rather unpleasant and ill-tempered girl in his year who was one of Dudley's tails. Harry shrugged off the slight, rubbing his shoulder to ease the pain on the spot that would surely morph into a bruise in a day or so's time, as he made a right turn down Sycamore Street, thankfully in the opposite direction that Dudley and his gang had begun heading in.
Harry looked down at the piece of paper clutched in his hand. Along the top, in red ink, was a large one hundred, circled twice for emphasis and accompanied by a star-shaped sticker. He had received full marks on his history term project on the history of France.
He should have been proud. It had taken an unfathomable amount of work – even requiring him to sneak into his aunt and uncle's study late at night to look at their encyclopaedia – which he was ninety-nine percent certain that no one had ever touched. He had even learned a passage in French and recited it to the class, earning him a rare round of applause from the students. If he were anyone else, he might have been itching to show it to his family the moment he got home.
Yet he had no desire to. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon – especially Uncle Vernon – would not bother to care on the best of days what marks he received in school, but today would be, perhaps, an even worse day to do it.
Despite all the help that Dudley had received over the last three weeks from his parents, with them essentially doing the project for him, he had still failed.
Or perhaps, Harry mused, a small chuckle appearing on his face, he was being too hard on his aunt and uncle. It was not really their fault, after all. It was just unfortunate that while Dudley had been assigned to research the history of Austria, he had actually gotten his parents to research for him the history of Australia.
Whatever the cause, though, it would serve him no good for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia to see his marks next to Dudley's. The best that he could get out of that was punishment chores for the next two days.
He crumpled up the incriminating piece of paper into a ball and dropped it unceremoniously into a rubbish bin on the side of the street.
As he walked, Harry wondered how, if, his life could have been different, but he found that it was difficult to even wonder. The Dursleys were all he had known for his entire life, after all, with the only comparison to someone being his own age being Dudley – not that he wanted to be in Dudley's place at all. Yet, he could not stop himself from imagining how it might have been like if his parents had never died in that car accident all those years ago…
The Dursleys kept no photos of his parents in the house. The only thing Harry had from them was a vague memory of flashes of green light and terrified screams that often haunted him in his nightmares – the car crash, he supposed. In some morbid way, he held on to that memory, no matter how terrible it was. Some link to his mother and father was better than none at all.
It was only two years ago when the Dursleys had told him their names at all. His father was named James. James Potter. His mother, Petunia's younger sister, was named Lily. Lily Evans. Never again did they ever mention those two names, even if Harry tried to coax them to do so. It did not matter, though. He remembered them from the moment those sounds were uttered.
Harry did not know many other children whose families would never even utter the names of their closest relations – but then again, he did not know many other children, full stop. It seemed at least a little unusual, juxtaposed next to Dudley's pampered, lazy luxury, but that was what he had acclimatised to over the years. Perhaps he was simply cast this lot in life, and there was no other way for him.
He had tried to make friends at school, but thanks to Dudley's care, all those attempts had ended in disaster for both himself and whoever he had tried to befriend. The one girl – Anna, her name was – who had tried to befriend him, two or three years ago now, was bullied so sadistically by Dudley, his gang, and his paparazzi, that finally, her parents sent her to a different school. These days, he was in essence a persona non grata in Little Whinging. The other neighbourhood children, seeing what Dudley and his gang had done to Anna, did not even dare to approach him, out of fear that they would meet the same fate.
But things could change, of course. In September – just four months now – he would be starting secondary school at the local comprehensive, while Dudley would be heading to London to attend Smeltings Academy, which Uncle Vernon had attended in his youth. Perhaps Harry should have felt stung at not being even offered the same opportunity as his cousin, yet he found that, really, he did not care. Perhaps for once, without the constant threat of Dudley breathing down his back, he could have friends for once, enjoy school for once.
For truly, Harry liked school. He liked learning. The project on France, especially learning French, was one of the most fun experiences he had had in the last few years of his life. It was only a shame that he would be punished for doing well in school, especially if he received better marks than Dudley – which was almost every single time.
Harry did the subtraction in his head. Four more months. Four more months until he might be stepping into a brand new, post-Dudley life. And for that, Harry found a small smile break out on his face as he stepped up to the front door of Number Four, Privet Drive.
When Harry opened his eyes, it was already quite late in the morning. He rolled over and checked the clock on his nightstand. It was a relic of Dudley's, and as such, had been the victim of a good few temper-tantrums. Thanks to the beating it had received at the hands – or sometimes other body parts – of its former owner it ran unpredictably, sometimes early or late by up to twenty minutes.
It did not really matter to him this morning exactly what time it was – a rarity. The Dursleys had at least the grace and compassion to let him off his latest set of punishment chores – which, every day, consisted of making breakfast, doing the laundry, and sweeping the floors – on his birthday.
Harry allowed himself to lay in bed for several long minutes and took in the fact that it was his birthday. He was eleven. Did his mother hold him in her hands on this day, eleven years ago? Did Lily then pass him off to James, who then rocked him in his arms like they did in the movies?
Or perhaps it was better to not think about it. He could not even picture what his father looked like, rocking him, or his mother, holding him.
Harry climbed out of bed and lazily made his way into the bathroom. Slowness was a luxury. Just yesterday, Aunt Petunia would have been banging on the door, ordering him to get to get to making breakfast – and tomorrow, she will, too, without any doubt. He turned on the tap and started to brush his teeth, then slowly washed his face. He looked into the mirror for a few seconds at his hair, then decided that it was not worth the trouble to try and tame it, not even on his birthday.
The Dursleys were not home. They had taken Dudley and Piers to the zoo, probably having left early in the morning. He should have, perhaps, felt angry at being excluded on his birthday, but one had to count their blessings, and a full day free from chores – not to mention to do whatever he desired – was most certainly a blessing.
He made himself breakfast – he was a practised hand at that now – and sat down in front of the television. It was not often – or rather, never – that he got to watch television. Normally, he would have either been sent to his room and forced to stay there, or perhaps preoccupied with chores, preparing snacks for the Dursleys as they caught up on their latest television soap.
Good times often cruelly fly by too fast, and before Harry knew it, he heard the slamming of car doors outside. Quickly, he shut down Dudley's computer, which he had just spent the last three hours playing on, and dashed back into his room. The Dursleys must know what he gets up to when they are out, but perhaps it was better to pretend that he had been on his best behaviour – that is, had been in his room the whole time – than to risk having his one rare 'privilege' removed forever.
As expected, soon enough, there was a loud knock on the door. Judging by the nature and volume of the sound, it was Uncle Vernon.
'Are you in there, boy?' Uncle Vernon yelled.
'Yes, Uncle Vernon,' Harry replied flatly.
The door flew open, and there was his uncle, walrus moustache as thick as ever, standing there, taking up nearly the entire doorway. There was something about him, Harry noticed, that made it seemed like something had just set off his temper. Mentally, Harry nervously went down a checklist of all that he had done that day. Did they find out that he had watched Star Wars? Or did Dudley realise somehow that he had been playing on his computer?
'Why are there dirty dishes in the kitchen?' Vernon snapped shortly. 'Go clean up after yourself, boy! We're not doing it for you!'
Harry suppressed a sigh – showing exasperation would do him no good, no matter how much he felt it. 'Yes, Uncle Vernon.'
He got off of his bed reluctantly and shuffled out of his room and down the stairs, his uncle stomping behind him. As Harry arrived in the kitchen, a loud plop signalled Uncle Vernon taking his 'throne' in the lounge. Mindlessly, he grabbed a sponge and methodically cleaned off his plates, leaving no speck behind.
As he finished cleaning and drying the last of the forks, Harry suddenly caught a distinctive whiff of…smoke. Alarmed, he turned on his heels towards the stovetop, but it was off. Intrigued, he followed the smell, and to his surprise, it appeared to be coming from the lounge. As he neared the door, the faint voices of his aunt and uncle started to filter through. Harry wondered if he should open the door, but just before he set his hand on the handle, he decided against it. Instead, he stuck his ear by the keyhole and strained his ears to listen.
'…what will we do?' Petunia was asking.
'…will stop…' Vernon replied. '…give up eventually…'
'…tell Harry?'
Harry's heart stopped. Tell him? When did the Dursleys ever even consider telling him anything? He held his breath and listened as carefully and attentively as he could.
'No,' Vernon said decisively, and Harry's heart dropped. 'He will know about that…unnaturalness…over my dead body.'
The next morning, by ritual habit, Harry awoke at seven in the morning, quickly brushed his teeth, and made his way downstairs to prepare breakfast for Uncle Vernon, who would surely soon be getting out of bed and demanding his morning tea – four sugar cubes and the exact right amount of cream – accompanied by a healthy serving of mushrooms, beans, sausages, and bacon. It was in Harry's best interest to not disappoint – it was not like they would cut him any slack just because it was the day after his birthday.
As he descended the stairs, however, something caught Harry's eye. It was an envelope by the front door, yet it was not an envelope that looked anything like the business mail that Uncle Vernon received. The envelope was a sort of beige colour, reminiscent almost of the fancy parchment-paper on which Uncle Vernon's much bragged about 'Most Improved Employee' award was printed on. The addressing was also not the block type that was common among Uncle Vernon's business mail, either, but rather a cursive font, which looked to Harry as if it were hand-written.
Curious, Harry bent down by the pile of letters and picked it up. True to its look, the envelope felt different than any other paper he had ever held, having a tough, yet smooth texture. The flap was closed with an old-fashioned wax seal embossed with an odd-looking crest, with a large, embroidered letter 'H' in the centre.
Harry flipped the envelope around. The first thing that struck him as odd was that there was no stamp, nor was there a return address. At first glance, it looked almost like the letter had simply been dropped into the postman's bag just before he had arrived at Number Four.
And then, Harry saw the addressed recipient.
Mr H Potter
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging
SURREY
It was a letter to him. But how? And more importantly, why? It might have been a case of mistaken identity, that he had been confused with another H Potter who lived in Little Whinging, but that did not seem likely. For that to be true, it would require so many assumptions to be true, and if there was one thing Harry knew about assumptions, it was that the less that were needed, the better.
Perhaps, then, it was a letter for him. On that thought, Harry's heart suddenly began to race in his chest. Who would write a letter to him? And what for? It would not be any preparatory school – it was not like he had been allowed to apply for any, and certainly not ones prestigious or fancy enough to have any chance of wanting to use parchment envelopes.
There was a sudden sound of a throat clearing from behind him. 'What're you looking at?'
Harry jumped, dropping the envelope in his hands. He spun around on the balls of his feet, and there was Uncle Vernon, an annoyed expression on his face, no doubt at Harry's loitering. His eyes shifted, however, quickly, to the envelope now lying on the entrance rug right besides Harry. In a split-second, his face twisted into an expression of mixed anger and…what looked almost like fright.
'Hand me that envelope!' Vernon yelled.
'What?' Harry cried back, automatically picking up the envelope and clutching it to his breast. 'Why? It has my name on it!'
'I know it does,' Vernon snapped, his face turning red. 'And I said hand it to me. Now!'
Harry looked at his uncle for a second, and in that span of time, his face seemed to grow even more red than it already was. A part of Harry wanted to grip the envelope even tighter, protect it with his own body if he had to, for in that moment, the envelope seemed more important than anything else in the world. There had to be something about it that was special – why else would something as seemingly innocent as a letter elicit such a reaction in his uncle?
'Now!' Vernon roared, his countenance now having turned purple.
And Harry's resolve broke. His heart dropped into the pits of his stomach as he raised a trembling hand and slowly, reluctantly, and against the will of even his own body, handed the envelope over to Vernon.
In one swift move, Vernon tore the envelope from Harry's hand. He turned the envelope around, and cast an unmistakeably dirty look at the wax seal on its anterior, before tearing it cleanly in two and crumpling it up into two balls in his hands.
Harry opened his mouth to protest. 'That's – '
'Not anything of your concern,' Vernon snarled, cutting him off. 'Now, boy, what were you thinking, wasting your time looking at a stupid letter rather than doing what you know you should be doing?'
Harry received no more letters after that – none that he saw, anyway. He had overheard his uncle tell his aunt one night that he had had their mail diverted to Mrs Figg, a friend of theirs who loved cats a little too much. As curious as Harry was about what those letters were for – they had to be important, if his aunt and uncle's reactions to receiving them was any proof – he knew better than to ask. Especially after the stern talking-to he had received the morning after he had seen the letter to stop 'questioning things that he had no business questioning', and the two weeks of doubled chores that he had received as punishment.
It had been four days since that morning, and Harry had now simply come to accept that he would probably never know. Perhaps, some small, cynical part of him thought, the Dursleys were right. Whatever had been in that envelope genuinely was no good for him, and it would do him no favours to dwell on it
It was Sunday afternoon, now, and to even his own surprise, there were no more chores left for him to do. Grudgingly, his aunt and uncle had allowed him to return to his room and take the afternoon off, on the condition that he did nothing to disturb them as they spent the afternoon in front of the television – though it was not like Harry had any intention to disturb them, anyway.
Harry was lying on his bed, a book held above him. But he was not reading. Once more, his mind drifted to the letter. It seemed that despite all his attempts to force the mystery from his mind, it simply could not, would not leave.
The doorbell rang downstairs, and Harry heard Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps march towards the door, him no doubt huffing angrily at being forced away from his favourite television programme. There was a click as the door unlocked and swung open, and Harry could not help but feel a slight bit sorry for whoever was on the other side, about to face his uncle's wrath.
Through the door, Harry heard a short, muffled conversation filter through from downstairs, though he could not make out what was being said. He wondered who could possibly be calling on a Sunday afternoon. It could not possibly be the postman – there was no post on Sundays, after all. Perhaps it was Mrs Figg? But that did not seem likely, either, for she always did like a late nap on the weekends.
'Boy! Come down here! Now!' Vernon's voice suddenly thundered through the house. Harry jumped to his feet and rushed to the door in a panic. His uncle only spoke in that voice when he was about to punish him. What had he done wrong now? Had he neglected to clean all the dishes?
Harry shakily opened the door and rushed down the stairs, preparing himself mentally for the worst. When he got to the ground floor, however, he was greeted with the most unexpected sight.
There was a man standing on the other side, but he was not like anyone Harry had ever seen before. He was, tall, aged, and dressed in what Harry could only describe as some sort of cloak, coloured sky blue and embroidered with silver stars. He wore on his head a tall, pointed hat, of the exact same colour and pattern as his cloak. A small, intricate pair of glasses, with lenses shaped like semicircles, rested on his long, slightly crooked nose.
The man broke a small smile. 'Good afternoon, Harry.'
Harry was confused momentarily at being addressed by his name by an utter stranger, but quickly composed himself. 'Good afternoon…uh…'
'Normally, I would go by Professor Dumbledore for my students,' the man replied, his eyes twinkling amusedly. 'Considering that you don't know who I am or why you should call me a "Professor" yet, though, Albus will do.'
Harry swallowed awkwardly and nodded, his confusion continuing to grow by the second.
'May I come in, then, Vernon?' Albus asked Uncle Vernon cordially, though his tone suggested that it was not a request that Vernon could deny.
Vernon's face, for once, did not look angry at being ordered around in his own home. Rather, eyes wide and face pale, he gave a tiny, nearly indistinguishable nod, and the man – Albus – stepped over the threshold and into the house.
The man walked into the living room without need for directions, as if he already knew exactly where it was, Harry and Uncle Vernon following him. The television was still on, and though Dudley was still engrossed, Aunt Petunia had sat forward, her hands on the armrests, a look of worry on her face.
'Ah, Petunia,' Albus greeted her as if she were an old friend.
Aunt Petunia's face twisted in shock and surprise – evidently, she knew the man from somewhere. She looked as if she wanted to get up out of her chair, but ended up remaining exactly where she was, so still as if she were petrified.
'Y-You – '
'I do happen to have a name,' the man replied, sounding as if he was not slighted at all by the hostile reception. 'Though I completely understand if you had forgotten it. It had been a long time since we last corresponded with one another.'
He turned to Dudley. 'Ah, and this must be your son…'
'Dudley,' Dudley choked out.
'Pleased to make your acquaintance,' the man said lightly before turning back to Uncle Vernon. 'May I take a seat, then?'
Albus took Uncle Vernon's strained nod as a 'yes', and sat down on the armchair farthest from the television. He took a look around the room, giving a small nod in apparent approval.
'B-Harry. Go fet-make our guest some tea,' Vernon ordered.
Albus turned to look at him and raised an eyebrow. 'It would be rather inappropriate for person that I am here to speak to to be serving me, would it not? I'm sure you, your wife, or your son would be perfectly equipped to do that.' He looked over at Harry. 'Why don't you take a seat, Harry?'
Harry, surprised but nonetheless grateful, walked over to the chair that Aunt Petunia had just vacated and took a seat. They sat without speaking for several minutes before Aunt Petunia returned, a kettle of tea and several cups in her hands.
'Thank you, Petunia,' Albus said gratefully as he took a cup. Aunt Petunia replied with something that sounded like a 'you're welcome', only lost in a choke in her throat.
They sipped the tea in silence for some moments, and Harry noted with irony that though Aunt Petunia was so particular about how Harry should make her tea, the tea that she had made tasted nothing like the recipe that Harry had perfected in the last years.
'Have you received any letters recently, Harry?' the old man spoke up conversationally, halfway through his cup of tea.
'He has not – '
'I believe that I did direct my question at Harry, Vernon,' the man said, cutting Uncle Vernon off. 'Harry?'
'I…I don't mean to be rude,' Harry said before he could stop himself. 'But how do you know who I am and that I'm receiving letters?'
The old man gave a small smile. 'I will answer that, but first, I'll take it as a "yes", that you've received a letter recently?'
'I…yes, I did.'
'And did you open it?'
'I was about to,' Harry answered hesitantly. 'But…but then…then Uncle Vernon came and snatched it out of my hand.'
The old man suddenly shifted in his seat with surprising agility and turned his eyes upon Uncle Vernon, an unmistakable scathing expression of disappointment on his face. 'You did what?'
Vernon opened his mouth to retort, but the only sound that came out was a strained wheezing. He closed his mouth and opened it again, but once more, speech failed him.
'You know about the letters?' Harry asked, unable to hold his curiosity in any longer. 'Were you the one that sent them?'
'Oh, no,' the man replied. 'That would be Minerva.'
Harry did not know whether it was appropriate to ask who 'Minerva' was.
'Considering that your uncle has engaged in…theft of your mail…' the man reached into his cloak and pulled out an envelope, nearly identical to the one that Harry had found on the floor days ago. 'I have taken the liberty to deliver it to you, in person.'
'No. He will not,' Uncle Vernon engaged in one last, feeble, protest.
Albus simply cocked an eyebrow at Uncle Vernon, said nothing, and handed the letter to Harry. He took it eagerly, and with a small bit of Schadenfreude at Uncle Vernon's attempts to disappear into his chair, peeled away the wax seal and opened the envelope.
There were two pieces of what looked to be the same parchment paper as the envelope contained within. Harry slid both out of the envelope and unfolded them.
At the head of the inner letter was a seal that Harry immediately recognised as the coloured version of what had been stamped on the wax closing the envelope. His eyes scanned down the letter. It was written in a loopy, elegant cursive that seemed to dance and come alive on the page.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, read the topmost, bolded line. Suppressing his immediate confusion, Harry continued to read.
Dear Mr Potter,
We are writing to inform you that you have been offered a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This offer has been made in recognition of your magical ability and potential, and our belief that you will be able to excel at Hogwarts.
A list of necessary books and materials has been enclosed for your reference.
Should you choose to accept your place at Hogwarts, we request that you inform us by owl no later than 31 July. The Hogwarts Express will leave London King's Cross Station at 11:00 on 1 September. Term will begin at 9:00 the next day.
Yours sincerely,
Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore, O. M. First Class
Headmaster
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Harry looked back up when he reached the end of the letter, still processing what the letter had said. Supposedly, according to it, he was a wizard, and apparently one with 'potential', whatever that meant. A small, hopeful part of him wanted to believe it, but a much larger, more rational part of his mind knew that this was all a joke, an elaborate hoax. Yet if it were a hoax, why would it be played on him?
'I'm sorry, but what is this about?' Harry asked, not realising how rude he had just possibly sounded.
A flash of surprise, perhaps at Harry's ignorance, flashed across Dumbledore's face, but he quickly seemed to compose himself. 'It is about magic. Magic is real, Harry.'
It was getting more unbelievable by the second. 'I'm sorry, Al…Headmaster Dumbledore…but magic?' Harry demanded. 'Isn't that something straight from the fairy tales?'
Dumbledore's countenance broke into a small, mysterious smile. 'Even the tallest tales have a grain of truth, Harry.'
With that, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a long, intricately-decorated stick – a wand, Harry realised, one which looked seemingly like it was plucked right out of Cinderella. He raised it into the air, and after a moment of decision, pointed it at the tea table. Dumbledore flicked it once, and suddenly, the wooden legs of the table morphed into actual legs. In fluid, coordinated movements, the table came to life, prancing around the room and nearly knocking into Harry's legs.
'Make it stop!' Uncle Vernon roared, his eyes bulging in fright. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Aunt Petunia curled up in shock, while Dudley looked, for once in his life, frightened at someone else. 'Stop this unnaturalness in my house!'
'If you insist,' Dumbledore said placidly, and with another wave of his wand, returned the table to its normal state. 'Though if you ask me, it was certainly more entertaining like that.'
All Vernon could do was look at Dumbledore with an incredulous expression as Dumbledore turned back to Harry. 'Every story has a foundation of truth, Harry,' he repeated.
Harry wanted to say something, perhaps to dismiss it as a show of light – it was what the rational parts of his mind would have done – but somehow, the display was so outlandish that Harry could not help but, however irrationally, believe it.
'So…if magic is real – '
'It is not – '
'My dear Vernon, it is rude to interrupt when someone else is speaking. Surely you must know this, learned and cultured man as you are.'
Vernon turned to Dumbledore, perhaps wanting to retort or to shoot him a dirty look, but faltered as his eyes fell upon Dumbledore's calm yet wholly disappointed face.
'Please continue, Harry.'
'So magic is real…but what does that have to do with me?'
'Exactly as the letter says, Harry,' Dumbledore replied. 'You have magic – or perhaps, in more colloquial terms, you're a wizard, Harry. You've been offered a place at Hogwarts, where you will learn how to control, use, and be responsible for your magic.'
Harry felt his jaw open and shut repeatedly. 'I…I'm a wizard? But…but how? I…I don't have any magical powers…I don't have a wand…'
'No wizard your age has a wand,' Dumbledore replied patiently. 'In Britain, wizards only receive their wands after they turn eleven years of age. As for you saying that you have no magical powers, though…I would disagree. Rather, I have conclusive, empirical proof that you, in fact, do. Has anything…out of the ordinary…ever happened to you? Or around you? Something you couldn't explain by any other rational measure? Something that you might consider…I believe the muggle term is "supernatural"?'
Harry's first instinct was to deny it – he had never been one to believe in the supernatural – yet when he gave the question more than the initial, cursory thought, he found that he could not deny it so readily out of hand. There was that incident, the day after Anna had moved away, when he had been giving Piers the evil eye, and suddenly, his hair, shirt, and pants turned a matching bubble-gum pink. Or perhaps the time when Dudley and Malcom had chased him up a tree, but somehow, seconds later, he found himself safe and sound in his bedroom.
'There maybe were…times…' Harry replied quietly.
'Like the time you accidentally performed apparition into your bedroom?' Dumbledore asked, raising an eyebrow. 'Or perhaps the time you accidentally performed something resembling a Pimple Jinx on your cousin? Or the time you performed a kind of transfiguration that turned your classmate's hair pink?'
Harry found himself staring at Dumbledore in shocked silence. A small part of him also felt a certain fright. These were incidents that he had kept secret from his aunt and uncle, after all, who had never tolerated that 'weirdness' of his. Yet at the same time, he did not find it in himself to care about his fright – not in the shock of the revelations that all that it was all actually the doing of magic.
'H-How did you…' Harry gasped.
'The Ministry has ways of detecting accidental underage magic,' Dumbledore replied. 'It is a sometimes unfortunate necessity to enforce our laws. There is no cause for alarm, however, Harry. All this information is kept confidential and is destroyed upon a young magical's official entry into our world.'
'How…how would I…enter…your world?' Harry asked timidly. The part of him that had doubted the existence of magic in the first place now desperately wanted this all to be real. It would afford him what he had always wanted – a life away from the Dursleys, where he could be free to do what he wanted without fear of punishment, where he might meet others like him. It seemed to him like it was everything he had ever dreamed of.
'By accepting your place at Hogwarts,' Dumbledore answered. 'Or if, perhaps, you feel that Hogwarts isn't for you, you could always accept a place at another school of magic. I'm sure that they would be quite happy to enrol a pupil with the talent and potential of yours.'
'My…my parents,' Harry questioned suddenly. 'Were they wizards, too?'
Dumbledore's face suddenly grew sad. 'Yes, they were… James and Lily were two of the most gifted students I have ever seen. If it weren't – '
'They went to Hogwarts?' Harry asked, so surprised that he did not even realise that he was cutting Dumbledore off.
'They did.'
Harry now felt an irrational excitement. 'And I can go to Hogwarts, too?'
'If you accept the offer,' Dumbledore said. 'Although I would advise you to make a decision soon. The deadline for accepting the offer has, technically, already passed.'
'Of course I accept – '
'No!' Uncle Vernon suddenly shouted, jumping out of his seat. 'I will not be paying for an old – '
'Of course not, Vernon,' Dumbledore interrupted, his voice without any edge yet severe at the same time. 'James and Lily have, with perhaps good foresight, if I may add, planned ahead, and prepared for Harry a fund from which he may pay his school and book fees.'
Vernon did not show any sign of giving up, however. 'I will not allow any of this unnaturalness! The boy will be attending the comprehensive – '
For once, Dumbledore reacted, tapping his wand against his knee lightly, yet not one person in the room missed the meaning. Vernon fell quiet at once and sat back down into his seat, trying once more to disappear behind the cushions.
'Well, Harry, do you accept your place at Hogwarts?'
'I…of course I do,' Harry answered surely. Whatever magic was, if it meant a chance to follow in his mother and father's footsteps…maybe to even discover something about who they were, he would take it.
'Excellent,' Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling slightly. 'I shall owl Minerva to let her know of your decision. You will need to purchase all your school things, of course. I could certainly accompany you to Diagon Alley today, or if that will be be inconvenient, I could arrange for another chaperone on a different day.'
'I want to go today,' Harry replied excitedly without any hesitation.
'Why don't you go on and get ready, then, Harry,' Dumbledore suggested, standing up from his seat, 'and we will set off.'