January and February passed in a flash. Harry felt as if he'd blinked in the snow one minute, then the first sun of Spring welcomed him when he opened his eyes again. He and Sirius attended the Duelling World Championships, took in a few Farringdon Fliers Quidditch matches at the Big Blue Tent, even got tickets to watch rugby and football games on the Muggle side of London.

Then there was all his learning with Minerva. After memorising Hogwarts: A History, and A History of Magic, Harry soon knew his rune sourcebook off by heart, too. Minerva then furnished him with a book on alchemy - A Dictionary of Alchemical Imagery, by Lyndy Abraham - and that became his preferred bedtime reading of choice, though Sirius did turn his head slightly by introducing him to the comic book adventures of Agent Cajun and the Mexican Misfits.

The highly derogatory and insulting Martin Miggs - The Mad Muggle, Harry quickly decided, was worth no more than to be the lining of Hedwig's droppings tray.

So March arrived and proved to be unseasonally warm. On the Muggle side of London, newspaper sandwich boards screamed of a global temperature crisis, of rising sea levels, and of a debate over which vacuous narcissist would be crowned the winner of something called Love Island. Harry tried to imagine that - an island made entirely of love, or for the purpose of cultivating it - and found himself oddly addicted to the concept.

When he thought Sirius wasn't watching, Harry rather bashfully thought he wouldn't mind spending some time in such a place.

But that was too weird a train of thought to dwell on for very long. So Harry busied himself with the business of reality, rather than indulging such silly and fanciful whims. He threw himself hungrily into his studies, he watched every football match broadcast on satellite television - then wondered why the magical world had no visual-based media - and listened to music from both sides of his dual-worlds.

He quickly forgave his parents for being such avid fans of The Weird Sisters, for he tuned into one of their concerts - that was broadcast live on the Wizarding Wireless Network - and was immediately transformed into a super fan. The driving, symphonic metal may have been so loud that it made the windows of the flat rattle, and gave Minerva such a headache that she had to go and take a lie down, but Harry was hooked.

This was further enhanced when Sirius bought him the latest copy of Esoter-Rock!, a magical music magazine, which featured The Weird Sisters as the lead article. Harry took one look at the beautiful, busty blonde lead singer-witch ... and immediately developed an obsession with her, one that lived in a strange part of his upper groin that Harry was fairly sure hadn't been there before.

But it was there now ... and it belonged to Miss Weird.

And so it was that Harry's new wardrobe became very black in colour, very cool and artsy-atmospheric, with The Weird Sisters legends and logos emblazoned onto almost everything he owned.

So Sirius decided that he needed to shake it up a bit, before Harry became so Gothy that he was unreachable. His solution was to treat Harry to a bespoke, hand-tailored, Farringdon Fliers travelling cloak. It would go pretty well with his Hogwarts robes, especially - Sirius pointed out confidently - when Harry was Sorted into Gryffindor, and the colours of his House badge and robe trim would match the colours of the London-based Quidditch team - which were scarlet and gold.

In Sirius' mind, there was no way that Harry wouldn't be Sorted into Gryffindor. And if he wasn't, Sirius promised, he would march up to Hogwarts and demand a re-Sorting, threatening to set the Sorting Hat on fire if it didn't comply.

So on a particularly sunny Saturday afternoon, Harry and Sirius made their way into magical London for Harry's cloak fitting. It was too busy for them to find seats in The Leaky Cauldron, so Sirius broke his earlier insistence and took Harry to what he assured him was a far better pub on Immore Alley. Harry tried his hardest not to look at all the semi-robed witches leaning out of the red-lit windows, or at the leggy dancers outside Mundungus Fletcher's Revue Bar, but it was borderline impossible.

There were just so many of them ... and Harry found them as oddly interesting as that picture of Miss Weird he'd tacked above his bedpost ...

Thankfully, Sirius didn't allow Harry to suffer in one of the more risqué establishments. Instead, he led him to a quaint little tavern that looked as if it didn't belong there. It was called The Peacock's Tail ... and Harry quickly thought he understood why.

The exterior of the pub was very quaint and pretty. It had whitewashed stonework, with dark beams cutting the walls into squares, and a large, rear beer garden with circular tables, each with pretty red flowers in vases, offering a nice view of the river nearby. A few customers were enjoying an ale and a cigarette or two in the sun, watching the world go by, or else putting it to rights and offering their wealth of life experience, whether their fellows wanted to hear it or not.

And the reason for the pub's name soon became apparent ... for there were two peacocks strutting around between the drinkers, pecking at leftover scraps of food and showing off their stunning plumages. One was called Kenny, the other was called Chesney, and if they weren't eating they were singing to each other, which Harry thought was a clever way to give the pub patrons free live entertainment.

Inside, the pub was wonderfully cosy. Low ceilinged and softly lit, there were snug corners and rickety tables, character seeping out of the very walls themselves. The horseshoe-shaped bar was shiny from overuse, and there was a beautiful smell of warm food wafting from somewhere deep in the building. Harry swam in it, feeling warm and content, and wondering just how the owners of the dogs, in a painting that hung behind the bar, had managed to teach them to play snooker.

That was quite the impressive bit of magic.

Harry and Sirius ate homely food from the pub and enjoyed the laid-back ambience. It was cosier and more welcoming than The Leaky Cauldron, which Harry rather suspected was intentional on behalf of the landlady, to try and entice more customers to her venue. It was also less hectic in here and Harry was soon in agreement with Sirius that this was a far better pub than the more famous rival around the corner.

After their spot of lunch, Harry and Sirius headed onto Diagon Alley and into Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions, where Harry had an appointment at 2 p.m. The assistant tailor, a Mr Swift, was an old friend of Sirius' and was in on his ruse against the rest of the magical world. He greeted them warmly as they entered the neat little shop.

"Ah, right on time!" Mr Swift beamed as the door clicked shut behind them. "We have a private fitting room ready in the back. Follow me."

Harry spent the next hour feeling like a human mannequin. Mr Swift took every measurement of Harry that he could. And not just the usual stuff, like shoulder breadth and arm length, but the distance between Harry's ears and his eyes, the circumference of his wrist and the space between his nostrils. Harry assumed he knew what he was doing and decided - as the self-measuring tape moved on to record the depth of Harry's tongue - to just listen to the conversation between the tailor and Sirius instead.

"Your turban is askance," Mr Swift commented. "Let me adjust it for you."

"Just so long as you don't take it off," Sirius warned. "You know I cant be seen."

"Do I look stupid to you?" Mr Swift admonished, as he tidied up Sirius' wrappings. "You know, I could just do you a sort of cowl instead of this. They are quite fashionable, you know."

"I'm sure they are ... among bank robbers and former Death Eaters!" Sirius chuckled. "Forgive me, but that isn't quite the look I'm going for!"

"Death Eaters?" Harry queried from his spot on the measuring podium. "What's a Death Eater?"

Mr Swift's expression dropped darkly as he addressed Sirius. "He doesn't know?"

"No, Jonathan, not everything," Sirius returned lowly.

"And you are sending him to Hogwarts so unprepared!" Mr Swift cried incredulously. "So uneducated?"

"Hey!" Harry protested crossly. He thought that was going a bit far. "I'm not dumb, you know. I can do maths and science, and my spelling's good, and I know a bit about runes and alchemy and magical history."

"But not that bit of our history, it would seem," Mr Swift replied shrewdly.

"What bit?" Harry implored. "Sirius? Please tell me what a Death Eater is."

Sirius sighed weightily. "A follower - a supporter - of the Dark Lord Voldemort. He had a small army of them, who swore to live and die at his command years before you were even born. Not all of them were ever brought to any sort of justice."

Harry swallowed hard. He was starting to get a cold, prickly feeling every time he heard the name Voldemort. It was worse when Auntie Minerva called him You-Know-Who, but this moniker was sinister enough as it was.

And Sirius hadn't told him all about his connection to this Dark wizard ... or his eventual demise. His parents had been involved somewhere, too - and apparently the magical world gave credit for his ultimate defeat to Albus Dumbledore - but Sirius' involvement was deeper than he'd yet confessed. Harry knew that much, at least. He wondered if now would be the moment when he would learn the truth.

But he was out of luck.

For Sirius suddenly yelped and leapt from his seat. Harry's heart began to pound hard under his ribs in a sudden burst of terror. Sirius was so agitated that Harry wondered if he'd seen a consignment of Death Eaters about to enter the shop. Harry was on alert in a flash ... and followed Sirius' eye line to the shop door.

But all Harry saw was the portly ginger woman and her husband, the ones that he'd seen that first day at The Leaky Cauldron with his father.

"Oh, Merlin's Knickers!" Sirius hissed lowly. "Jon - you have to hide me! I cant be seen! Not by her!"

"Why?" Harry cried urgently. "Who is she? Is she one of the Death Eaters? Is she going to kill you?"

"No," Sirius returned darkly. "She'll want to do worse than kill me, Harry ... that, kiddo, is Molly Prewett!"

Harry had to choke back a giggle. Sirius was so frantic that it was all Harry could do not to burst into peels of laughter as he watched him. He was darting around, semi-crouched, like a cat burglar on a job, trying to find somewhere to dive out of sight.

He tried one of the fitting stalls, but his feet still showed, and he was convinced that Molly would recognise him by them alone. Next he tried blending in to a window display, only to hear Molly's husband say they were looking for new Prefects Robes, which was exactly what Sirius was concealed amongst. In the end, Mr Swift took charge.

"Here, take my keys to the back storeroom," the tailor insisted. "There's a cupboard under the stairs there. Hide in there and don't come out until I come to fetch you!"

"Thanks!" Sirius cried, darting out of the exit door just as Molly and her husband rounded the corner to the fitting rooms.

"Ah, Swift! There you are!" Molly cried. "We thought it wasn't like you to leave the shop unmanned."

"Forgive me, Molly," Mr Swift simpered. "I was just fitting up this young gentleman for his ... er ... Hogwarts robes. Yes, that was it. School term starts soon, you know."

"Getting a head start, eh young man?" the balding husband asked cheerily. "Are you starting next year at Hogwarts?"

"Um, yes," Harry mumbled shyly. "It'll be my first year there. I only just found out."

"Muggleborn, eh!" the husband chuckled jovially. "Don't worry, it wont hold you back too much. Some Muggleborns have gone on to do very well for themselves. I love all things, Muggle myself! It's amazing, isn't it, all the quaint and bizarre ways they've come up with to cope without magic! Quite extraordinary, really!"

Harry frowned hard at that. He didn't think he liked the way this man was being so condescending. It made it worse that he didn't even seem to know he was doing it. Harry decided there and then that the first thing he would do at Hogwarts was to make good friends with the first Muggleborn he met. He had a feeling they would need friends against such attitudes.

Harry scowled bitterly as Molly began talking again.

"I do know," Molly frowned. "About the upcoming term. We'll have to make an appointment to have our Percy's old things resized for Ron. That's our son ... he starts at Hogwarts next year, too, dear."

Molly smiled toothily at Harry, and it was all he could do not to frown it back at her. Only his mother's voice in his mind, reminding him to be polite, stopped him in his tracks.

"Oh, is he?" he drawled blandly in reply. "That's nice."

"Maybe you can be friends," Molly suggested. "I'll make sure to point him out to you on the Platform on September the First."

"Platform?" Harry couldn't help but query, his mind already awash with planning a raft of evasive manoeuvres to escape this unknown boy.

Molly looked at her husband with a knowing smile. "Aww, Arthur, he doesn't know! How cute is that?"

"It must be so exciting, coming from the Muggle world ... with so much to learn!" Arthur beamed back. "Sometimes, I envy them, you know."

Harry ground his jaw and bit his inner lip so hard that he drew blood. Molly and Arthur didn't seem to notice a thing.

"As Arthur was saying," Molly simpered on. "There's a train you catch to get to Hogwarts. It leaves from Kings Cross Station ... from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters."

Harry was swimming in confusion now, which provided a handy excuse for the frown on his expression. "That's silly. How can you have three-quarters of a platform?"

Arthur grinned at him like he was a simpleton. Then he explained - in a would-be-mysterious voice. "Well ... it's magic, isn't it! Don't worry ... don't be overwhelmed by all this. When you're friends with our Ron, he'll explain everything to you. You'll see soon enough, and you'll forget you ever lived as a Muggle at all!"

Harry had taken enough. He may not have been very magical yet, but he wasn't an idiot. He jumped down from the podium, thanked Mr Swift for his trouble and raced outside, his face flushed with anger and desperate to get some fresh air. But Molly and Arthur went after him.

"I'm sorry!" Arthur called jokily. "Did I say something wrong, son?"

And Harry snapped. He may not have been a proper wizard ... but he certainly wasn't this clown's son. He had a father of his own, a brave and fully-fledged wizard, one that Harry loved too much to accept being called son by any other man. And it was his passion that took over Harry in that moment.

"Yeah, you did!" Harry cried, rounding on Arthur in the middle of the crowded street.

"Did I?" asked Arthur. His genuine surprise merely stoked Harry's rage even more. "What did I say to upset you?"

"Everything!" Harry yelled. "You're arrogant, and cruel, and you don't even know it! You insulted me in every possible way and now I just want you to leave me alone, please!"

Arthur flushed at Harry's rebuke, which was delivered with such fervour - not to mention volume - that it had drawn a significant crowd to watch them.

"I meant no offence, so-"

"Don't call me son!" Harry screamed angrily. "I have a father, and a mother, and only they can call me that! And you know what? They are both magical! And far better than the likes of you!"

"And who are they?" Molly demanded, furious on her meek husband's behalf.

"Lily and James Potter," came a smooth voice from the doorway of Madam Malkin's. "This is their son, Harry. Survivor of the attack by Lord Voldemort, raised by Lily's Muggle sister, and now under the protection of me ... his wrongly-accused Godfather."

Harry watched with a chest full of swelling pride, as Sirius emerged from the doorway and unveiled himself from under his turban. He made his way to Harry's side, not once looking at Molly and Arthur. The crowd gasped, too engrossed with the revelation to decide if they were impressed or terrified the most. Harry clobbered Sirius with a massive hug, which drew swoons from many in the crowd. Harry, sensing a turn in the opinion of the masses - as well as an opportunity for some free appeal-time - turned to the assembled crowd.

"All of that is true!" he called out. "I am Harry Potter ... and this is Sirius Black, my Godfather. And he saved me from Lord Voldemort ... he saved you all! If he hadn't made the sacrifice he did, you would all be under the boots of the Death Eaters by now. And I swear to you, with Merlin - and all you good people - as my witnesses, I will not rest until I clear my Godfather's good name!"

Sirius grinned down at him, not once challenging this invented history. "Come on, Boy Who Lived ... let's get you home."

A second later, they disappeared in a swirl of Apparition ... and no more than an hour later saw the evening editions of The Daily Prophet excitedly plastering the dramatic story all over their front pages ...

And thus the legend of Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, was born.

End of Book 1