Harry stares down at the letter in his hands. The paper –parchment, part of him thinks,that's surely parchment– is thick and heavy.
"What's taking so long, boy?" Uncle Vernon calls, and Harry casts a quick glance over his shoulder before refocusing on the letter.
Mr. H. Potterstares up at him in green ink.
Harry has only received letters once or twice before, and they were always from school or the library. The few times it had happened, Uncle Vernon had confiscated it immediately. They had only been handed over to Harry after being thoroughly squinted at.
Something about this letter seems terribly, incredibly important. Maybe it's the weight of it in his hands. Maybe it's the seal at the back. Maybe Harry just wants something personal, for once.
"Coming, Uncle Vernon!" he calls, quietly slipping the letter in through the blinds on his cupboard door. He's going to read that later, when he has time, and when the Dursleys have left the house for the evening.
He suffers through the day, working quicker than usual to finish his assigned tasks. Aunt Petunia squints suspiciously at him, but she shrugs it off and lets him go.
Finally,finallyHarry's allowed to retreat to the familiar darkness of his room.
The letter turns out to be way shorter than expected. It's also a bit underwhelming. Why would they write with green ink anyway? It makes it so much harder to read in the dim darkness…
Harry should probably find a letter telling him he's a wizard to be a bit more concerning than he does. He should also probably think it's a joke. Or someone messing with him. Or – well –something, surely!
Instead there's something that just… clicks. He nods to himself. It feels… right.
We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Now,thatdoesn't feel quite as right. An owl? Where do they expect him to find anowl? Is he supposed to go into the wilderness and catch one?
He worries his lip for a bit. Maybe he can mail it back – but no, he got no return address.
Right. Maybe itisa trick, after all. Nothing but a dumb joke played by Dudley and his friends.
Harry stuffs the letter into his pillowcase, knowing Aunt Petunia won't change his bed anyway. He can't bring himself to get rid of it completely – and neither can he rid himself of the nagging feeling that the letter is genuine.
But, Harry reminds himself as he desperately tries to extinguish that flare of hope, he can't contact this Headmaster Dumbledore either way. His heart does sink, a tiny bit, but it's a lost case. There's really no way for him to do anything.
He closes the cupboard door behind him and does not look back.
Three days later Harry sits on his knees in the backyard, dirt up to his elbows as he works on repotting some of Aunt Petunia's favorite flowers. The sun's been beating down on his neck the whole day, and he hasn't been allowed any sunscreen, so he's sure to develop a sunburn now.
Grumbling darkly to himself – Harry never liked those flowers anyway – he resigns himself to have a burning neck for a few days.
"B – Harry!" Aunt Petunia calls.
Harry looks up, surprised. She only ever calls him that when they have guests – and if they have guests, she'd want him to be a bit more respectable than he is now…
Grimacing down at his muddy pants, Harry tries his best to brush off the mud before rubbing his hands together to rid them of excess dirt. Then he hurries into the kitchen, careful to leave his shoes by the door so he won't stomp filth all over the floor.
Aunt Petunia is white as a sheet when she gives him a nervous little smile.
Glancing behind her, Harry can see why.
He blinks at the very,verysmall man sitting on the couch, then hurries to look at Aunt Petunia again. She doesn't like it when he stares at strangers.
Aunt Petunia looks even more strained now than before. "This is Mister… Flitwick," she says, and despite her best efforts her mouth tightens a bit at what she likely finds to be a terriblyabnormalsurname. "He's here to talk to you about… school."
Something tells Harry that the only reason Mister Flitwick was allowed inside was because the neighbours would stare otherwise. "Pleased to meet you, sir," he says, nodding in Mister Flitwick's direction. Manners are important, he knows.
"And I you, Mr. Potter!" Mister Flitwick says in a very,verysmall voice that fits his very,verysmall body. "I am to be your Charms Professor at Hogwarts – and I must apologize, on behalf of Headmaster Dumbledore, for sending you a letter and not a representative right away."
Harry perks up, chest expanding to make space for the burst of light within him. "You're from Hogwarts?" he asks, and his voice trembles. Then he hurries to add a meek, "sir," upon feeling Aunt Petunias' burning gaze on his already sore neck.
Apparently, Aunt Petunia's anger hadn't been because of Harry's lack of manners. "But – but – but we never said – " She cuts herself off, pressing a hand to her throat. When she speaks again, her voice raises into a sharp squeak. "You got a letter?"
Oh, no – he's going to be punished for that now. Ducking his head to avoid her gaze, he allows himself a small nod. "Yes, Aunt Petunia."
She mumbles something suspiciously like 'so glad Vernon is at work' under her breath.
"Mister… Flitwick," she says, louder now – and again making a face as though she just bit into a lemon. "The – Harry, here, will not be joining your school."
Harry's suddenly thrown back to what feels like ages ago, sitting in the cupboard on bruised knees reading green ink and tasting such wonderful,glorioushope on his tongue. Then the bitterness drowns it, the disappointment and anger with himself forbelieving, and now – now he's been given that hope back, and Aunt Petunia tries to take itawayfrom him?
Mister Flitwick glances over at him, and perhaps he sees the way Harry's fingers have tightened on the cloth of his pants, for he dips his head and looks back to Aunt Petunia. "You say that as though you have any choice in the matter," he says cheerfully. "Lily and James wanted him there, and so do the teachers." He looks over at Harry and shows him the most genuine smile Harry has ever seen. "All of us."
Aunt Petunia stares at him with wide eyes and a gaping mouth. When Mister Flitwick pulls out a wooden twig – a wand, Harry's mind helpfully supplements him – she seems to sink into the chair. "Yes, well, when you put it like that…" she very nearly squeaks.
Chuckling, Mister Flitwick gives his wand a little twirl, after which a scroll of… not paper, but parchment, appears in the air. He plucks it down and unrolls it, quickly skimming through its contents. "I came here with the orders to discuss the plans for young Harry with you, Mrs. Dursley," Mister Flitwick says, and from his position by the door, Harry can see the way his lips curl in an amused smile. "Though now it appears I'm here totell youabout the plans."
Aunt Petunia pales a few shades more – and surely, she must be about to reach maximum paleness – but nods, nonetheless. Admittedly, the nod is a bit shaky, but at least it's a nod.
"Right," Mister Flitwick says, clearing his throat. "I will return in two days' time to bring Mr. Potter to Diagon Alley – that is, a Wizarding shopping street where he will be able to purchase everything he'll need for school. He will be handed a ticket to the Hogwarts Express, which leaves for Hogwarts the 1stof September at 11 o'clock precisely. It leaves from King's Cross in London, at Platform 9."
Mister Flitwick looks up at Aunt Petunia, his eyes sharp. "You will make sure Mr. Potter gets to the platform on time. If he does not arrive to school, one of my colleagues or I will bring him there." He looks down again, but Harry can still see the smile lurking at the corners of his mouth. "Not brining him might have… consequences."
Aunt Petunia nods hurriedly. "Of course," she allows shakily. "Two days' time. London the 1stof September." She swallows, gaze flickering to the clock on the wall. Her knuckles go white where she tightens her hold on the armrests of her chair. "If – if you'll excuse me, Mister F… Flitwick – my husband will return home soon, and – he would not like seeing you here."
"I see I have overstepped my welcome," Mister Flitwick says, hopping down from the couch. The amused creases around his eyes show that he is likely fully aware that he was never welcome in the first place.
Harry notes that he isn't as short as he seems when he's standing. He would probably be about Harry's height, actually.
Mister Flitwick turns to Harry with a bright smile, bowing at the waist. "I'll see you in two days, Mr. Potter," he says, and then he spins on his heel and disappears with acrack.
Harry stares at the spot where he stood for a moment.
And then he turns on Aunt Petunia.
"You knew?" he says, hands balling into fists.
"Hush, boy," Aunt Petunia replies, but it lacks the usual malice. She's still pale, hands trembling slightly as she stares into absolutely nothing. "I… I have to tell Vernon…"
Recognizing a lost fight when he sees one, Harry walks off, grumbling darkly to himself about aunts who can't take a bit of a surprise.
His heart is already dreaming of magic, and owls, and spells.
Later that day, after he's finished in the garden and dinner and sweeping the hallway he lies in his cupboard and listens to Uncle Vernon's bellows of rage, followed by Aunt Petunia raising her voice to screech at him – a seemingly fruitless attempt at explaining, or perhaps placating.
Harry rolls over and closes his eyes. It's not his problem. He'll be going to school no matter what the Dursleys settle on.
They yell far into the night, and when Harry is torn out of sleep to make breakfast the next morning, Aunt Petunia is grim and Uncle Vernon isn't looking at either of them.
Still, Harry supposes, it's better than being thrown out on the street. He eats his bacon in peace.
Harry waits anxiously the next day. It occurs to him, while he's fixing breakfast, that Mister Flitwick hadn't mentionedwhenhe was arriving – only that he was.
Aunt Petunia seems just as anxious as him, glancing at the clock every ten minuets or so.
Around noon someone knocks on the door. The whole house holds its breath.
"Boy –" Uncle Vernon says.
"I'll get it!" Harry runs for the door, nearly tripping in his haste. He rips it open, lowers his gaze, and finds that his predictions had been right. The very,verysmall man called Mister Flitwick is just a little bit shorter than him.
"Hello," he greets, offering him a smile. "Are we going to that street now?"
Mister Flitwick smiles at him. "Diagon Alley, yes," he says, nodding once. His gaze shifts to something behind Harry, and some of the warmth in his smile dwindles. "Ah, hello again, Mrs. Dursley! I will be taking Mr. Potter to Diagon Alley, now, as we agreed."
Harry strains his neck to look at Aunt Petunia, who's clutching the doorframe as though it's the only thing holding her upright. She looks incredibly disappointed. "Yes," she says. "Make sure you do. And that you return him in one piece." There is an attempt – which Harry has to admit is quite the failure, thanks to how she has once again paled – at looking down her nose on Mister Flitwick. "We know how this – this pesky wand waving business is.
Dangerous, that is! So. Make sure he comes back whole. Or we'll never hear the end of it."
Mister Flitwick chuckles. "Of course, Mrs. Dursley. We'll return no later than twilight."
It gives them lots of time, Harry notes. It's summer – twilight won't arrive for another seven hours, at least. Aunt Petunia looks like she might complain, but Mister Flitwick grabs Harry by the arm and spins with him, and then there's a terrible sensation of being flushed down the toilet, and then Harry's standing in the middle of a busy street.
He lets out a yelp and stumbles a bit, but Mister Flitwick merely chuckles and pats his hand a bit. "Not to worry, Mr. Potter," he says, "everyone reacts a bit poorly to their first apparition."
Harry isn't quite sure what to say in response to that, for he's a bit busy staring at the street unfolding before him. There are peopleeverywhere, wearing tall pointy hats and long robes and chattering on about a dozen different topics. There is a shop for owls, and there one for cauldrons, and there one with books –
"Let's see, then," says Mister Flitwick, pulling a piece of parchment out of his robes. "I think we'll go through this list in order, and then you can go shopping for whatever you like afterwards – how's that, hm?" He hands Harry the list as he speaks, and Harry takes it with eager hands.
Robes, gloves, cauldrons, books –
awand.
And he's allowed to shopfreelyafterwards? Wherever he wants? Harry takes in the street with something akin to hunger in his stomach. "I would like that very much," he manages to say. "But – Mister Flitwick, sir, I don't have any money…"
Mister Flitwick nods, as though he had expected this. "That there," he says, pointing down to a large marble building further down the street, "is Gringotts, the Wizarding bank. Your parents left you a vault." He begins to walk down the street, and Harry, not wanting to be left alone in the hustle and bustle of this new and exciting world, hurries to keep up. Not that he needs to hurry alot– Mister Flitwick has shorter legs than him, after all. "Oh, and Mr. Potter? That'sProfessor Flitwick, to you."
Harry would be ashamed, if it weren't for the good natured way Mister –Professor Flitwick had said it. As it is, he only nods, mumbles some form of apology, and keeps up.
At the entrance to Gringotts stands two even shorter creatures. "Goblins," Professor Flitwick explains, exchanging a bow with the goblin to the right. Harry, not wanting to accidentally offend them, bows as well. Professor Flitwick gives him one of his amused looks, but doesn't comment, so he must've done something right.
The trip inside of the bank is, to be quite honest, a bit boring. There's some to-the-point talk between Professor Flitwick and a goblin, and then they're walking a bit. The most exciting part has to be the ride down to the Potter vault (Harry doesn't bother keeping in his whoop of excitement) and the absolutemountainsof coins Harry is met with when the vault door opens for him.
He turns to Professor Flitwick with wide eyes.
"How – how much can I take?" he asks meekly.
"Wise question!" Professor Flitwick says, his voice rising in pitch with his eagerness. "You should take enough to last the schoolyear, as well as this shopping trip – here, let's look at it together, shall we?" He walks over to Harry and picks up some of the coins, pointing out a Knut and a Sickle and a Galleon and explaining their worth. Harry nods along, though he doesn't think he'll remember how much a Knut is to a Sickle and a Sickle to a Galleon – as long as he remembers which is which, it should be easy enough.
When they leave, Professor Flitwick assures him he has enough for the schoolyear – and probably a little bit extra, he says with a wink.
Harry can almost swear that the goblin escorting them rolls his eyes.
Harry squints at the bright light outside of Gringotts. He hadn't realized it was that dim in there. "What now?" he asks Professor Flitwick, his pouch of newly acquired money jingling by his thigh.
Professor Flitwick hums, pulling out that list again. "Ah, that would be robes," he says. "Madam Malkin's would be best for that. Follow me."
Not long after they've found their way into a small shop full of racks and mannequins with all different sorts of robes. Some are long, some short, some simple and some terribly flamboyant. Harry, busy staring around the room, barely hears Professor Flitwick telling the lady at the counter that he's a "Hogwarts student, the full set."
They're both taken to the back room, where Harry is put on a stool. The lady – Madam Malkin – slips a black robe over his head and begins to pin it to the right length. "Which House, dearie?" she asks, not looking up at Harry as she works.
Harry throws Professor Flitwick a flabbergasted look.
Professor Flitwick chuckles. "A first year, ma'am," he says, and Madam Malkin nods, as though that explains everything. Professor Flitwick then patiently explains the four Houses of Hogwarts, into which all the first years are sorted on their first day. "What house do you think you'll be in, Mr. Potter?" he asks, something like curiosity to his voice.
Before Harry can open his mouth to answer ("I don't know") Madam Malkin stiffens. "Mister – Mister Potter?" she repeats, looking up at Harry as if he just saved her dog from drowning. "Harry Potter?"
"Uh," says Harry. "Hi?"
"Madam," Professor Flitwick says courtly, "The robes, please."
Madam Malkin blinks, then hurries to continue with the robes.
Harry frowns at Professor Flitwick.
"Ah," he says, and the usual humor in his eyes flickers and dies. He sits down on the stool standing beside Harry's. "Twenty years ago, there was a terrible war. Your parents fought in it, along with many, many others."
Harry stares at Professor Flitwick with wide eyes. This is more information that he'd ever dreamed of learning of his parents.
"Our side fought against a terrible foe," Professor Flitwick continues. "A Dark Lord, who we today know as You-Know-Who, or He Who Must Not Be Named."
"What's his actual name?" Harry asks curiously.
Professor Flitwick visibly grimaces. Then he glances around before leaning forward. "Lord… Voldemort," he whispers. He shudders after saying the name. "He was a terribly evil man. Hundreds of lives were lost. Nothing seemed to be able to stop him." There's a heavy pause. Professor Flitwick levels him with a solemn gaze. "Until you."
"M – me?" Harry squeaks.
"You-Know-Who came to your parents house late at night during Halloween, 1981," Professor Flitwick continues. His voice trembles, just slightly, with some withheld emotion. "Lily and James did not survive. But when he leveled his wand on you…" Professor Flitwick pauses again. "The Killing Curse is supposed to kill instantly."
Numbness creeps up Harry's arms. The hairs on his back stand up, and he flexes his fingers against a sudden uneasiness. "Why didn't it?" he whispers.
"No one knows," Professor Flitwick says quietly. "But when we came to the house… all that was left was you and a dusty robe with You-Know-Who's magical imprint on it." He shakes his head. "You're known as The-Boy-Who-Lived, Mr. Potter. Everyone in this world knows about you."
Harry stares at him with wide eyes. "O – oh," he says. Then he quiets, not sure how to react to all of this. Professor Flitwick looks so terribly sad, so old and worn – Harry would like to say sorry, but it would probably be taken the wrong way, so he says nothing.
"There," Madam Malkin says, her voice thick with emotion. When she straightens beside Harry, her eyes are wet with tears. "Free. Savior of the wizarding world discount."
"What – no! I can't do that," Harry exclaims, pushing aside the robe to tug open his pouch filled with money. "That's – here," he says, shoving a handful of Galleons at her. "Is that enough? Do you need more?" He gives Professor Flitwick a look which hopefully isn't as desperate as he thinks. "What's the price?"
Madam Malkin makes a keening sound at the back of her throat, and then she swallows, a few tears trickling down her cheeks. She looks down at the golden coins in her hands, then carefully counts out three Galleons and five Sickles. "There," she says, voice wobbling slightly. She hands back easily ten Galleons. "I don't need more." She holds out her free hand after Harry puts the rest of the coins into his pouch.
Harry blinks at it for a moment, then, realizing what she wants, he rushes forward to shake it.
"You are a kind boy, Harry Potter," Malkin says. "Thank you."
Once outside, after Professor Flitwick has shrunk Harry's bags and put them in a larger bag and handed it off to him, Harry sighs. "She shouldn't have treated me like that," he mutters. "I haven't…done anything yet."
"While that might be true," Professor Flitwick says patiently, "there are many people who will react in similar ways. You are loved here, Mr. Potter. I would advice you to get used to the thought." He gives Harry a small beam. "And I'm saying this only because I think you ought to know, but the Hogwarts student pack costs 15 Galleons, usually."
Harry freezes. "What?" he exclaims. "She took – she took two!"
Professor Flitwick nods. "And she was very much aware of what she was doing," he says. "Don't hold it against her. She's grateful." His eyes cloud as he stares at something far, far away. "We all are."
Clearing his throat, Harry shifts from one foot to the other. "Well, er… what's – what's next on the list?"
"Ah – er," says Professor Flitwick, fumbling for the list. "Books! Course books, that is. Flourish and Blotts is where most students go – this way!"
Harry follows, relieved to see the Professor smiling in that quickly-becoming-familiar way of his. Books aren't his greatest pleasure, as he never quite got the hang of reading, but if it's required, it's required.
When they enter the shop – a store filled with shelves stacked to the ceiling with books upon books upon books – Professor Flitwick puts a hand on Harry's shoulder.
Harry almost manages to keep from twitching at the sudden move. "Take a look around, Mr. Potter," Professor Flitwick says with a smile, "and I'll talk to the clerk regarding your schoolbooks."
Harry nods absently, wandering off towards the back of the store. He reads the backs of some of the books as he goes, and a few of them piques his fancy. Pulling one of them out of the shelf –Curses and Countercurses– he begins to flip through it, humming in interest at some of the odd things the book promises to teach him.
A curse that twists a person's tongue? Harry thinks wistfully of the way he's sometimes wanted Uncle Vernon to just shut up about his dad.
"Hello," a voice says, and Harry spins around, nearly dropping his book in surprise. A pretty boy with silver-white hair and pointed features stands by the other shelf, holding a leather satchel in his other hand. "First year, you too?"
Flushing slightly at the state of his own clothes – Dudley's hand-me-downs aren't exactly the prettiest dress clothes out there – Harry nods.
The boy's gaze lands on the book in Harry's hands, and he wrinkles his nose. "You don't want to buy that," he says. "It's a terrible boor, my father says. And most the curses are practically useless, too."
Harry looks down at the book again, frowning slightly. The Jelly-Legs curse doesn't seem useless, to him. "Why?" he asks. If the book is bad, he'd like to know the specifics, so he knows what to avoid in others.
That seems to throw the boy for a loop. "Er, well – because it is, of course," he says, raising his chin dauntingly.
"Right," says Harry, feeling very much not impressed.
"Anyway," the boy says, "my parents are just up the street looking at trunks for my year. I hope they find one with a few extra compartments – and it better have the Slytherin crest on it, too – I mean, it's obvious I'm going there, we don't need to wait for the Sorting to know that."
Harry nods warily, glancing to the right to see if it's a suitable exit route.
The boy gives him another daunting look. "Not the talkative sort, are you?" He then gets an utterly horrified look over him. "You are the right sort, aren't you?"
Not quite sure what the 'right' sort is, Harry nods eagerly. "Oh, yes, of course," he says, eyeing the gap between the two bookshelves. Maybe he'd fit there, if he sucked in his stomach…
"Oh. Well, then." The boy looks about. "Who are you with, by the way?"
"You know," Harry says cheerily, "I think he just called for me! I have to go. See you at Hogwarts!" And with that he bolts for the gap between the shelves, sucking in his stomach just to be sure. The boy doesn't even have time to react.
Harry browses for books a bit more, picking out a few more as he walks.Powers You Never Knew You Had and What To Do With Them Now You've Wised Uplooks interesting, so he tucks it under his arm.Runic Dictionary has a rich red color to its cover, and Harry ooh's and aah's a bit over it before he brings that, too.Curses and Counter curses remains in the bunch, purely out of spite.
By the time Professor Flitwick calls Harry back to the counter, he hasn't picked out any more books. He offers Professor Flitwick a bashful smile, but he only chuckles a bit, looking almost pleased with him.
"Come on, then," Professor Flitwick says good-naturedly, "next on the list is your wand."
"Is there a trunk on the list, sir?" Harry asks.
Professor Flitwick squints down at the paper. "…no," he says, sounding genuinely surprised. "We'll have to get you that, as well."
Harry nods absently.