Harry Potter and the Reluctantly Paternal Uncle

A/N: Wow! Lots of reviews! ...really. Lots. No, really. I didn't expect that many. And this means I have increased motivation to post, which means it's time for some good old-fashioned slave labor.

Chapter Two: Some Good Advice

Harry hurried to the park the next morning. He was a few minutes early, but he didn't want to make a bad first impression by showing up late. A quick glance revealed an empty park, excepting a tabby cat that was curled up and fast asleep on a bench. He quietly set his trunk down and sat gingerly, then reached out to stroke the cat's neck. The moment his hand made contact the cat startled, hissed, then leaped off the bench and ran into the bushes.

Barely did he have time to process this when the Professor, an elderly woman with gray hair tied back in a bun, emerged from the bushes in a long skirt and a maroon jacket. Harry's eyebrows rose and he rose to his feet. "What were you doing in there?" he asked, turning around to survey her more closely. "Did you see the cat?"

"You could say that," the Professor remarked. She seemed oddly ruffled, and the look didn't really fit her.

"You wouldn't be the Professor, would you?" he queried.

McGonagall composed herself a bit and nodded. "Yes, I am the Transfiguration Professor, Minerva McGonagall."

"Do you people normally hide in bushes, or is that just something Transfiguration professors do?"

She bestowed an annoyed look upon him. "Do you remember the cat?"

"Vaguely," Harry said.

"I was the cat," she informed him. More to herself than to him, she grumbled "I can't believe I fell asleep."

"Well," he said, casting about for a way to console her, "in your defense, it was a very warm spot."

She nodded, almost morosely. "It was."

There was about a thirty-second long awkward pause, then Harry ventured: "so, to London?"

"Oh. Yes. Of course." She gave him an unsteady smile and presented a ball of yarn. "It's a Portkey. It's a magical form of transportation. When you touch it and activate it, it will take you to a preset location."

"Are all of them balls of yarn?" Harry queried, examining it as best he could from his vantage point.

"No," she replied curtly. "Only the ones created by Headmasters who think they have a wonderful sense of humor. Most of the time, we try to use objects that are as mundane as possible so Muggles won't accidentally activate them."

"How would a Muggle go about finding one of them?" Harry asked. "I mean, almost everything in your world is supposed to be camouflaged, so Muggles can't find it. Do you frequently leave them in areas that have a lot of Muggles?"

"What?" she blurted, caught off guard for the second time that morning. "No—not at all. I mean—yes, we sometimes do, but it's more of a precaution than anything."

"Do you have to have a license to use a Portkey?" Harry asked.

"No, only to create one."

"Can you create one without a license?" Harry pressed.

"Technically—yes,you can. But it's very heavily regulated by the Ministry of Magic and anyone caught creating an unauthorized Portkey is subject to heavy fines. You can go to prison if you are using it for nefarious purposes."

"And this Portkey was authorized?" Harry asked.

"Well, no, but we suspected that we were going to encounter some resistance from your relatives when we came, so we created it in case of emergency."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "So, off to London, then?"

"Yes." She glanced around to check for Muggles, then held out the ball of yarn. "You only need to touch it with one finger." Harry reached out and touched it. "Tuna fish," McGonagall said. The ball of yarn glowed momentarily, then the two vanished.

Unseen, a BMW slowly pulled away from the curb.

-0-

Harry had worn a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and a sweat shirt with a hood that hung down to cover his scar. Ever since Vernon had told him about You-Know-Who killing his parents and trying to kill him as well, he had felt a bit exposed with his scar in plain sight. McGonagall hurried him through the pub in London and out the back door. Here, Harry got his first real brush with magic when the brick wall began to move, forming an archway.

"That was wicked!" he exclaimed, looking back at the archway as they passed through. "What spell was that?"

McGonagall fastened her cloak as they walked out onto a brightly-colored marketplace where vendors were hawking wares—and, in the case of one stately witch—wearing a hawk atop her hat. "It was an enchantment," she explained. "The wall is charmed to open when the correct brick is touched."

He nodded, then remembered something. "Professor McGonagall, I have to ask, what kind of alcohol do you people have?" She glanced sharply at him. "For my uncle," he explained. "He wanted to know if 'we oddballs had mastered the art of distillation yet or if we were still drinking beer the consistency of porridge.'"

"I can see why you'd want to buy him a present," McGonagall said dryly. "He's the very picture of a good father."

"I think he does okay for himself," Harry said, petulantly folding his arms. He changed the subject again. "How am I to pay for my school things?"

The professor felt she had somehow offended the boy, but she ushered him toward Gringotts, explaining how a trust vault worked. He asked careful questions and by the time he was back on Diagon Alley, coins in hand, he was aware of how Voldemort had killed his parents and that the same method had not worked on him. During this explanation, McGonagall had accidentally used the phrase "when you defeat him" and quickly covered up with a laugh and a nonsensical explanation. Harry stored this away for later.

As they went from store to store, McGonagall pointed out things here and there that Harry would not have been used to—such as the wizard waving a wand and levitating a stack of books into a bag for a customer at Flourish and Blotts and the kindly man at Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor who handed him an ice cream cone that sparkled like a diamond and didn't melt. They purchased robes and potions ingredients and a cauldron, moving from store to store until Harry felt like he was about to explode. He was beginning to understand Vernon's dislike of the chore.

As he waited outside Ollivander's wand shop behind ten other students with their parents, he began to leaf through "The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts." He scanned the table of contents and located a chapter with the title "Defeat of You-Know-Who." It was fairly brief, only fifteen pages, and he had enough time to finish it (with two students to spare), occasionally taking an absent-minded step forward when McGonagall would clear her throat.

"So," he said slowly, his first word since McGonagall had criticized Vernon earlier. "You people think I'm your savior."

McGonagall sputtered. "What?"

"Your little slip-up earlier," he said, sliding the book into his trunk, which was floating between McGonagall and him. "But we won't have to worry about that when you defeat him." He stepped forward in line. "These people think I have some sort of special anti-Voldemort (three people around him flinched) power. I'll let you know that there's only one thing that would have protected me. My mother died in the bedroom where I was killed. I don't know much about magic, but I'd reckon she had something to do with it."

"Mr. Potter?" Ollivander called out from inside the store.

"Do me a favor," he said curtly. "Remove the "Introduction to a Magical Existence" book from my trunk and shrink the rest, please." He strode into the shop and shut the door firmly behind him. He turned to face the shop owner and gave his best no-nonsense face. "Hello, Mr. Ollivander. I've heard the tripe you've been spewing at these students. I'm not as easily impressed. Find my wand in three tries and I'll acknowledge your talent."

The man sputtered, huffed, and hurried into a back room. When he returned, he presented the wand. "Eleven inches, holly, phoenix tail feather. Give it a wave."'

Harry picked it up, waved it about, and sent a shower of bright sparks streaming around the room, where they bounced from wall to wall before disappearing. Harry shook his head. "It's the right wand. I am impressed. How much?"

He exited the shop just as McGonagall was shrinking his trunk. She looked up in shock. He slid the wand box into his pocket, took his book, put the trunk in his other pocket and glanced up at her. "Back home now, please?" he said.

"You have your wand?" She said, disbelieving.

He rolled his eyes. This woman was beginning to annoy him. "No, I was just chatting him up. Old friend, you know?"

"You're not a very pleasant individual, Mr. Potter," she ground out.

"We all have our problems," he replied curtly. McGonagall's lips tightened, but she took his arm and Disapparated.

-0-

"The-Boy-Who-Lived," Vernon slurred. "Well, how about that. And you think your mother had something to do with that?"

"Think about it," Harry said. "I was a baby. How would I have cast a spell or anything like that? And to block a curse that can't be blocked? That would probably take years to learn. But my mother was in the room..."

Vernon grunted. "Seems as safe an assessment as any. No harm in investigating."

"This book is actually quite helpful," Harry said, looking up from the book splayed in his lap. "All these old traditions, magical transportation, the House system at Hogwarts, all these pureblood families..."

"Pureblood?" Vernon asked.

"McGonagall might have called them 'inbred idiots' but I pretended to not hear her."

"I studied European History in college before I started studying business management," Vernon said. "They don't run on a feudal system, do they?"

Harry flipped a few pages. "No, their government is very similar to ours."

Vernon took a sip of his drink. "Inbred. And you said something about purebloods?"

"Yes. There's a list of old family names and influential people who are alive now."

"It's probably people who use their lineage to claim superiority, and they're respected because of it." Vernon paused, out of breath momentarily, then recovered. "Probably have old money. Rich. Possibly corrupt, but most likely rich."

"Okay..." Harry said slowly.

"You're alone in their world, Harry. I can't help you and you know no one except for this Professor McGonagall, who sounds like a fool anyway. I'd advise you to steer clear of her. My suggestion to you is to get in good with these rich sorts. They can help you in many ways."

"This book is revised annually," Harry told Vernon. "Turns out McGonagall is the head of Gryffindor House. So, that's out. This Sorting Hat rubbish..." Vernon winced, having been subjected to entirely too much magical vernacular in such a short period of time. "I suspect I'll let it try to sort me, and if it tries to put me in Gryffindor, I'll refuse. Imagine having to deal with her all the time."

Vernon chuckled. "Are there House rivals?" he asked.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff are supposed to be rivals, and Gryffindor and Slytherin have a very heavy rivalry." Harry scanned the page with his finger. "It's said that Gryffindors are brave and Slytherins are cunning."

"Bravery's sometimes a word for foolhardiness," Vernon said sagely. "Cunning just means you're willing to use whatever tools you have to achieve what you want. Imagine if you were to end up in Slytherin House. That would really rankle McGonagall, I suspect." He finished the last gulp of the firewhisky that McGonagall had hesitantly consented to buy for Vernon.

They found that when it was mixed with cola, it glowed bright purple. So far, there were no adverse effects. This was good, because Vernon was planning to purchase a crate as soon as he could find an order form.

"So you have a trust fund set up for you," Vernon said slowly.

Harry nodded. "Yes, but it's set up for my school tuition."

"I was just surprised that you told me," Vernon admitted. He expelled purple smoke from his mouth, startling him rather badly. After he'd recovered, he turned shakily to Harry. "I just thought perhaps you were concerned that I would try to take it."

Harry regarded Vernon solemnly. "I trust you. I didn't always trust you, but I have ever since we started spending time together. Aunt Petunia doesn't snap at me anymore, I don't have to do all of the chores, and Dudley stopped picking on me at school. I get enough food, enough sleep, and I have my own room. Why would I hide anything from you?" He glared at the book in his lap. "McGonagall sort of made fun of you today, 'he's the very picture of a good father,' she said."

"I told you she sounded like a fool, Harry," Vernon replied, smirking. Harry set another glass of firewhisky and coke in front of him. "I spend time with my family, and I spend time with you. Perhaps I drink a bit more frequently than I should, and perhaps I didn't always treat you fairly, but can you really blame me? Your father was horrible to me."

Harry shrugged. "I could. I never knew my father."

Vernon grunted. "Why do we have to have talks like this when I'm drunk?" he grumbled.

"Because when you're sober only 'pass the butter, boy' or 'go to your room, we're having company over' are appropriate ways to address me," Harry said, grinning.

"I suppose that adds an element of difficulty to the situation."

"I think you're a great dad," Harry asserted, turning his attention back to the telly. "And not too bad of an uncle. We keep each other's secrets. I thought if I told you about the money, it would be safe with you."

"I suppose there's an element of trust on my end, too. You could have emptied a bottle of bleach into my second or third drink and I'd have never known the difference."

"Unlikely," Harry deadpanned. "An entire bottle of bleach wouldn't fit in a glass."

Vernon glared at him for a moment. "You know what I mean."

"Remember how you guys were just pretending I was homicidal?" Harry queried.

"Yeah..." Vernon paused. "Sorry about that."

"No problem. It was kind of fun. Everyone was scared of me for a while."

Another pregnant pause. Vernon idly swirled his drink in his glass, contemplating an answer that wouldn't make him look like more of an ass. He finally decided it wasn't coming. "So, September 1st, hmm?"

"That's the day."

"Platform 9 ¾ at Kings Cross Station?"

"Yep."

Vernon sighed. "I've been to Kings Cross. What do you do, run into the barrier between 9 and 10?"

"Yes, actually." Harry grinned.

"What? I've leaned against that barrier before. It's solid!"

"They open it magically. I suspect it's enchanted," he supplied, trying out the new word. "Only opens three times a year, on September 1st, then again in December when students go home for the winter holidays, and in June, when school lets out for the summer."

Vernon lifted the bottle of firewhisky again and prepared to pour some more. "I suppose that makes sense," he said.

"Do you ever think about not drinking some evenings?" Harry asked, eyeing the bottle distastefully.

"Yes, but generally after I'm already drunk enough to not remember it the next day."

"You might think about skipping every other evening," Harry told him. "McGonagall says it's bad for you to drink so often."

"McGonagall likes to talk a lot, doesn't she?" Vernon asked rhetorically.

"I can make ice cream sundaes, root beer floats, I can cook a variety of cookies..."

"You're on this hard, aren't you?" Vernon grumbled.

"I just want you to be around for a while," Harry said, his lip quivering.

Vernon was strangely moved. He swallowed a lump in his throat. "I'll be around, boy."

"Can I owl you?"

Vernon paled. "I—ah..."

"I read that Hogwarts has owls that are trained to use mailboxes if they have to," Harry said.

"And I don't have to see it?"

"You'd have to give it your response if you were writing back," Harry said.

"Seems a lot of trouble," Vernon said. "Why not just phone?"

"Aunt Petunia," Harry said impatiently.

"Ah." Vernon rose to his feet unsteadily and pointed the remote at the TV. It clicked off. "Yes, you may owl me. But keep it discreet."

"Really?" Harry asked.

"You sound like a little kid, brat."

Harry harrumphed. "I'm eleven," he said. "Can't I have a little fun?"

"Boy, you are going into a world where you know no one. Remember? You could be in potential danger. Try to see things from that viewpoint, keep your head on straight, study hard, don't take any shite from anyone, and try to find an extracurricular activity so you'll have a way to unwind. Don't let your guard down, but if someone seems trustworthy, you can make friends. Just don't be hasty in judging anyone, because to be honest—it could come back to bite you later."

"You've given me a lot to digest."

Vernon chuckled. Harry had learned that term from him the previous night and it was the third time he'd used it since then. "Just be smart," Vernon said. "You can make friends, just don't choose the wrong people. You don't need me. Besides, Dudley is going to Smeltings and I need to be around to support him. I'm here when you want to talk, but give me some time with the rest of my family, alright?"

"I understand," Harry said. "You want me to try to figure stuff out on my own before I talk to you."

"I'm tossing you in the deep end of the pool to teach you to swim," Vernon supplied.

"That's a really morbid expression," Harry said.

"I know, isn't it funny?"

"Good night, Uncle Vernon." They met at the bottom of the staircase and both hesitated, then Harry grinned sheepishly. "Excuse me."

Vernon moved and Harry slipped past him. "Good night."

Harry entered his room as Petunia exited the bathroom, so he was safe. However, Vernon was red-eyed, smelled of alcohol, and was currently leaning on the bannister, vomiting out dense clouds of purple smoke. Her screeches woke up most of the neighbors and they ended up explaining the story to a police officer who had arrived due to a noise complaint.

It turned out that Petunia was familiar with that particular effect of firewhisky, and demanded to know where he'd gotten it from. He said it had been in Lily's things, in the attic, and Petunia had queried as to why he had been drinking at eleven at night. His lack of a sufficient answer had him confined to the couch for a month, and his liquor was confiscated.

Consequently, Harry found himself making a lot of root beer floats and ice cream sundaes until the last day of August.