Under a rickety roof of a rock built hut, a young orphan and his intolerable relatives face the storm.
The orphan, Harry Potter, is celebrating his eleventh birthday. In the dust before the mattress on the floor, he draws himself a makeshift cake. He knows that nothing magical will happen in his life this year, nothing ever has before, but he still squints his eyes shut and makes a wish to somehow escape his mundane existence and go somewhere…magical.
Harry knows he is different, that he has abilities that far exceed that which modern medicine can explain. He says he can fly a little, his hair can change lengths and he grows quickly out of all his cousin's hand-me-down clothes. Some might call it magic, others— puberty. Is there a place for him where these answers bear no great importance?
Harry blows out the dust candles of his cake.
"Happy birthday to me," he says. "Only four more years before the law sees me as a viable taxpayer."
Perhaps that's the only recognition he will get in his life.
Suddenly the front door flies open, letting in the first notes of a raging storm. A man as tall and wide as the spread of democracy enters the room. He introduces himself as Rubeus Hagrid and he looks for a Harry Potter to pass on an important message.
The insufferable relatives are all roused into wakefulness now and come to meet their unlikely guest; Harry stays put, hiding behind the sofa and barely breathing in the scent he hasn't yet decided is freedom or the pheromones of a new foe whose wrath is far worse than the Dursleys'.
Hagrid sees Dudley, Harry's incompetent cousin, and looks ready to reveal his secret message to anything that breathes in his general direction. Dudley is still alive but has clearly wet himself from fear. Harry jumps in with an 'I'm Harry Potter!' thinking no secret is going to make his life any worse than it is now, so might as well.
The giant looks at him with paternal kindness but the gun in his belt holster speaks business. He kneels down and pats Harry's shoulders and asks him where his bags are.
They're leaving tonight.
Harry is confused, he's never been told that he's getting evicted.
Hagrid is baffled. Apparently, he had not come here to pass on any novel information and possesses neither the subtility nor class to turn the situation around without causing an uproar.
Hagrid is batshit furious. He's not the messenger- he's just Albus Dumbledore's fucking chauffeur — paid to keep his eyes on the skies and his hands off the burgundy. But Harry looks at him so pitifully that it rouses Hagrid to reveal the message anyways.
"Harry Potter, you're a tycoon."
Harry is startled, but Hagrid explains that there's nothing to worry about. His parents were both the best tycoons in all of the world. Harry is going to receive his education at Hogwarts the school of business and administration, the best establishment for young tycoons.
"There must be a mistake. I don't have an eye for business-"
Uncle Vernon jumps in with a "we'll not be spending our tax dollars on formal education for the orphan. And your Dumbledore must be bad at investments.'
Hagrid believes in Dumbledore's vision so clearly that he's ready to pull the trigger right at Vernon's pudgy face and smear his brains across the walls. "Never fucking insult Albus Dumbledore," he says menacingly.
Hagrid's lack of follow-through makes it clear that he will not be using his weapon. But Hagrid can't leave the house without some retribution. He takes Vernon's wallet and internal passport and makes Harry get on his motorcycle. He later rationalises his actions what an "I shouldn't have done that". Quite frankly, Harry doesn't care. This is the best damn thing that's ever happened to him.
-xxx-
Harry gets a chance to read through a list of required materials for his schooling.
"An imported italian tailored suit, a pair of sunglasses and a briefcase. Wherever am I to get these things."
Hagrid snorts. "Why in Diagon Alley, of course."
The giant taps a password against a brick-and-mortar wall and it opens to reveal a street full of counterfeit products that Harry had never seen in his life.
-xxx-
"Ever heard of Low Interest, High Return Stocks?"
The boy with blond hair at the atelier asks Harry. Harry shakes his head. "No."
"Do you have a retirement fund?"
Harry does not.
"Do you even know what credit is?"
Harry figures he has no specific knowledge to continue this conversation and decides to keep his silence, in fear of looking a fool. When the blond boy and his equally blond father leave the shop with three pressed suits, four button-downs and a pair of trousers, Harry releases a sigh of relief. He hopes he'll never have to speak to that boy ever again.
-xxx-
Harry's never boarded a private jet before. He rushes through the airport, ticket in hand and garment bag of clothes in the other. Hogwarts, here he fucking comes.
A/N: A late submission for Evil Author Day 2023. Mlidly eddited, incomplete...Enjoy mwahaha😈
Rated T for mild profanity
I'm not entirely sure if it is the case that 15 is the age some young people pay taxes in UK. According to Google...Please correct me if I'm wrong!