Chapter 3

July 31st, 1991

As James apparated to the Dursleys' house, a cold chill ran down his spine. The familiar surroundings did little to ease the weight of guilt that had been bearing down on him for years. He had made a grave mistake in leaving Harry here, a mistake that he could never take back. He had been so sure that Charlus had sapped every ounce of magic from Harry, that there was no need to take the boy away from the muggle world. But how wrong he had been.

James' mind was a blur of regret and self-loathing. How could he have been so foolish, so careless with the life of his own son? The thought of Harry living in this cramped, neglected house made him sick to his stomach. It was a far cry from the life that he had imagined for his child, the one that he had dreamed of since the day Harry was born.

As he approached the familiar home, James couldn't help but notice that it looked different. It was as if nobody had been there in years. The windows were covered in a thick layer of dust and the garden was overgrown with weeds. Even the air around the house felt heavy and desolate.

James knocked on the door, but there was no answer. He waited for a few minutes, hoping that someone would come to the door. When nobody appeared, he tried the handle, but it was locked. James hesitated for a moment before casting the unlocking spell, alohomora, and stepping inside.

The inside of the house was worse than the outside. Dust covered every surface, and the air was thick with the musty smell of disuse. James couldn't help but wonder where the Dursleys had gone, and why they had left the house in such a state. The furniture was still there, but it looked as if it had been untouched for years.

As he explored the empty house, James couldn't help but feel a sense of sadness. He found Harry's cupboard under the stairs, a cramped and miserable space that the boy had been forced to live in for years. But what caught his attention were the drawings on the walls. They were crude, but the emotions they conveyed were clear. Harry had drawn himself as part of a happy family, of being rescued, and finally, of exacting revenge on the Dursleys, their eyes crossed out.

James felt his heart sink as he looked at the drawings. He knew how much Harry had suffered at the hands of the Dursleys, but he had never realized just how much. He felt a sense of regret for leaving the boy here, but he also knew that he had to find Harry now and make things right.

It was then that James finally read the letter that had been burning a hole in his pocket. It was a letter from Hogwarts, addressed to Harry Potter, but it didn't say Privet Drive as the address. Instead, it read "Room 3, The Leaky Cauldron."

James was shocked. How had Harry ended up in the Leaky Cauldron? He didn't know, but he knew he had to find out. With a feeling of optimism, James apparated to the famous wizarding inn, hoping to finally meet his long-lost son and make things right.

July 31st, 1991

Harry's eleventh birthday was a day that would be etched in his memory forever. For the first time in his life, he had woken up on his birthday to a world that wasn't entirely bleak. His stomach was full of a hearty breakfast, a rare treat for a boy used to scraps, and his heart was full of the knowledge that he was finally free from the clutches of the Dursleys and had been for a year now.

As he practiced his magic, he felt the raw power that he had never known he possessed. Every flick of his wand was sharper, every incantation clearer. His control had improved immensely in the past year, and he was starting to feel like he could do anything he set his mind to.

After washing up, he looked at himself in the mirror and was surprised by what he saw. The gaunt, malnourished figure that he had been for the past ten years was gone. In its place was a sleek, handsome young man, with sharp features and an aristocratic air about him. His hair had grown out and framed his face in a way that he found surprisingly flattering. Despite the lingering shadows under his eyes, he felt genuinely happy with the way he looked for the first time in his life.

But it wasn't just his physical appearance that had changed. His magic had grown too, and he felt more powerful than he had ever been before. He knew that he still had a long way to go before he could truly call himself a great wizard, but for the first time in his life, he felt like he was on the right path.

As he was lost in his thoughts, a knock at the door pulled him back to reality. Who could be visiting him on this special day? Harry wondered as he made his way to the door, his robes fitting him perfectly and framing him in a way that made him feel confident and strong. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see a man standing there, someone he had only seen pictures of, someone he most definitely was not expecting.

The man's face lit up in recognition as he saw Harry.

July 31st, 1991

Harry sat across from his father at Fortescue's Ice cream parlour, his emotions swirling inside of him like a storm. He had just learned the truth about his past, and his father's role in it, and he didn't know how to feel.

He looked at James with a mixture of anger, hurt, and betrayal. He wanted to lash out, to scream at him for leaving him with the Dursleys, for allowing him to be abused and mistreated for so long. But he held his tongue, listening to James explain the reasons for his actions.

"How did you end up at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry?" he asked gently.

Harry tensed at the question. He didn't want to relive the pain of his past, but he also knew that he couldn't keep everything bottled up forever. After a moment of hesitation, he decided to speak the truth.

"I ran away," he said simply, his voice tight with emotion.

James looked at him in disbelief. "You ran away? From the Dursleys?"

Harry nodded, and the emotions he had been trying to hold back began to spill out. "I couldn't take it anymore, Dad. The beatings, the starvation, the constant fear. I was just a child, and they treated me like an animal. I had to get away."

James' face fell as Harry lifted his shirt to reveal the scars crisscrossing his back. His eyes widened in horror at the evidence of his son's suffering.

"I had no idea," he whispered, his voice choked with emotion. "I knew they weren't kind to you, but I never imagined they were capable of this."

Harry looked down, his eyes stinging with tears. He didn't know how to react to his father's sudden shift in demeanour. He had been so angry just a few moments ago, but now he felt...what? Pity? Sympathy? He wasn't sure.

James took a deep breath and reached across the table to take Harry's hand. "I'm so sorry, Harry. I should have protected you. I should have been there for you. I promise you; I will do everything in my power to make it up to you."

Harry looked up at him, his eyes searching James' face for any hint of insincerity. He saw only remorse and regret.

After a moment, Harry nodded. He wasn't ready to forgive James yet, but he was willing to give him a chance. "Okay," he said softly.

James smiled weakly and handed Harry a small pouch. "This should help you out. It's connected to the main Potter vaults, so you'll never have to worry about money again."

Harry's eyes widened as he looked at the pouch. He knew this gave him so many new options that he simply did not have before living on the handout his mysterious benefactor had gifted him.

"How did you afford to live here for a year, Harry?" James asked, curious.

Harry was evasive, he didn't want his father to know about his mysterious benefactor, the one he had communicated with almost daily since retrieving the book. Finally, he decided to tell his father that he had stolen money from the Dursleys before he left.

James nodded, but Harry could see the sadness in his eyes. He knew that James wished he had been there to provide for him, to protect him, to be a father to him.

After a few more minutes of awkward conversation, Harry stood up, ready to leave.

"Thanks for the money, and the ice-cream" he said, still unsure of how to interact with James. James gave a half-hearted chuckle and then stood up as well, his eyes filled with emotion. "Be safe, Harry. And have fun at Hogwarts. I'll see you before you leave for school."

Harry nodded and turned to leave, but then stopped and looked back at his father. "Hey, Dad?" he said tentatively, as if testing the word out on his tongue.

James turned to him; his eyebrows raised in question.

"I'm...glad we talked," Harry said softly.

James smiled, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "Me too, Harry. Me too."

July 31st, 1991

Harry made his way through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, the air thick with the scent of magical goods and the sound of haggling merchants. He couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and excitement as he passed by other students from Hogwarts, all eager to get their hands on the necessary supplies for the new school year.

He paused in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, watching as a group of Gryffindors debated the merits of different broomsticks, their robes billowing in the breeze. Harry wondered if he would enjoy Quidditch, but he pushed it aside, determined to focus on the task at hand.

He had already retrieved most of his supplies, next on his list was his wand. Harry had been making do with his second-hand wand for too long, and he was eager to find the one that truly belonged to him. He quickened his pace as he made his way down the crowded street, eager to see the familiar sign of Ollivanders.

As he turned the corner, he was met with the sight of the iconic wand shop. The exterior was made of dark, polished wood, the golden letters of the sign gleaming in the sunlight. The shopfront was flanked by two grand windows, displaying an array of wands in all shapes and sizes.

Harry stepped inside, the familiar smell of aged wood and magic filling his nostrils. The shop was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the small windows and the gentle glow of wand boxes. Shelves upon shelves of wands lined the walls, each box bearing a name and a description of the wand within.

He was greeted by Mr. Ollivander himself, his piercing blue eyes sizing Harry up as he approached. "Mr. Potter," he said, his voice carrying a sense of familiarity that made Harry feel both welcomed and uneasy at the same time.

Harry looked around at the endless rows of wands, his heart racing with anticipation. This was it - the moment he would finally find the wand that was meant for him. He took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves.

As he followed Ollivander deeper into the shop, Harry's eyes flicked to the other customers. There was a group of Slytherins, whispering conspiratorially over a set of long, black wands, and a pair of Ravenclaws poring over the details of a particularly delicate-looking wand.

Harry Potter had been here for what felt like hours. He had tried wand after wand, but none seemed to be the right fit. Some were too short, others too long, some too heavy, others too light. And as he tried them, he could feel their magic pulse through him, but never quite take hold.

He had been through every box in the shop, every wand that was made, and still he had not found the one.

Mr. Ollivander, the aged wandmaker, watched him carefully from behind the counter, his pale eyes darting back and forth as he examined Harry.

"Perhaps this one?" he said, handing Harry a slender wand made of holly. "Eleven inches, reasonably springy, with a phoenix feather core."

Harry gave the wand a wave, but it only produced a few weak sparks.

"No, not quite," Mr. Ollivander muttered, snatching the wand back. "Perhaps this one."

He handed Harry another wand, made of oak and unicorn hair. Harry tried it, but it felt too stiff, too heavy.

And so, it went on, wand after wand, until finally, Mr. Ollivander seemed to have an idea.

"Ah, I think I know what you need," he said, scurrying into the back of the shop.

He returned with a box, covered in dust and cobwebs, and opened it to reveal a wand of bright white yew, 13 ΒΌ inches in length, unyielding in its flexibility with a dragon heartstring core.

Harry took it in his hand and immediately felt the power coursing through it. It was a perfect fit, the wand seemed to mould itself to Harry's grip.

A bright light engulfed the shop, and Mr. Ollivander beamed.

"Ah, yes, I knew that one would be the one," he said, clapping his hands together. "A wand of yew, a very powerful and rare wood. And with a dragon heartstring core, no less! Very curious indeed."

Harry could feel the connection between himself and his wand. It was as if he had been reunited with an old friend.

As Harry was leaving Ollivander's wand shop, the old man called out to him in a mysterious voice.

"Remember, Mr. Potter," he said, "the wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around. And sometimes, a wand has a way of finding its way to its true owner."

Harry turned back to look at Ollivander, who was now standing in the doorway of his shop. The old man's eyes seemed to be searching Harry's face, as if he was looking for something.

"Is there something you're not telling me, sir?" Harry asked.

Ollivander smiled enigmatically. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not. It is not for me to say. But I have a feeling, Mr. Potter, that we will be seeing each other again very soon."

With that, Ollivander turned and disappeared back into his shop, leaving Harry standing in the street, wondering what the old wand-maker could possibly have meant.

He made his way down Diagon Alley, stopping once he spotted his next destination.

Harry entered Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, the bell above the door chiming softly as he did. The shop was bustling with activity, the sound of rustling fabric filling the air. Harry glanced around, taking in the rows upon rows of robes, cloaks, and other wizarding clothing that adorned the shelves.

As he approached the counter, he noticed a young boy with blonde hair standing next to him. The boy looked to be around his own age, with a sneer etched on his face as he examined his own set of robes.

"Hello," Harry greeted him, extending a hand. "I'm Harry Potter."

Draco looked at Harry's outstretched hand with distaste but shook it reluctantly. "Draco Malfoy," he said, his tone clipped.

Harry recognized the name Malfoy, a name he had heard a few times during his brief time in the wizarding world. He knew from his books that the Malfoys had supported the Dark lord during the Wizarding War that his brother had apparently ended.

As they stood waiting to be fitted for their robes, Harry struck up a conversation with Draco. He spoke in a friendly tone, asking him about Hogwarts and the classes he was excited to take.

Draco responded coolly, but Harry's practiced charm and the etiquette he had learned from his books and his mysterious benefactor kept the conversation from turning sour. They discussed their future houses, with Draco boasting about his family's history in Slytherin, and Harry responding that he was simply excited to be attending the school at all.

As they were measured for their robes, Harry was pleased to note that he had managed to leave a good impression on the boy. When they parted ways, Draco even gave him a nod of acknowledgement.

Harry left the shop with a sense of satisfaction, proud of himself for being able to navigate the social intricacies of the wizarding world. As he walked down the street, he could not help but feel a sense of relief that he was making connections with his peers. For the first time, he felt like he might be able to fit in somewhere.

As Harry made his way through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley, he could feel his heart racing with excitement, he could now explore a shop he had been waiting to explore all year. He had been fascinated by the art of duelling and now, with his newfound wealth and confidence, he was determined to explore this passion further.

He approached the shop, which was set apart from the others in a quieter corner of the alley. The sign above the door read 'Gallant's Duelling Supplies' and featured an image of two crossed wands, sparks flying between them.

As he stepped inside, he was immediately hit with the smell of polished wood and leather. The shelves were lined with all manner of wands, from sleek and elegant to thick and imposing, each one seemingly waiting to be wielded in a fierce and noble battle.

A gruff-looking man with a thick beard approached him. "Can I help you with something?" he asked, his tone brusque.

"Yes," replied Harry, trying to sound confident. "I want to learn about duelling and purchase some equipment."

The man looked him up and down, sizing him up. "Alright then, let's get started."

For the next hour, Harry was guided through the art of duelling. The man, whose name was Gallant, demonstrated different techniques and spells, showing Harry how to deflect curses and attack with precision. Harry took it all in, fascinated by the intricacies of the craft. He wasn't able to cast due to his age, but just knowing the techniques and practicing the motions had made him feel powerful.

Finally, as the lesson drew to a close, Harry decided to purchase some equipment. He chose a book on duelling etiquette, wanting to make sure he approached the practice with the utmost respect and decorum. He also purchased a set of duelling robes, gloves and boots, each item made from the finest materials and tailored to fit him perfectly. He even picked out a wand holster, feeling a rush of excitement at the thought of carrying his wand with him at all times.

As he left the shop, Harry knew that unless he wanted to drop his wand in the middle of a fight like an idiot, he would need to practice with the holster. He was resigned to a lot of time spend simply flicking his wand into his hand.

September 1st, 1991

Harry stood inside his room at the cauldron, waiting for his father to arrive. It was September 1st, the day he had been looking forward to since he had received his Hogwarts letter. He had been exchanging letters with his father, trying to bridge the gap between them, and it seemed like they were making progress. But he still hadn't met his twin brother, and his father had made an effort to keep them apart.

As he packed up his belongings, he felt a twinge of sadness at leaving the cauldron. It had been his home for the past few months, and he had grown to love the people and the atmosphere. But he knew he had to move on to Hogwarts, to start his education in magic.

He headed downstairs, and sat at a table for breakfast, Tom came over spotting Harry. Harry had felt bad for months that he had lied about his identity to Tom and decided to reveal his true identity to him and apologise for lying to him. Tom laughed and said he had figured it out almost immediately after spotting Harry - after all, he was the spitting image of his brother. They shared a chuckle and shook hands, promising to exchange letters occasionally while Harry was at Hogwarts.

As Harry waited, he couldn't help but feel nervous about meeting his twin brother. What if they didn't get along? What if they didn't have anything in common? But he tried to push those thoughts aside, focusing instead on the excitement of finally going to Hogwarts.

And then, finally, his father arrived. They loaded up the trunk and apparated out of the cauldron and into the train station.

They appeared just outside of Kings Cross station and made their way in, The crowds grew denser as they made their way through the station, his trunks rolling along behind him.

Harry's father led the way, confidently striding towards the barrier between platforms 9 and 10. Harry followed, heart racing, wondering if this was all some elaborate prank, if he would crash headlong into the solid wall and be revealed as a fraud. But as they drew nearer, Harry saw something strange happen. The wall appeared to ripple and blur, and then, without warning, his father walked straight through it, pulling his trunk behind him.

Heart racing, Harry took a deep breath and followed, closing his eyes and steeling himself for impact. But instead of crashing into the wall, he felt a strange sensation of being pulled and twisted, as if he were being squeezed through a tight space. And then, all at once, he was through.

The platform on the other side was just as crowded, but somehow different. The air was charged with excitement, the kind of excitement that only comes with the promise of new beginnings and great adventures. Harry looked around in wonder, taking in the sights and sounds of this magical world. Steam hissed from the engine of the Hogwarts Express, sending tendrils of mist swirling around the platform.

He took note of the train itself. The Hogwarts Express was a magnificent red steam locomotive, belched smoke and steam as it sat on the tracks, waiting to embark on its annual journey to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The engine was a formidable sight, with its massive smokestack, its gleaming brass and copper fittings, and its wheels that were taller than a man.

His father clasped him on the shoulder, smiling warmly at him.

"Enjoy Hogwarts," He said with genuine joy, "Write often!" he added, smiling as he said it.

Harry promised him he would, looking at the midnight black owl his father had surprised him with, feeling genuine optimism.

"Oh, and your brother is already here! I dropped him off early, you'll find him on the train. Don't get into too much trouble!" Despite the cheery tone, Harry could see the hurt in James' eyes as he said those words, as if he knew Harry couldn't enjoy Hogwarts in the same way he had as a youth.

Harry made his way toward the train; he stepped up off the platform and took his first step aboard the Hogwarts express.

A/N Managed to get another chapter out for you, what can I say I was on a roll tonight:)