Chapter 13: Summer 1992
For the first time in his life, Harry found himself grounded. The moment he stepped off the Hogwarts Express, his father confiscated both his and John's wands, their brooms, and in Harry's case, a vast majority of his books. They weren't permitted to leave Potter Manor to visit their friends, nor were their friends allowed to visit them. Instead, Harry and his brother spent the remainder of June and several weeks of July completing their summer homework. When that was completed, they assisted Acorn in cleaning the entirety of their home. The punishment probably would have gone on for the entire summer had the house-elf not complained vehemently about Harry and John getting in her way.
Even after their lockdown had been lifted, Harry spent an inordinate amount of time reading in the Manor's library. Some time was spent taking notes for Grace and studying the Animagus transformation, while many hours were dedicated to reading healing books Madam Pomfrey had mentioned. But the books that he spent the most time with were not for his special interests, but future years at Hogwarts.
On his first day of freedom, Harry gained permission to visit Flint Manor, where, after several hours of flying with the Slytherin Quidditch team, Harry was gifted Marcus' old school books. Marcus, who had plans to fly for England, had little use for his old books and notes and gladly donated them to Harry. Whenever Harry wasn't flying or visiting Cedric (and, by extension, Ginny Weasley), he was slowly teaching himself the Fourth Year curriculum. His father was more than happy to answer any Transfiguration questions he had, and Uncle Remus, who had tutored him as a child, was always helpful with Charms and Defence Against the Dark Arts. They were pleased with Harry's dedication to his studies and left him to his own devices. His father had even returned his wand so that he could practice what he was learning (with supervision, of course).
Only Uncle Sirius seemed to take issue with it. Whenever he visited, he did everything in his power to pry Harry out of the library and take a break.
"You do know that you won't sit for your O.W.L.s for two more years, don't you?" Uncle Sirius asked after trying (and failing) to cajole Harry into a game of wizard chess.
"I need to be ready," Harry murmured.
He acknowledged that part of his newfound drive was primarily due to what had happened at the end of the spring term. The terror and helplessness that plagued him as he faced Voldemort were still palpable weeks later, sitting at home. But how could he explain it to Uncle Sirius? Doing so would force him to recount the conversation with Voldemort, which was about something Harry had been actively repressing for ten years ago.
"For Fourth Year?" Uncle Sirius asked incredulously. "Harry, that's what your professors are for. It's their job to teach you this stuff."
Harry shrugged. "I want to learn it now."
His reply seemed logical at the time, though Uncle Sirius apparently disagreed. Harry overheard him complaining to his father about it several days later. They had holed themselves up in Mr Potter's office to talk about what Harry could only assume was boring adult things, and Harry had wanted to ask his father for help regarding the Animagus transformation. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, but when he heard his name, he paused, lingering outside the door.
"James, you need to talk to Harry," Uncle Sirius said. "This constant reading is bizarre."
"He's always been studious," his father pointed out.
Harry could imagine Uncle Sirius shaking his head. "I caught him performing a Disillusionment Charm. Silently. At fourteen."
"That's an N.E.W.T. spell," his father replied, impressed.
"I'm not saying Harry's not brilliant because he is. But, James, I think something's wrong. He's not learning this out mere of curiosity. He had this look in his eyes the other day… " he trailed off as he gathered his thoughts. "He looked like he was a soldier, preparing for war."
Harry was unsurprised when his father called him into his study that night. Once upon a time, his father would have scooped Harry up into his lap and cuddled him in his desk chair. But at almost fourteen, Harry was much too big for such treatment. Instead, his father waved him over to the loveseat next to the fireplace and tossed an arm around his shoulder. His father, ever the bold Gryffindor, didn't dance around the topic.
"As a parent, I know I shouldn't discourage you from studying," he began. He carded his fingers through Harry's hair, and Harry found himself relaxing into his father's side. "But Sirius did make some good points today, don't you think?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Bullshit," his father said with a laugh. "If you're going to eavesdrop, at least check for perimeter charms."
Harry blushed but didn't reply.
His father continued to play with his hair. "I'm not angry, Harry. But I am concerned. How many of the textbooks have you gotten through?"
"I've finished Fourth Year Charms and most of Defence through Fifth Year," he admitted. "Transfiguration has been harder to find the necessary materials—I've only just finished the first half of Fourth Year."
"And the rest of your courses?"
"Madam Pomfrey has already taught me Fourth Year Potions," Harry explained. "The other classes didn't seem relevant."
"Relevant for what, exactly?"
Harry bit his lip and pulled away from his father's embrace. It would be so easy to tell his father about what had happened with Quirrell. So why couldn't he open his mouth? Why couldn't he repeat what Quirrell—what Voldemort—had said?
Harry had never told anyone about what happened the night Voldemort tried to murder his family. Not the Aurors who questioned him, nor the mind healers who wanted to talk. Not even his father. Eventually, people assumed that he had been too young at the time, or perhaps he had repressed the traumatic memory, and they stopped asking him about that night.
But Harry remembered. He'd always remembered, even before his confrontation with Voldemort. Even before his second year, when Terrence Higgs and Atticus Nettles sent him that Boggart. He never forgot about what happened, no matter how hard he tried. His memories of his mother's body falling, of Voldemort's cruel face, of the flash of the Killing Curse, were just as vivid as the night they happened.
"How did I get my scar?"
He had never told a soul about how he got the scar on his forehead, either, though everyone had their theories: a falling piece of masonry as the nursery crumbled around him; a fall from his bed during the attack; or perhaps even a protective rune his mother had carved into his flesh during the last moments of her life. Harry neither confirmed nor denied their assumptions. After all, why would they think that it was from the curse Voldemort aimed at him? The Killing Curse never left a mark.
If his father was confused by the non-sequitur, he didn't show it. He reached over and brushed away Harry's fringe, exposing the twisted, jagged wound that had never quite healed. "I don't know," his father admitted. "I've always thought it was some sort of magical backlash after Voldemort..."
"Madam Pomfrey says it's cursed," Harry admitted in a whisper.
His father's face remained impassive. "I know. Is that what this is all about?" He watched Harry for a long moment as if he were waiting for him to respond. When he didn't, he continued. "What do you remember, love?"
Burning emotion built up in his chest, and Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to scream or sob. He wrapped his arms around himself, as it would somehow keep him from falling to pieces.
"Why is John called the Boy Who Lived?"
Disappointment flared in James' chest as Harry dodged yet another of his questions. Still, he kept his face impassive and allowed for the change in topic. Discomfort was a trigger for Harry's silent moods, and he could see that he was already toeing the line. It was better to let him change the subject and continue talking than cause a shutdown.
"Because he survived when Lord Voldemort tried to kill him."
"So did we."
James shook his head. "It's different for John. He survived after being hit with something called the Killing Curse."
"The green light that killed Mum."
A chill ran down James' spine. "You remember that?" When Harry nodded, James pulled him tightly to his chest, dislodging his son's glasses. He cradled Harry's head to his chest like he had done when Harry was a baby, stroking his wild hair and peppering his crown with kisses. He missed the days where he could solve all of his child's problems with kisses. Even if those days had been few in far between ever since Lily died. "What else do you remember?"
"He said he killed you. How did you survive?"
James debated the wisdom of telling his thirteen-year-old about the Killing Curse. Though, if Harry were to be believed, if he remembered Lily's murder, he had as much a right to know as anyone, right? Thank God Lily wasn't around to witness this. She would have his head. "The Killing Curse is pure, destructive magical energy. When it hits a living creature, it rips the soul from the body, killing it. It's instantaneous, and there is no stopping it. When the curse hits something that isn't alive, such as a wall or an object that has been moved in its path, it can cause explosions or fires.
"When Sirius found me, the wall behind me was destroyed. We think Voldemort's spell missed me, and the rubble knocked me out. I don't think he realised that I wasn't dead. Or maybe he didn't care. He said he didn't want to kill me—just John."
"Give me the boy," Voldemort had said. "We needn't spill any more magical blood tonight."
The hair rose on James' neck at the memory. Even ten years later, he had no trouble recalling the memory. It haunted every waking moment and appeared in each nightmare. He cradled Harry a little tighter in his arms, though James wasn't ashamed to admit that it was more for his own comfort than his son's.
They're alive, James had to remind himself. His beautiful, perfect boys are still alive.
Harry didn't linger long after that, and James let him go. He wasn't going to press Harry and risk him not speaking for the rest of the summer. Besides, it looked like he had a letter to write. It was high time he found out what really happened at the end of the school year.
Genius Fratris
Despite his constant desire to study, Harry made an effort to spend more time outside the library. His father and uncles still gave him concerned looks wherever he so much as touched a book, so any reading was done in his bedroom, long after the rest of the household had gone to sleep. His days changed dramatically, with him taking frequent trips to Diagon Alley, visiting friends, and accompanying his brother to the Burrow on more than one occasion.
A day spent at the Weasley's home was always an odd affair. Whilst he immensely enjoyed spending time with Ginny and helping Mrs Weasley around the kitchen, he could do without the glares from Fred and George or the suspicious looks from Percy. Cedric had little to offer in ways of advice, and though Grace's ideas to get the older brothers off his back were humorous, he sincerely doubted biting them would enamour himself with Mrs Weasley.
John, meanwhile, disappeared for hours with Ron, appearing only for lunch or to return home to Potter Manor. Harry wasn't entirely sure what the two boys were up to, but he suspected they were doing a fair bit of flying, given how distraught Ginny was when Ron banned her from following them.
"As if I'd want to spend my time with them," she said with a sneer that didn't quite hide the hurt in her voice. "Why are boys so dumb?"
The comment amused Harry more than it annoyed him. "I couldn't tell you, Gin," he replied, smoothing down her rumpled hair. "And I am one."
She rolled her eyes and swatted his hand away. "Yeah, but you're you."
"Ginny," Mrs Weasley sighed in exasperation. "You don't even know how to fly. Now come set the table for me."
Ginny looked like she very much wanted to disagree with her mother's statement, but she held her tongue and went to the cupboard to pull out a stack of mismatched dishes. Harry followed and helped her lift them down. She snatched them out of his hands with a haughty look before stomping off towards the kitchen table, which Mrs Weasley was filling with a variety of sandwiches.
"I'll bring my broom next time I visit," Harry murmured to his friend when Mrs Weasley stuck her head out the back door and hollered for her children.
Ginny gifted him with a grateful, albeit slightly watery smile and continued setting out the lunch table.
Her brothers thundered into the kitchen from all directions, with Percy wandering down the stairs with his nose stuck in a book and the twins galloping in from the garden, which they had just finished de-gnoming. Mrs Weasley was about to call again when Ron staggered in, dragging John, who was holding his arm at a funny angle.
Harry leapt to his feet and descended on his brother, ignoring Ron, who was shouting to anybody who would listen about mad house-elves and falling tree branches. John didn't fight Harry when he scooped him up and set him on the worktop, only hissing in pain when his torn robe sleeve jostled his injured arm. Mrs Weasley bustled over as Harry palpated his brother's clearly broken arm, tutting in concern.
"Percy, fetch me the Lockhart book," she commanded as she extracted her wand and tried to nudge Harry out of the way. "It will be alright, John dear. We'll have you fixed up in a tick."
Harry pursed his lips and pulled his own wand out, ignoring Mrs Weasley's squawks of protest as he began casting diagnostic charms around his brother. Fortunately, the break was clean and wouldn't require Skele-Gro, which was fortunate because Harry doubted that the Weasleys kept any on hand. He waved his wand in a complex pattern until he felt his brother's bones knit themselves back together.
"No flying until tomorrow," Harry murmured. "Make sure you drink milk with lunch and dinner."
John grimaced at the instructions but nodded. He allowed Harry to help him off the bench, granting Harry a hug he suspected was given less out of gratitude and more because he wanted to discreetly dry his eyes.
Mrs Weasley looked torn between wanting to praise Harry and scold him for using magic outside of school. "Ron mentioned you spend a lot of time in the Hospital Wing," she settled on.
Harry nodded and bowed his head. "Madam Pomfrey has taken me as an apprentice," he admitted before turning to face Ron. "What's this about a mad elf?"
Ron and John launched into an explanation at the same time, their overlapping voices making it rather difficult to parse together an accurate sequence of events. He did manage to pick out the name 'Dobby' who was 'stealing letters' and being chased off by an angry house-elf every time he tried to reach John.
"Acorn is rather possessive," Harry agreed when John said that Dobby hadn't been able to reach him at Potter Manor. "She doesn't like it when other house-elves try to visit."
"Well, Dobby doesn't want me to return to Hogwarts," John explained, plopping down in the chair next to Ginny and reaching for a turkey sandwich. "He says that there's 'Great and Terrible Danger.'"
"To the 'Great John Potter,'" Ron added with a snicker.
John blushed and resolutely ignored his best friend. "Anyway, when I said I was going back, he dropped a tree branch on me."
Mrs Weasley tutted and resumed fussing over John, who looked equally embarrassed and pleased by the attention. Lunch commenced without any more drama, apart from Fred 'accidentally' spilling a flagon of pumpkin juice on Percy's book. Harry watched the Weasleys eat with a detached sense of reality, his brain whirring faster than a bludger in a Quidditch match. Trouble at Hogwarts? Harry didn't like the sound of that.
His father didn't like the sound of it either when Harry told him about it later that evening. John protested and glared when Harry brought the incident up over dinner, though Harry wasn't sure why. Maybe it was one of those Gryffindor bravado things he didn't understand, but it seemed silly to not do everything in your power to protect yourself from danger.
"But I was going to visit Ron on Friday," John whined when their father decided that he wasn't allowed to leave the house without supervision.
Mr Potter was unmoved by this. "He's more than welcome to visit here," he pointed out.
"But Harry's allowed to visit Diagon Alley with his friends."
"Harry is older and doesn't have a mad elf after him," his father sighed in exasperation. "And Harry doesn't visit Diagon Alley."
John flinched when Harry kicked his shin but looked at their father with indignation. "He went last week with Cedric."
Mr Potter looked over at Harry with wide eyes. "You what?"
Harry shot his brother a venomous look. "Mrs Diggory needed something and sent us," he admitted. "We were there for less than an hour."
"He also met with Cordelia Gamp," John added.
Their father only looked more bewildered. "Who?"
This was, unfortunately, a semi-accurate recollection of events. Harry and Cedric had indeed run into Gamp and her posse of friends, but Harry hardly went out of his way to find the girl. "How the hell do you know that?"
John jutted his chin up. "I have my sources."
"Yeah, well, snitches get stitches," Harry grumbled, ignoring his father's incredulous look.
The dark tone didn't faze John. "What does that even mean?" he asked, tilting his head like a confused Crup.
Harry, who still wasn't sure what Grace's odd muggle phrase meant, ignored his brother and turned to his father. "May I be excused?"
After a moment, his father arranged his expression into something that looked less shell shocked. "Why? Do you have a letter to write to your girlfriend?"
Harry huffed in disgust and pushed away from the table before storming out of the dining room, his father and brother's guffaws ringing in his ears.
It was no small miracle that his father didn't ground him again for sneaking out, though he did treat Harry to a lecture about the dangers of disappearing without telling him. The summer continued on in a lazy fashion, with only Harry and John's birthday and the arrival of their Hogwarts letters being anything of note. Grace returned from her holiday in Japan in mid-August, and before he knew it, Harry was Flooing to Diagon Alley for their yearly school supplies shopping.
Shopping with John was always a production, and Harry was sent ahead with Uncle Remus and Uncle Sirius whilst his father transfigured John's hair to a dark red. They would be meeting the Diggorys and the Coopers, as well as John's friends at the Leaky Cauldron, in the hope to attract as little attention to John as possible. Harry didn't know how successful the plan would be, but he had to concede that a red-headed John would more likely be assumed as another Weasley than the Boy Who Lived.
Cedric and Grace were already waiting for him when he stumbled out of the fireplace in the Leaky Cauldron, talking to Hermione Granger of all people. Their parents lingered nearby, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Mr and Mrs Granger seemed about ready to faint from fright when Mr Weasley appeared and began interrogating them about all things Muggle. Grace managed to pull her mother away before Mr Weasley turned his attention towards her too, and they slipped out of the pub and into Diagon Alley.
After a quick stop at Gringotts, Mr Potter ordered Harry to Madam Malkins for new robes, his school robes being far too short after a summer of growth. Whilst he was nowhere near as tall as Cedric, who had sprouted up like a weed over the summer, Harry now toward over Grace, who still was as diminutive as she had been her first year.
"I'll take him, Prongs," Uncle Sirius declared, wrapping an arm around Harry's shoulders. "I give better fashion advice, anyways."
"They're school robes," Uncle Remus sighed. "There's nothing fashionable about them."
"That's because I haven't given my input yet."
"Well," Grace interjected, "At least Gamp thinks you look fit in them."
Harry ground his teeth in an effort to keep his expression neutral. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"No?" Grace drawled, a predatory grin splitting her face. "Should we ask her? She's coming this way."
And to Harry's horror, she was telling the truth. Harry swore softly and tried to duck under his godfather's arm, only for Uncle Sirius' grip to tighten, holding him in place. Harry was forced to watch as Gamp approached, her pale blonde hair swaying as she twisted her hips in an exaggerated manner.
"Hi, Harry!" she called as she approached, either uncaring about or oblivious to his family's presence. "I didn't think you'd be here today!"
That was a lie, Harry thought, catching sight of Pucey loitering nearby, looking all too invested in the outcome of their conversation. The only people outside his friends and family who knew he would be at Diagon Alley was the Slytherin Quidditch team, of which Pucey was a member. He was also a terrible gossip, and Harry had no doubt that Pucey had told Gamp where Harry would be. It had been going on all summer, and Harry was at his wit's end.
He gave Gamp a tight-lipped smile and nodded. He didn't really have anything against his classmate, though he did find her increased desire to speak to him a little odd. She had, after all, spent their first two years at Hogwarts treating him like a social leper.
"May I introduce my father, Lord Potter?" Harry said, gesturing to his father.
The amused grin evaporated off his father's face at this and, flustered, greeted Gamp, who dropped into a low curtsy. Harry took advantage of everyone's distraction and slipped out of Uncle's Sirius' hold and beating a hasty retreat towards Madam Malkins.
"You were supposed to ask her to Hogsmeade, mate," Pucey informed him, slipping up to his side.
"Why are you so invested in this?" Harry snapped.
Pucey shrugged. "I spend too much time around Cordelia. Her excitement is starting to rub off on me."
Harry almost made a crude comment about what else Pucey could go rub off but was interrupted by Cedric and Grace jogging up to them.
"Your dad called you a sneaky bastard," Grace informed him.
Harry considered this. "I mean, technically, he isn't wrong."
Cedric frowned. "That's a bit harsh," he said. "You're not that bad."
Harry waved away his concern. "No, I mean, I am literally a bastard. I was born before my parents got married."
Cedric craned his neck to look at Mr Potter. "But that would mean you were… before they even graduated?" His friend looked scandalised. Harry wasn't surprised. Like most who had grown up in the wizarding world, Cedric was a bit of a prude.
"Mum loved a good Halloween party, apparently," Harry explained, holding open the door to Madam Malkins. "Try not to think too much about my parents having sex. It's weird."
Harry spent the better part of the following hour being fitted for robes and trying not to fidget as the seamstress took his measurements. From there, they visited Amanuensis Quills so that Cedric could purchase several new quills and the Apothecary to restock their potions kits. Grace suggested stopping Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, where they stopped and chatted with Marcus and several of his friends for a while.
"Have you been to Flourish and Blotts yet?" Marcus asked in a low voice.
Harry shook his head. "We're heading there next."
Marcus' ever-present scowl deepened. "Best of luck, then. There's a book signing all afternoon."
"For whom?" Pucey asked, plopping down next to Marcus and attempting to swipe some of his lemon and poppy seed ice cream. He yelped when Marcus whacked him upside the head.
"Gilderoy Lockhart."
Grace hummed in thought and helped herself to Marcus' ice cream. "He's the bloke who wrote half of our booklist, isn't he?" When Marcus grunted in affirmation, she continued. "He's got horse teeth."
None of them were sure what she meant by that statement, but they all agreed that it was oddly accurate. With that in mind, Harry, Cedric, and Grace bid Marcus a farewell, leaving Pucey behind as they waded through streets towards Flourish and Blotts, which was already teeming with giggling witches. Grace had no compunctions using Harry and Cedric's advanced heights to her advantage and pushed them in front of her to act as human battering rams.
At one point, Harry was grabbed by the neck of his robes and pulled into the line by a flushed Mrs Weasley, who was juggling a stack of books and trying to keep hold of Ginny's hand. Harry relieved her of the heavy pile with a smile.
"Have you seen my father?" Harry asked, having to shout over the din.
Mrs Weasley shook her head, but a pained yelp came from ahead before she could formulate a proper reply. Harry stood on his tiptoes to see over the line of pointed witch's hats to pinpoint the sound. Gilderoy Lockhart was massaging his fingers, looking rather shocked.
"Merciful Merlin, man," Lockhart said in a carrying voice. "There is no need for violence."
"I think you'll find," Harry heard his father snarl. Mr Potter stood between Lockhart and a flustered John. He was brandishing his wand, a furious expression contorting his face. "That laying your hands on my child is a perfectly adequate reason."
"It was a picture for the Daily—"
"I don't care," his father snapped, cutting Lockhart off. "If you touch my child again, I'll hex your fingers into feathers." He spun on his heel and stocked off, dragging John behind him as he went.
Harry sighed and turned to face Mrs Weasley. "I should probably go," he sighed, knowing his father would want to return home. Harry summoned Cedric over and shoved Mrs Weasley's books into his arms before dashing after his father.
Later, Cedric would tell Harry how he left at either the best possible moment or the worst. Seconds after they left the shop, Draco Malfoy picked a fight with Ron, and whilst they didn't dissolve into a muggle brawl, Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy did. Ginny's cauldron had been sent flying, and when they were finally pulled away from each other, Mr Weasley was sporting a bleeding lip. However, Mr Malfoy wasn't fairing any better if his rapidly swelling eye was anything to go by.
All in all, it was a successful trip to Diagon Alley, Harry thought… Well, at least nobody was seriously injured.
Genius Fratris
The rest of the summer passed quickly compared to the beginning. Ron visited Potter Manor several days a week, something which irritated Harry greatly. Not because he had anything against the youngest Weasley son, of course, but because the two boys somehow made more noise than a dragon reserve. Harry desperately wanted to seek refuge at a friend's house, but after the revelation that there was a house-elf trying to do John in, his father had effectively ended all unaccompanied outings from Potter Manor.
That wasn't to say that Harry's own friends were permitted to visit him, though the list of them that had been approved by his father was admittedly small—of them, only Grace, Ginny, and Cedric could visit Potter Manor. Grace, however, lived in a muggle home in Surrey and had no means to travel halfway across the country for an afternoon visit; Mrs Weasley, meanwhile, flat-out refused to let Ginny visit without giving a proper reason. Only Cedric was able to visit and was the sole reason Harry hadn't returned to his semi-reclusive habits and holed himself up in the library.
Fortunately, Cedric was not present when Mr Weasley stepped out of the parlour fireplace, interrupting Harry and Mr Potter's discussion on the Animagus transformation. The conversation that followed was awkward enough that Harry was glad to spare his best friend from the second-hand embarrassment.
"Lord Potter," Mr Weasley greeted, inclining his head towards Harry's father. "Just the man I wanted to talk to."
Harry's father gave him a tight-lipped smile and gestured for Mr Weasley to take a seat. Harry didn't know Mr Weasley very well, despite spending most of his summer at the man's house. He knew that Mr Weasley worked for the Ministry and that his work pertained to muggles, but Harry wasn't sure what his job entailed beyond that.
"How may I assist you?" Mr Potter asked when it was evident Mr Weasley wasn't going to start the conversation.
Mr Weasley fiddled with his wizard's hat, but when he spoke, his voice was clear and even. "You are an influential man," he began. "Well respected in the community, a devoted father, and a public supporter of the Mugwump party."
Harry watched as his father's face hardened ever so slightly. It wasn't unheard of for Ministry officials to visit his father, Harry knew, and ask for his support for some bill or public policy. It was an undiscussed condition of receiving a C.R.O.W.N.—people flocked to you to get your opinion on their research or ask for their intercession. Harry never really understood why. After all, his father was a pioneer in the transfiguration and geomancy fields. Why people thought that he knew anything—or cared—about politics was beyond him. The Wizarding World seemed to equate scholastic achievements to magical prowess and power. It didn't help that the select few who obtained C.R.O.W.N.s tended to have both.
Mr Potter, like many of the Lords and Ladies (few that there were), was no different. Just last month, a toad-like woman wearing garishly pink robes asked for Mr Potter to support her anti-werewolf legislation. She was rebuffed, of course, as she would have been regardless of her horrifically prejudiced policies. James Potter was known to be fiercely private and rarely endorsed anything, no matter what political party put forth the legislation. In fact, he had gained something of a reputation amongst the Ministry for doing so. People knew that you didn't ask James Potter for his support.
The fact that Mr Weasley was doing so made things very awkward indeed.
"I am seeking to put forth legislation with the Wizengamot regarding the protected status of Muggle-borns," Mr Weasley said in an official-sounding tone that reminded Harry terribly of his son, Percy. "The purpose of this bill is to register Muggle-borns at the first incident of accidental magic—"
"Why?" Harry's father said, his tone frosty. The sound sent a shiver down Harry's spine. Whenever his father used that voice, Harry knew he was in deep trouble. It set off his fight-or-flight instincts, and Harry wanted nothing more than to duck for cover.
Mr Weasley didn't seem to recognise the danger he was in and smiled jovially. "For two reasons. The first and foremost is to help Muggle-borns integrate into Wizarding society. Research shows that thirty-eight per cent of Muggle-borns return to the Muggle world after the completion of their education because of struggles and discrimination they face in the Wizarding world," he explained. "With this bill, Muggle-borns will be introduced into our society sooner and integrated long before they enter Hogwarts. Studies show that the retention rate of Muggle-borns is much higher for those who learned of our world before receiving their Hogwarts letter, opposed to the ones who didn't.
"The secondary goal," Mr Weasley continued. "Is to help protect the statute of secrecy. Muggle-born children are the biggest threat against the Statute of Secrecy simply because they don't know that they are doing magic. By introducing them to the Wizarding World, they will find a community that understands their powers and can teach them to control them, even before they enter Hogwarts."
"Control how, exactly?" Harry interrupted, dreadfully curious about Mr Weasley's proposal.
The man gave a little start, clearly having forgotten that they weren't alone. "A recently Ministry funded study has shown that children can channel their accidental magic in focused—"
"Magical-raised children," his father cut off at once. "The paper in question doesn't study Muggle-raised children. I would know because I authored it."
Harry pursed his lips as he considered this before cutting into the conversation. "That sounds incredibly dangerous," he said after collecting his thoughts. "Magical education starts at eleven because of Muggle-borns. Because they didn't grow up in a magical household, their body isn't accustomed to the presence of large amounts of magic. Introducing them to magic too soon before the onset of puberty can lead to magical overexposure. Unless you're proposing that Muggle-borns should be taken as infants, your proposal is ill-conceived, if not downright dangerous."
The two men stared at him as if he had grown a second head.
Harry swallowed down the lump in his throat that threatened to choke out his voice. "That's what Madam Pomfrey says, at least."
His father looked impressed and nodded. "Hogwarts was built on a ley line for that reason," he explained. "They siphon off excess magical outbursts." He then turned to Mr Weasley, who looked dumbfounded. "Besides my fourteen-year-old's salient points, there are other fallacies with your argument."
The tips of Mr Weasley's ears turned scarlet. "Oh?" he croaked.
Mr Potter took a sip of tea and studied Mr Weasley over the top of his cup. "You claim that Muggle-borns face discrimination. This is true, of course, unfortunate as it is. However, I don't understand why the onus to conform must be placed on them, rather than the Wizarding world."
"Well, they're a much smaller population, aren't they?" Mr Weasley explained, confusion evident in his voice. "It only makes sense for them to—"
"Does it?" Mr Potter interrupted. "Why must they conform at all?"
"If they plan to live in our world—"
Mr Potter shook his head, cutting him off before he could continue. "There is nothing wrong with being a Muggle-born," he said, his tone stern.
Mr Weasley swelled, affronted. "I never said that there was!"
"And yet you want them to conform to our culture?" Mr Potter asked, his words deceptively light. "That's what you are implying. You want to introduce Muggle-borns to the Wizarding world to integrate them more effectively into our culture. But doing so deprives them of the ability to partake in the culture in which they were raised. A culture which is just as valid as ours."
"You're twisting my words!" Mr Weasley accused.
Mr Potter raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. "Am I?" he asked. If Harry didn't know his father, he would have missed the mocking tone to his words. "I'm only pointing out the obvious flaw in your plan, which I will admit is well-meaning, but ultimately a waste of time."
"Is it now?" Mr Weasley asked, his face flushed. "So, what do you propose we do to amend this problem? We're losing qualified witches and wizards."
"Well, I wouldn't suggest cultural genocide, for one," Mr Potter drawled. "Instead, we should be developing curriculum to help our children understand Muggle-borns. And I don't mean offering an outdated elective on Muggles from an outsider's perspective. The Muggle Study's curriculum is woefully out of date and inaccurate and has been since I took it in the eighties."
"I agree that the Muggle Studies course needs to be updated," Mr Weasley conceded, though he didn't look very pleased to do so. "But that still doesn't help Muggle-borns integrate."
Mr Potter scowled. "Have you not been listening? They shouldn't need to integrate at all. But yes, an introduction to Wizarding culture sounds like a great way to help them learn the intricacies of the new world they have been tossed into. In return, our children should be taught about Muggle culture so that they can understand their Muggle-raised peers. Only tolerance and education on both sides will make our world more habitable for Muggle-borns.
"But I have other issues with your proposal," said Mr Potter. "First and foremost, the Ministry has no business in tracking Muggle-borns any more than it does a child living in Magical France. They fall under the jurisdiction of the Muggle government until they begin schooling at eleven. Frankly, as an employee of the Ministry, you should know this. Furthermore, do you know how easy it would be for the likes of Voldemort to gain access to those records?"
A nasty flush had risen on Mr Weasley's face, and the dark, glowering look he gave Mr Potter reminded Harry instantly that this was the father of Fred and George Weasley. He knew, even before Mr Weasley opened his mouth, that whatever the man said next would greatly upset his father.
"The war is over, James. It's time you start to realise that."
Harry sucked in a breath between his teeth. It was no secret that his father was insanely protective of Harry and John. In fact, he was infamous throughout Magical Britain for the lengths he went to to keep his sons safe and out of the spotlight.
"I'm perfectly aware there is no active war," his father replied coolly, drawing himself up to his full height. Harry knew that tone of voice and thought that Mr Weasley was either very brave or very foolish to continue on.
"Your wife was a Muggle-born," Mr Weasley exclaimed. "Think of children like her, who grow up in the dark, alone and misunderstood, because of their magic."
"I'm perfectly aware of the struggles that Muggle-borns face. My point still stands. All it takes is for one megalomaniac to take advantage of those files. I cannot, in good conscience, endorse this bill. Even if you could guarantee the safety of every Muggle-born you track down, which is impossible, doing so is outside the jurisdiction of the Ministry. To circumvent this would be a breach of the Statute of Secrecy, the very thing you claim you are seeking to protect."
Mr Potter then turned towards Harry, and Harry could see the tightness in the corners of his father's eyes. "Harry, go find Ron and tell him his father is here," he said in a light, deceptively pleasant tone.
Knowing when he was being dismissed and frankly, rather relieved that he was, Harry fled the parlour without a backwards glance.
"Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed, citizens can change the world."
―Margaret Mead
A/N: This chapter was brought to you by my broken hand. I hope you enjoy it because it was painful to write. Also! No hate to Mr Weasley. I love that man. We don't bash here.