Harry Potter would have no normal life - not when he'd achieved the fame of ending a war as an infant. Yet Magdalena tried her best to ensure his upbringing would be somewhat normal. Well, as normal an upbringing as an English orphan growing up in the Romanian mountains could have.

The wizarding community he would grow up in was small, but tight-knit. Soon enough, there was an array of witches and wizards, giving Magdalena child rearing advice, among which was Albus Dumbledore's friend and her mentor, Avizina, the one who proposed her as a guardian for Harry.

"Why me?" When she spoke to Harry, she would talk in English, but with the child sleeping snugly in her lap, she reverted back to Romanian.

"You're a nice girl." the old witch took her headscarf off, and wiped her forehead with it as she sat down. By this time, she'd usually have a pipe lit at the corner of her mouth, but with an infant inside, there was instead only the crooking of her mouth to one side as she spoke. "You know your place - I made you into the woman you are. And you are the one person most like me. Not blood of my blood, but soul of my soul.

Mark my words, this child is going to one day achieve some grand things. Good or bad, I don't know. But I would rather he be raised a good man. With good morals, the same I instilled in you and every student that passed through the doors of my house or my school. If he is to be raised outside of Britain, I'd rather he be raised with our morals.

That's what I told Albus, word for word as well, you know."

Magdalena knew Avizina refused Dumbledore's idea of raising him herself, due to her advanced age. It filled her with pride that Avizina would trust her so, yet she couldn't help but feel her heart tighten with every movement Harry would make. Being tasked with raising a child who defeated Voldemort, having the responsibility of ensuring he would be safe, and cared for, and loved, and grow up as normal a child as he could - it was terrifying.

She made sure he always knew who his mum and dad were. Had a picture of them on their - and later his - nightstand, and made sure he had another with him at all times. The one on the nightstand was a particular beautiful picture of them, she thought, with James spinning Lily under a blossoming tree, both looking at the camera with bright, smiling faces. She made sure Harry knew they were brave, and that they loved him very much, and that they died at the hands of Voldemort, and that he would have been next, but that something happened - something happened, and Voldemort disappeared.

No matter his age, Magdalena always tried to explain to him in ways he could understand, no matter his age. Why he couldn't live in England now. Why he was in Romania with her. But that one day, he'll go to Hogwarts, and he'll grow up to be a wonderful wizard. That his aunt didn't mean to say those words, and his cousin couldn't relate to him because Dudley was a Muggle, but that didn't mean they didn't love him in their own way.

She made sure Harry knew English, and went to England as often as he wanted to. She never meant for him to learn Romanian, but he picked it up fast. She never meant to assimilate or raise him speaking it, but he wanted to. Harry wanted to go to the fairs. Wanted his own drum, like he would see the older wizards have at winter festivals. Wanted, when he grew up, to work at the dragon sanctuary where she'd take him in warm summer months.

Harry was a precocious child, which is what she would more often than not write to Dumbledore in her letters. When it came to him walking, speaking, speaking in another language, riding his broom, handling his emotions, writing, understanding difficult concepts - she thought that even his accidental magic had a rhyme and a reason.

Such as when he tried to get one of the cats out of the attic, a memory she fondly kept close to her heart.

"Harry, leave it."

"But-"

"Harry, I swear on what I have holiest, if you get yourself stuck, I'll leave you there." she was too busy writing to Dumbledore on that summer eve, and couldn't be bothered to even turn her head. She'd told him about a hundred times that unlike humans, if cats can go up some place, they can come down as well.

The attic was an ancient thing that had been boarded up for years, since her ancestors still used to store grain and maize. It was only recently that she decided to open it back, and ideally turn it into a second bedroom above the first. Right now, however, it was an unstable and dangerous mess, the worst of it being the beams from rotting wood that needed to be changed. One wrong step when trying to walk on them could send someone through the ceiling. The cats, however,would be able to get in and out without much bother, and she'd only have to do a quick cleaning spell on them, as they'd be full of dust and cobwebs.

"But, Lena, I've been hearing him since yesterday."

"Nonsense, darling." she murmured without paying much attention, absorbed in detailing an incident from a few days ago. Felix was smarter than that - and even then, he could wait. That cat had enough fat in him to last a week. However, Dumbledore's letter could not wait a second more. He always wanted to hear of anything out of the ordinary happening.

However, just as she was signing her name, a loud crash made her quill jump from the parchment, and her jump from the chair and into the living room.

"Harry? Harry? Harry!"

"Y-yes?" a small voice cried out, et Magdalena had no idea where the source came from.

"Harry, where… where are you?"

Silence.

"Harry- this isn't funny, come on."

Nothing.

"Harry… Sweetheart, are you in the attic?"

"No!" came a quick response, which she recognised came from above. Magdalena looked up, and swore she could hear that damn cat purring.

"How'd you get there, puiule?" The ladder was still propped outside of the house, and she couldn't figure anything that he could have used to climb.

"I just really really really wanted to go up there and help Felix. And then I went up." his voice was small and apologetic, and as Lena stepped back, she saw a tuft of brown hair appear from the entry to the attic.

"You're not hurt, right?"

"No…" came a strangled answer, which she felt may have been another white lie.

"Come on. Raise yourself a bit so I can help you down. I'll take Felix down too.