Saturday, 4th July

It took Voldemort almost three weeks to readjust to having an actual physical body again, something which he had to consciously remember to move and maintain after having spent ten years as nothing more than a vaguely humanoid-shaped wraith.

Using Quirrell's wand, along with the man himself, he'd succeeded in making the abandoned cottage liveable even if it was not especially grand - and certainly not grand enough for the greatest Dark wizard to have ever lived!

Who now, sometimes, only sometimes, tripped over his own feet because he'd forgotten how to walk again.

The first time it had happened, Quirrell had laughed, the sound shocked out of him. Voldemort had made him pay for that and the man was wise enough not to react in such a way again. Although he did, occasionally, catch the professor smiling in amusement, his somewhat returned sanity told him that there was no cruelty behind the expression and, well, yes, he could, sort of, possibly, maybe see how such a situation was humorous, and since he was a just and forgiving Lord, he'd since settled on sending the man dirty looks rather than Crucio's.

This newfound humanity was exhausting.

Still, he kept himself busy even on days when his body wasn't much good at anything other than sitting on their transfigured couch from dawn until dusk. There was much to be done, after all, almost too much whenever he paused for a moment and just thought about it all, but - body or no body - if he still wanted to achieve his original goals, then the work just had to be done.

His first order of business was sending Quirrell out on many, many tasks. It was impossible for the man to return to his previous occupation at Hogwarts; Dumbledore was sure to have realised just who stole the Philosopher's Stone by now, even if he knew nothing about Voldemort's return. And Quirrell was willing to serve him instead - happily, even.

He had, briefly, considered branding the man with his Dark Mark. It was a great honour among his followers, one that was only granted to his inner circle, but given that Quirrell had done far more for him than anyone else over this past year, he believed that the man was deserving of it.

And yet…

He didn't doubt Quirrell's loyalty. Any second thoughts that the professor might have that weren't immediately squandered by his blinding faith were quickly extinguished by his fear. Voldemort had no suspicions whatsoever that he would reveal his Mark to anyone, should he grant him one. But Quirrell rather obviously did not have the Dark Mark during the first wizarding war, so if he were to brand him now, and it somehow got out that he had, then there would be very little doubt as to his return.

And Voldemort didn't want to return.

Not fully.

Not yet.

He was not so proud as to admit that his previous actions had been… right. There were many things he wished that his former self had not done - chasing down a mere babe on Halloween night being item number one on that list - and he knew that if he were to have any chance at all in achieving his original goals, then he'd need to go about it in a… different way.

Apparently, violence was not always the answer, and that realisation burned sour in his stomach.

No. He'd have to be smart about this. He needed to put his cleverness and cunning to good use and devise a plan that was ultimately foolproof; a plan that not even the great Albus bloody Dumbledore could thwart.

He wouldn't let himself get derailed this time; he swore it.

But to create such a plan, he first needed to re-establish himself in the wizarding world in order to get a fair assessment of the current political situation, and in order to re-establish himself in the wizarding world, he first needed the most valuable currency on this planet.

Information.

And so, Quirrell was sent out again and again to find books, potions, and gossip.

Voldemort was equal parts furious and darkly amused to find that while he, the most powerful wizard in the world since Salazar Slytherin himself, had failed to defeat a child… his muggle relatives had apparently succeeded.

Or so Quirinus told him.

Harry Potter, his prophesied downfall, had not received his Hogwarts letter. Voldemort knew this, of course, having technically taught at Hogwarts during what should have been the boy's first year, but he had not realised until today just how far Potter's absence went.

Dumbledore claimed that he had run away to protect his loving relatives, but that had been months ago and now, new rumours were starting to spread. The Headmaster had also rather heavily implied that he himself had found Potter and was now training him somewhere safe, but Voldemort knew that was a lie. As much as the old man liked to claim that he knew exactly the type of person Tom Riddle was, that level of knowledge went both ways. If Dumbledore did have the brat, then there was no way in Merlin's name that he'd have been able to stop himself from parading his trophy around Hogwarts for this long.

According to Quirrell, there were many others in the wizarding world who held the same view.

Now, they believed that Dumbledore's cover story was nothing but just that - a cover story, hiding the fact that Potter's relatives had killed him, accidentally or otherwise. Either that, or they had found some other way of getting rid of the brat - but that seemed even more implausible given that Dumbledore hadn't found him yet.

Voldemort found the entire thing infuriatingly hilarious.

He knew first-hand just how cruel muggles could be; it was why he'd originally wanted to completely separate the wizarding world from the muggle world. The fact that the stupid, idiotic, witless old fool had seen fit to leave Harry Potter with a bunch of muggles in the first place was just… insane.

And that was coming from him!

He supposed that there was some sort of chance, however small, that the boy was still alive and somehow evading Dumbledore's search, but Voldemort found it far more likely that the bloody muggles had simply snapped when faced with the boy's no doubt powerful accidental magic - he had to be powerful, after all, he'd managed to vanquish him - and now, the so-called Boy Who Lived was dead.

Voldemort felt… odd about Potter's death. Not guilty, of course not, he hadn't been the one to kill the boy after all, but just… strange. Although three weeks had seemingly been enough to get used to having a body again, it was going to take far far longer for him to fully understand these new… feelings.

He found that he was furious with Dumbledore - even more so than usual - at letting yet another magical child slip through the cracks. And yet, maybe after the death of his Golden Boy, he would finally start to listen to his muggle-raised students when they told him about the abuse that they grew up with.

Yes.

And perhaps Severus Snape would dye his hair pink, too.

"My Lord?"

Voldemort blinked and turned to face the man as he entered the room and bowed. It wasn't as deep a bow as it should have been, and he briefly felt a spark of irritation at that, before he squashed the emotion with a sharp illogical.

His new appearance had seemingly made Quirrell a lot more… accommodating to his wishes, and over the past three weeks he had quickly realised that the more human he acted, the more relaxed the man was around him - and, more importantly, the more willing he was to obey his orders.

"Quirinus" he greeted evenly, "What did the goblins say?"

Orders, such as potentially putting his own life at risk by visiting Gringotts as a wanted fugitive and then asking about Lord Voldemort's bank accounts.

"I'm afraid it's… not all good news, my Lord" he admitted, only somewhat hesitantly, "The signed missive you gave me was enough to meet your account manager, as you predicted, however, it would seem that reclaiming your previous titles won't be that straightforward".

Of course not. He'd been "dead" for over ten years now, after all, not to mention the fact that he was Lord Voldemort. As much as the goblins loved causing chaos when it came to wizarding affairs, not even they could fix everything.

"The three Peverell dukedoms remain unclaimed" Quirrell continued, "Devon and Somerset, your previous titles, haven't been touched since your… disappearance. The third dukedom, Dorset, was last held by Fleamont Potter. After his death, his son, James Potter, didn't claim the title, although the goblins were unable to say why".

Voldemort knew why.

He'd killed him.

If his memory was correct, then Fleamont Potter had died only a year or two before his son, and since James Potter had spent most of that time in hiding with his wife and child, it didn't surprise him to find that he hadn't had enough time to pay Gringotts a visit.

Which meant that not only were his two original dukedoms free for the taking, but the third dukedom, belonging to the youngest Peverell brother, was available as well - especially since the likelihood of Harry Potter being dead was quite high.

But like Voldemort said; his life would never be that easy.

"What's the bad news, Quirinus?"

Quirrell… hesitated, his fingers twitching as his hand moved ever-so-slightly towards his wand. He was expecting to be cursed for what he had to say next. Voldemort didn't envy him.

"It would seem, my Lord, that… well, as you know, when you first claimed the Peverell dukedoms, there was much… upheaval in Wizengamot" he started, haltingly, "Many tried to disprove your connection to the Peverell brothers, and, as a result, the entire family tree was heavily documented. Because of this, the goblins believe that… well… if you were to reclaim your titles, then… uh… well, since the genealogy has been traced so thoroughly, then-"

"-then everyone would know who I really am" Voldemort finished, having grown tired of the man's rambling, "That is very bad news, Quirinus".

He flinched back, keeping his head bowed low, clearly expecting a Crucio to be thrown at him any minute, wand or no wand. Instead, Voldemort… pondered.

It made sense, as much as he didn't want to admit it. Wizengamot had thrown quite the fit when their feared Dark Lord successfully managed to claim not just one dukedom, but two - in addition to his Slytherin title. So of course many had set out to prove him wrong, to prove that he wasn't a direct descendant of the middle Peverell brother.

Their findings had proven them wrong instead - not only was he a direct descendant, but he was the only descendant. At the time, that knowledge had been a blessing; no one else could attempt to steal the title out from under him. Now, however, it meant that creating a new persona for himself, creating a new identity for himself, that allowed him to reclaim his titles was quite out of the question entirely.

Put simply, the Peverell genealogy was too well documented for him to slip in as the illegitimate child of a distant ancestor, as he'd been planning to - at least, for now. He was the last of the Gaunts, after all, so there were no distant ancestors there… But that didn't necessarily mean that he was the last of the Slytherins.

"And the Lincoln dukedom?"

Based on the immediate overwhelming look of relief on Quirrell's face, that particular conversation had gone much better.

"Also remains unclaimed, my Lord. There are no other direct descendants from Salazar Slytherin aside from yourself, of course, but the goblins rather heavily implied that reclaiming that title shouldn't be too much trouble. Apparently, the Slytherin line gets murky around the 1700s" Quirrell explained, "It shouldn't be too difficult to create a new identity that would allow you to reclaim the Duke of Lincoln title".

Voldemort listened intently, his mind already racing with possibilities. The Lincoln dukedom could be his ticket to re-establishing himself in the wizarding world without revealing his true identity. Although the Peverell titles would, of course, be… pleasing to also have, and would most certainly increase his political standing in Wizengamot, being a direct descendant from one of the Hogwarts founders was a very close second.

And besides - the Potter boy was dead, his line died out, so it wasn't as if anyone else could claim the titles anyway. If he couldn't have them, then no one could and that would just simply have to do.

"Very well, Quirinus" he said evenly, "We shall focus our efforts on reclaiming the Lincoln dukedom… I want you to return to Gringotts tomorrow morning".

The man quickly nodded with a relieved, oddly hopeful smile.

"Talk with my account manager again to find out what documents we need to forge and who we need to bribe to make this as painless as possible" he ordered, "Once I have access to those accounts, we can leave this deplorable shack behind. I want to reclaim my seat in Wizengamot by the end of the year".

Not that he planned on using it that soon, of course, but a little incentive would do Quirrell the world of good.

"Yes, my Lord". Quirrell nodded again, more eagerly this time. "I shall start making the arrangements immediately".

He quickly scurried from the room without so much as a bow, but Voldemort decided to let him get away with it, just this once. He had served him well, after all, and - with Qurinus, at least - positive reinforcement seemed to be the key to encouraging him.

He wondered how much of that willful obedience was a direct result of his new appearance, and then wondered just how far his new looks would get him in the wizarding world. His first followers had flocked to him because of his charm, after all, whereas they had stayed out of respect, and then later, fear, during the last war.

Voldemort also knew that if truly did want to succeed this time, he'd have to change his ways and focus only on what further advanced his goals - no matter how distasteful he found it.

Oh, how he was going to miss casting Crucio's.

Saturday, 18th July

Harry looked up at the sound of a knock only to find Rowle standing in his doorway, carrying one, two, three, four, five, six books!

"I thought you'd gone" he exclaimed, "Isn't your mother picking you up?"

"She's waiting outside - but surely you didn't think I'd just fucking forget about you, did you? I've got to give you something to devour during the summer! So here". He held out the large stack of books. "These should keep you busy for a few weeks".

"Summer school?" Harry asked wryly.

"Something like that" he replied, "I expect them to be in perfect condition when I come back, Evans. And you can do my maths homework in September for me too".

"Deal" he automatically replied, already scanning the covers. There was The Essential Defence Against the Dark Arts, The Standard Book of Spells: Grade 2, Transformation Through the Ages, Learn Magic Fast with Kwikspell, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and a sixth book that didn't appear to have a name but was an absolute massive tome of a thing that he just itched to open.

"It's a genealogy book" Rowle explained, "That right there contains the family trees and bloodlines of every major wizarding family in Britain. It's my mother's, and it stopped updating itself about a year after she got disinherited, so it's a little bit outdated but… well, you seemed pretty interested in the Sacred Twenty-Eight and the Potters and the war and all that so I thought you might find this interesting too".

Harry found himself surprisingly wordless, and he could only stare at the older boy in awe and gratitude and joy because this- this right here contained the answers to at least one hundred of his questions!

Rowle shifted from one foot to the other, seeming uncomfortable.

"The other ones are just my own textbooks from when my mum started teaching me second-year magic. They definitely don't cover everything, but it'll be pretty fucking slow going since you don't have a wand and all - and besides, I have to save some things to give you next year. You're already about six months ahead of where you should be, in theory at least".

It was the last day before summer break, and the first day of the next seven weeks that Harry planned to fill wholly, utterly, and completely with magic. He'd already met most of his goals and was now capable of casting over a dozen spells without a wand. The Dark Arts books that Rowle had lent him, along with a handful of different charms texts had given him a well-balanced basis in magic, and he liked to think that he wasn't too far behind other first-year students at Hogwarts in practice as well as theory.

Curse of the Bogies, the Smokescreen spell, and the Knockback jinx had gone a long way in defending himself against bullies too - although Rowle had yelled at him for using that last one since there was no real muggle answer that could explain why a group of sixteen-year-old thugs had suddenly been thrown halfway across a room. Spongify had gotten him a berating too. Harry had found it hilarious, casting the Softening charm on the ground between him and Greg and watching the boy wobble on his feet because of it, but apparently, that was too close to breaking the Statute of Secrecy for the blond's liking.

Cistem Aperio was allowed, and he had happily used it on the bully's trunk after he'd locked Harry's school books in there one day. He'd even managed to control the force of the blast, too, which meant there were no obvious marks on the suitcase, so Greg couldn't even say that he had damaged it. The look of confusion and slight fear when he'd seen Harry calmly walking through the halls with his bag on his back had been more than worth it.

Other charms, however, didn't have such desirable results. After Lawrence had used a pair of craft scissors he'd smuggled out of the art room to cut up his school jumper, Harry hadn't thought twice about using Reparo on the woollen fabric. The older boy had, rather understandably, thought he'd gone to Principal Hayward over it, ratting him out to get a new jumper since, to his eyes at least, it was clearly a different uniform.

The beating Harry had gotten after that had quickly made him realise that magic wasn't the solution for everything, as loathe as he was to admit, and instead, he'd decided to focus his energy on battles that he could win.

Thankfully, the "strange" things that kept happening around him were enough to dissuade all but the most insistent of bullies. He'd often caught them sending fearful glances in his direction during breakfast and dinner time, and although the teachers were smart enough to realise that something had happened between him and a few of the older boys, Harry knew that they'd never figure out exactly what. He was young, after all, and short and scrawny and polite. He did well in every class, was quite far ahead in maths thanks to his deal with Rowle, spent all his free time in the library, and he'd never even been given so much as a detention.

He also knew that they wondered why he was even here, to begin with, and sometimes, he wondered about that too - surely, Hayward hadn't believed a word that Vernon had said about him? But if he hadn't, then why would he have agreed to let Harry attend St Brutus full-time? Unless he'd seen even more than the Dursleys would like and had realised that this was Harry's first, last, and only chance to escape them.

Trading one prison for another wasn't much of an upgrade, but at least here, he had far fewer chores to do.

So Harry kept quiet about his background, didn't confirm or deny any of the guesses the other boys had about the reasons he was here, grew his hair longer than what was strictly Dursley-appropriate to hide his scar, and taught himself wandless spells every chance he got.

He'd even expanded his light repertoire, as it was, adding Verdimilious and Vermilious to his Lumos and Lumos Solem - not to mind all he'd learned in other areas of magic. Ghosts, imps, werewolves, hags, gytrashes, vampires, zombies, gnomes… the list of magical creatures was endless.

He learned the theory behind potion making too, even though he wouldn't be able to put that into practice for a long while yet. Harry had thought, and somewhat hoped, that potions would be a lot like cooking, but it was anything but. At least with making dinner, he could add just a little bit too much salt and have the meal still turn out fine - even if Vernon did give him a clatter over the back of the head for it - but with potions, the difference between adding one mandrake leaf or two meant certain death!

He didn't dislike potions, but nor was it his favourite. To be perfectly honest, the only part he really liked was learning about the ingredients used in different elixirs. It was probably a result of his upbringing, having been made to maintain the garden as soon as he was tall enough to reach the tap for the hose, but Harry quite liked plants - or, rather, herbology, as it was known in the wizarding world. Either way, learning about the properties of asphodel and wormwood was far more interesting to him than learning about what potions they were used in.

He didn't care much for astronomy either, especially since he had no telescope and couldn't really see the stars at night thanks to air pollution. Rowle said it was a compulsory subject at Hogwarts, and although Harry could, sort of, see the reason for it, he just wasn't that bothered to study it.

Instead, he put most of his efforts into the Dark Arts, Defence, Charms, and the History of Magic - which he found fascinating, much to Rowle's disgust. He learned everything he could from the Soap Blizzard of 1378 to the Gargoyle Strike of 1911 and Emeric to Evil to Elfric the Eager. Maybe it was because he hadn't grown up in the wizarding world, but Harry couldn't help but get lost in the pages of Hogwarts: A History and A Study of Recent Developments in Wizardry - especially since he sometimes saw his own name staring back at him.

After begging Rowle for weeks to loan him books about transfiguration, the blond had finally relented on that subject too, and now Harry had learned off the transfiguration alphabet and formulas. He could hardly wait to actually try changing one thing into another, but he knew that, like the fire and ice-making spells, he'd have to wait until summer break before trying it out, since the chances of it going wrong - and getting caught by a muggle - were so much higher.

But now, now, finally, at last, summer break was here - and he had an entire seven weeks to do as he pleased!

"Hello! Earth to Evans!"

Harry blinked, startled, and quickly turned back to Rowle who was giving him an irritated if somewhat fond look.

"You were fantasising about reading again, weren't you?"

He immediately flushed a bright, damning red and quickly turned away to hide it, busying himself by placing this new stack of books next to one of his old ones.

"What?! No, I wasn't!"

The blond rolled his eyes at him. "Merlin, you are such a Ravenclaw!"

"Yeah, well, at least I actually know how to open a book!"

"As opposed to-?"

"You!" he shot back, folding his arms across his chest almost petulantly, "Obviously! You've got your GCSEs the year after next! Just how the hell do you expect to pass maths if you keep making me do your homework?!"

"I'm sure I'll figure something out" Rowle replied dryly, "Unlike you and magic if I cut off your book supply".

"You wouldn't dare!"

"Try me!"

"Aculeum!"

The blond yelped and grabbed his wrist, rubbing roughly at an angry weal there, as red as a scorch mark.

"You little brat! That was-" He stopped, frowned, and then slowly turned back to Harry. "... That was the Stinging jinx".

"And so what?!" he demanded, folding his arms once more, "You deserved it!"

"That's a third-year spell" Rowle continued, an odd expression on his face, "In fact- scratch that. Aculeum isn't even taught at Hogwarts! That's a third-year spell taught at fucking Durmstrang! Where the hell did you learn a Dark charm like that?!"

"... In Magick Moste Evile".

"In Magick Moste-" He cut himself off yet again, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a deep breath. "Evans. Evans. I gave you that book so you would learn what not to do! Ninety per cent of the spells in that tome will get you a life sentence in Azkaban!"

"It's only a Stinging jinx!" he defended, "It's not like I cast the Cruciatus on you!"

"Not like you cast the- Okay, that's it, I'm out". Rowle turned towards the door. "I should've known lending you those books was a mistake. I mean, what was I thinking? You're not a Ravenclaw; you're a vicious little gremlin and the bane of my existence! How the hell am I meant to explain this mark to my mother?! Actually, no, you know what, don't answer that. A wandless third-year Dark jinx at eleven years old, for fucks sake, Evans, you can't do anything normally, can you? For all I know, when I come back after summer you'll have put Hayward under an Imperio and make him excuse you from all your classes so you can focus on magic full time!"

"... That's actually not a bad idea-"

"Evans".

They stared at each other in silence for one beat… two… three…

Rowle snorted and shook his head with a smirk and Harry grinned up at him in response.

"You're a real fucking lunatic, you know that?" he said, but this time, his tone was more fond than irritated.

"You mean like a Gryffindor?"

"Yeah, kid, like a fucking Gryffindor. And like a Slytherin, too". Rowle sighed and walked back to him so he could ruffle his hair in a way that Harry hated - loved - with a small yet genuine smile on his pale face. "My summer's going to be boring as hell without you around, isn't it?"

"Well, you could always stay" he teased, although, really, he was only half-joking.

"Nah, I best be off. I've already had my mother waiting long enough as it is; she'll start asking questions if I leave it any longer… You take care of yourself, alright? No explosions or Unforgiveables or any of that rot, got it?"

"Got it" Harry promised, feeling an odd pang of sadness in his chest as he watched his first - and only - friend start to leave.

"See you in September, Evans. And try not to set the place on fire while I'm gone".

With that, Rowle disappeared from view, leaving Harry alone with his stack of books and his thoughts. He glanced at the door for a moment longer before turning back to the pile of knowledge before him. Summer break had officially begun, and he was determined to make the most of it.

Taking a deep breath, he reached for the first book in the stack, feeling a surge of excitement and anticipation. The genealogy book Rowle had left him was very likely going to take all summer to get through - if he even managed to get through it before the blond came back at all - but the realisation left him more giddy than apprehensive.

Carefully cradling it in his arms, he grabbed an empty notebook and pen and then left the room to head to the library instead.

He'd already learned some things about his family from Rowle as well as Modern Magical History, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century, but it wasn't half as much as he'd wanted to it - it hadn't even scratched the surface!

Rowle had told him that his father had been the last of the Potters, although the blond hadn't known that it was Harry's father he'd been talking about, but there was no way he could know that for sure unless he examined the Potter family tree himself.

The Sacred Twenty-Eight was also something of interest, not to mention all the wizarding family names he'd come across in his textbooks. Apparently, genealogy in general was quite important to witches and wizards, especially in pure-blood circles since a lot of them were under the incredibly outdated impression that blood was more important than magic. Rowle's mother had been quite literally kicked off the family tree for having a half-blood child, after all, but Harry couldn't possibly imagine that that was the first instance of the Rowle family marrying outside of other pure-bloods - surely the entire line would have gone insane by now after that much inbreeding!

He turned left to head down the dimly lit corridor to the library, glad that the hallways were empty and silent, desolate almost aside from himself and a very small selection of other students who were also staying full-board, living at St Brutus year-round.

He couldn't wait to explore the genealogy book.

"Mr Evans".

Harry came to an abrupt stop at the sight of the principal standing in the open doorway of the library.

"... Sir".

"I thought I might find you here". Hayward smiled at him, brown eyes warm. "According to your teachers, you practically live in the library".

"Is that… not allowed?"

"What? Oh goodness no! I was praising you! Quite frankly, Mr Evans, a lot of my students could learn a thing or two from you".

In both muggle and magical subjects alike.

Harry awkwardly shifted from one foot to the other, incredibly conscious of the wizarding book he held in his arms and desperately hoping that his muggle notebook was covering it. Hayward continued to smile at him, as kind and gentle and good as he'd been last July, and not for the first time, the boy wondered just how on earth a man like him had ended up in a place like this.

"I just wanted to check in on you" the principal continued, "Make sure you're doing alright, and all that. I'm going round to all of St Brutus full-boarders. I know that it can be… tough, being away from your family for such a long time, and even tougher once it sinks in that you won't be going home for summer… If there's anything I can do to make your time here easier, Harry, please do feel free to tell me".

He briefly flashed back to Rowle's remark on Imperio-ing the man to let him learn magic all year round, and he quickly had to bite back a burst of somewhat hysterical laughter.

"Yes sir" he said instead, hoping that his voice sounded normal, "I will. Thank you, sir".

"Of course" Hayward replied, "And if you'd like to ring your family at any point or have them visit you here then-"

"No. Thank you".

He didn't look surprised at the interruption, instead giving the boy a knowing, somewhat sad look.

"I understand" he said, before finally stepping aside and allowing him to pass, "Just try not to spend all your time in the library this summer, Mr Evans. I know that you're friendly with Mr Rowle, but perhaps you would also like friends your own age?"

Harry had already met the other boys in his year, as few as they were. The average age of students here was fifteen, so he was more than a little on the younger side. Having spent the past ten months attending the same classes as his yearmates, however, he could easily think of better uses of his time than trying to "make friends" with them.

"I'll try, sir" he said anyway because if there was anything that the Dursleys had taught him it was how to say what people wanted to hear.

"Good lad". Hayward patted him on the shoulder, twice. "I'll see you at dinner, then. I hear that it's shepherd's pie tonight".

Waiting until the library door had firmly shut behind him, and the man's echoing footsteps had vanished down the hall, Harry collapsed back against the mustard-coloured wall with a heavy, relieved sigh.

It was pure and utter chance that the man hadn't asked what book he was holding, especially since it was clearly ancient, the library didn't stock such tomes, and Harry hadn't left St Brutus since Christmas to buy it - and even then, it had just been to visit the optometrist and collect his prescription contact lenses. Thankfully, however, the principal hadn't asked; perhaps having sensed his awkward reluctance to talk with him.

Still though, that had been far too close for his liking.

Making his way through the familiar stacked shelves, he finally reached what he firmly thought of as his table down the back of the room, hidden behind books and counters. Gently placing the tome on the laminated wood, he sat down and carefully flipped open the front page.

There was nothing so commercial as a table of contents or even a publisher's page. Instead, what looked to be calligraphy handwriting wrote out in long, sloping, cursive letters, Britain's Wizarding Families: The Complete Genealogy.

Holding his breath, he almost cautiously turned the aged, yellow parchment to the first family tree, that same black ink writing declaring Abberley at the top of the page.

Harry smiled, wide, and then settled himself in for seven long peaceful weeks of uninterrupted magic.