Author's Note
Thanks for reading this far! Hope everyone's excited for Harry's summer, where canon will take a back seat and he'll forge international contacts and delve into deep mysteries of magical theory and history.
The black sedan rolled to a silent stop in front of Number Four, Privet Drive. The polished exterior gleamed under the faint orange glow of the streetlights, its presence out of place in the quiet suburban neighborhood. The driver, tall and impeccably dressed in a dark suit, stepped out and moved with practiced precision, lifting a large trunk from the boot and setting it gently beside a cage containing a snowy white owl. His gloved hands touched both with careful respect, testament to his professionalism.
Harry followed, stepping out of the car with quiet ease, his tailored coat shifting with the movement. He'd made a quick stop at a London shop for a Muggle outfit, then hired a car service at King's Cross once he looked presentable. The well-suspended Muggle vehicle had whisked him swiftly back to Little Whinging in comfort, smooth and silent as it glided down the streets. A curt nod passed between him and the driver, who tipped his hat and returned to the sedan, driving off without a sound.
For a moment, Harry stood alone on the driveway, his green eyes sweeping over the familiar street. The neatly trimmed lawns, the identical houses, the soft glow from nearby windows—it was all exactly as he had left it, yet it couldn't have felt further away. He was a visitor here, a specter from another world. His gaze shifted to the house. The curtains in the front window twitched, and a narrow sliver of light caught the edge of Aunt Petunia's face, her sharp features watching from the shadows. Her eyes darted away as quickly as she had appeared.
Harry's expression remained unchanged. There was no irritation, no nostalgia. He adjusted his grip on the trunk and Hedwig's cage, then made his way up the path to the door.
He knocked once. The delay that followed was not unfamiliar—he could almost feel the Dursleys, frozen on the other side, unwilling to acknowledge him. When the door finally creaked open, it revealed Vernon, his massive frame blocking the doorway. His face flushed purple, eyes bulging slightly as he took in the sight of Harry, standing tall and calm on the threshold.
"Well?" Vernon grunted, stepping aside without further word.
Harry walked inside, his steps steady, purposeful. The house felt small now, suffocating in its sameness. His gaze drifted briefly to the cupboard under the stairs—where he had spent years of his life, imprisoned in a world that had tried to make him small. But the sight stirred nothing in him now. That past had long since been left behind.
Without a word, Harry turned his attention to the staircase, his mind already on the second bedroom—the one that had been Dudley's spare room until Harry had claimed it on his last stay. He hadn't asked for permission, and none had been offered. That unspoken understanding still hung between him and the Dursleys, the tension palpable in the silence of the house.
He set down his trunk and Hedwig's cage lightly in the entryway. Vernon shifted awkwardly in place, clearly itching to close the door and retreat back to his armchair.
"Staying long, then?" Vernon muttered, his gaze flicking nervously between Harry and the hallway as if hoping to be rid of him as quickly as possible.
Harry's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just for the night."
Aunt Petunia emerged behind Vernon, wringing her hands, her eyes avoiding Harry's as if not looking directly at him might make him disappear. Perhaps she remembered some lesson from his mother about the risks of meeting a wizard's gaze. She said nothing, offered nothing, and Harry didn't wait for her to. He began climbing the stairs without another glance in their direction, leaving the tension behind him as easily as he had the house itself.
Upstairs, the air shifted, the silence less oppressive. Harry entered the second bedroom—Dudley's old room, still sparse and untouched since Harry had taken it. It was utilitarian, little more than a place to sleep, and he had never sought to make it more. His fingers brushed the latch of his trunk as he knelt, unpacking only what he would need. A few books, a wand holster, a small enchanted bag.
Hedwig ruffled her feathers softly in her cage, her golden eyes tracking his movements with the quiet understanding they had always shared.
Harry moved with calm precision, each motion measured. His thoughts weren't on the Dursleys downstairs. They hadn't been part of his life for years now. This house, these people—they were mere shadows, remnants of a past he had outgrown. He had learned long ago to strip away distractions, to leave behind what no longer mattered. That lesson had come from Grindelwald, taught early and reinforced over time: real power lay in focus, in cutting through the noise and narrowing one's vision to what truly mattered.
But not all lessons had come from Grindelwald. Another voice had shaped him, quieter but no less profound. Zuberi Chisulo—the man who had tutored him after Grindelwald's rescue, a former prodigy of Uagadou who had taught Harry more than just wandless magic. Zuberi's lessons had been about balance, not dominance. "Control is more than strength, Harry. It's knowing when to act, and when to hold back," Zuberi had said more than once during their long, methodical training sessions.
Zuberi's calm, reflective approach had offered a counterbalance to Grindelwald's sharp focus on ambition and power. While Grindelwald had drilled into Harry the need to shed weakness, Zuberi had taught him the more subtle art of self-mastery, of aligning power with restraint. The two philosophies—so different, yet both vital—had shaped Harry's thinking profoundly.
He closed his trunk softly, the latch clicking into place.
The window was open, the cool night air brushing lightly against his skin. It carried with it the quiet of the street below, a world he no longer belonged to. This house, these memories—they were distant now, irrelevant to the wizard he'd grown to be, the Great Wizard he strove to become.
—
The room was dim, the soft glow from the desk lamp casting a narrow beam of light over the parchment in front of him. Harry sat at the old desk, quill in hand, the rhythmic scratching against the page blending into the stillness of the night. The list on the parchment grew longer, each item bringing the journey into sharper focus.
An expanded rucksack. He needed something lightweight but enchanted, capable of holding everything without slowing him down. It must sit comfortably on his back, no matter how long the trek.
Hedwig shifted in her cage, her amber eyes following his movements. "I'll need to pick up more food for you," Harry murmured, glancing at the space next to her cage. Owl treats went on the list. She'd need them for the long stretches ahead, when she might not always be able to hunt.
His thoughts turned to the waterways he'd soon encounter. An enchanted kayak—one that could shrink down to the size of a toy and fit neatly into his pack. Perfect for slipping quietly along rivers and lakes, away from prying eyes. His hand moved swiftly across the parchment, a familiar rhythm taking hold.
Magical survival tent. That was next—something that expanded internally, a hidden refuge in the wild, far from any detection. The rain-forest was unforgiving, and he would need more than a simple charm to keep him safe and hidden. A well-placed tent could be the difference between a successful journey and a disaster.
He paused, considering his next move. Hunting would be a necessity. He scratched down another item in his list. Centaur-made bow—a weapon of subtle strength, finely crafted to hit its mark, with arrows that carried natural enchantments to aid in flight. The bow would ground him, connecting him to the magic of the land itself, not just to the spells he wielded.
Next came the magical fishing rod, a tool that would quietly ensure he could eat without drawing attention to himself. His reliance on magic would only stretch so far; some things needed to be done the old-fashioned way.
His quill hovered over the parchment again. Self-watering canisters. They would gather moisture from the air, keeping him hydrated without having to constantly search for fresh water sources. The Amazon's humidity could be an asset if harnessed properly.
Harry sat back for a moment, feeling the weight of each item on the list. He glanced around the room. The small space no longer felt like a bedroom, but like a place of transition—just a stopping point on his way to something bigger. Something necessary.
Portable cooking equipment came next. Compact and enchanted, it would allow him to cook whatever he caught while remaining hidden. He couldn't afford to rely on raw ingredients alone, and this gear would help him make the most of what he could hunt or fish.
He might not need many of these supplies at all for his journey. Perhaps he would be able to buy all the food he needed along the way—after all, he had plenty of Muggle currency, stacks of bills stashed away in the deeper Extended pockets of his robes. Yet, Gellert had always taught him to prepare for the worst. Harry wasn't concerned about the expenditure, and these items would serve him well in the future, if not this summer.
His thoughts shifted to navigation. Enchanted compasses would guide him through the unknown—whether deep in the rain-forest or while traversing new territories in North and Central America. He had a sense of the land, but these would point him toward magical destinations, not just mundane locations.
Finally, he noted down magical guidebooks—not for the Amazon, which he knew well, but for regions he hadn't explored yet. North and Central America were unfamiliar, and he needed all the knowledge he could gather about the magical flora and fauna in those areas, as well as detailed topographic maps. The unknown wasn't a threat, but a challenge—one he had to meet prepared.
Satisfied with the list, Harry folded the parchment and tucked it into his trunk, the steady hum of his thoughts quieting slightly. Each item was a safeguard, a reflection of the training Gellert had instilled in him. Strategy wasn't just about magic—it was about anticipating needs before they arose, about being two steps ahead of anyone who might follow.
As he stood, the room felt almost empty, the detachment complete. Hedwig ruffled her feathers, watching him with quiet understanding. "Tomorrow," Harry whispered to her, "we move on."
He cast one last look around the room before settling in for the night. Outside, the darkness stretched on, full of promise and the unknown, waiting to welcome him.
—
The alley was bustling with life, witches and wizards flitting between shops, their robes sweeping in the air as they passed each other. The chatter of the crowd formed a steady hum, broken occasionally by the sharp call of a vendor or the creak of a shop's door opening and closing. Harry kept his head down, moving easily with the flow of people, blending into the rhythm of the alley without ever standing still for too long.
He had entered through a quieter, back entrance, far from the main entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. The familiar brick walls and cobbled streets felt distant, almost foreign, like something from a life he had left behind. Diagon Alley hummed with the ordinary, but Harry wasn't part of that anymore. Today, he was just a shadow passing through.
He adjusted his steps, aligning them with a group of shoppers ahead, their presence shielding him as they wandered from shop to shop. It wasn't magic that kept him hidden, but movement—the simple art of blending into the patterns around him. Gellert had taught him that: Stay in plain sight, follow the patterns of the environment, and you'll be invisible. Harry shifted with the crowd, his movements fluid, unhurried, a part of the alley but apart from it.
His first stop was a specialized outfitter's shop, tucked into the quieter part of the alley, away from the bustling central thoroughfare. He slipped inside unnoticed, the bell on the door barely making a sound. The shopkeeper greeted him, polite but disinterested, the perfect kind of interaction. Harry made straight for the back shelves, where the expedition gear was stored.
First, shelter. He found the correction section and read through the descriptions on the pamphlets next to each tent, selecting the cheapest one that met his requirements.
Next, transportation. He ran his hand along the edge of the enchanted kayak, its smooth surface shrinking down into a compact, almost weightless size in his palm. He nodded to himself—this would work.
Last, storage. He tested the expanded rucksack next, careful to assess the enchantments woven into its seams by extending his magical aura until it brushed against them. Strong. Durable. He'd have space for everything and still move light. It felt good, reassuring.
With a quiet nod to the shopkeeper, Harry placed a sizable pile of Galleons on the counter, exchanging no more words than necessary. He swiftly packed his purchases into his new rucksack, slung it over a shoulder, and slipped back into the alley.
The crowd seemed thicker now, but Harry was well-practiced, falling into step behind a tall wizard and his family. The man's booming voice drew attention—perfect. Harry walked in their shadow, slipping past shops and blending into the ebb and flow of the crowd. His next stop was just ahead: a hunting supply store.
The shop's interior was dark, filled with the earthy smell of wood and leather. Harry's eyes immediately found what he was looking for: the Centaur-made bow. He could feel its weight before he even picked it up, the smooth, polished wood humming with a natural power. No artificial enchantments here—just the craftsmanship of creatures who understood the balance between the hunter and the world around them.
The shopkeeper gave a low whistle as Harry inspected the bow. "Fine piece, that. Rare."
Harry nodded once, letting his fingers run along the bowstring, testing its tension. Perfect. He added a quiver of arrows, their fletching sleek and understated. The shopkeeper lingered a moment too long, his gaze curious, but Harry offered no opening for conversation. He paid swiftly and left before any further attention could fall on him.
Back in the alley, Harry felt the faint prickle of being watched. He didn't turn. Instead, he drifted with the crowd, adjusting his pace, letting his path curve naturally toward the edge of the street. He slid into the shadow of a nearby cart, using the distraction of a group of teenagers causing a ruckus to lose himself in the movement. A glance to his left confirmed it—no one was following.
He crossed the alley and ducked into a small survival gear shop. Inside, the shelves were packed with practical tools for wizards traveling beyond the comforts of the magical world. Harry quickly gathered the self-watering canisters and portable cooking equipment, noting the compact size and efficient design. The fewer pieces, the better. These would allow him to move light, keep hidden, and stay away from populated areas for as long as needed.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention—a shop assistant eyeing him a little too closely. Harry adjusted his stance, waiting for the perfect moment, then stepped behind a family as they exited the store. In their shadow, he slipped out unnoticed.
His final stop was the second-hand bookshop, nestled away in a secluded part of the Alley and nearly empty. Good, his luck was holding.
Inside, Harry scanned the shelves until his eyes landed on what he'd come for: magical guidebooks for North and Central America. The spines were faded, but the contents were fresh—full of knowledge about the creatures and landscapes of regions he had never ventured into before. He flicked through a few pages, taking note of flora he hadn't encountered before, creatures he'd need to recognize on sight.
The shopkeeper barely looked up as Harry paid, content with the quiet of the near-empty store. Harry took one last glance at the guidebooks before sliding them into his rucksack, ready for what lay ahead.
As he stepped back into the alley, the familiar tension returned. A brief glance around told him no one was watching, but he knew better than to relax. With his rucksack now filled with everything he needed, Harry slipped into the flow of the crowd one last time, his pace steady and his steps aligned with the ebb and flow of the shoppers around him.
By the time he reached the far edge of Diagon Alley, the tension had eased, but his mind stayed sharp. He had what he needed. Now, it was time to put the plan into motion.
—
King's Cross Station was a symphony of movement, the rush of bodies and the clang of train announcements creating a rhythmic backdrop to the late afternoon. Harry navigated the concourse with practiced ease, his rucksack hanging lightly over one shoulder. He slipped between clusters of travelers with barely a glance, letting their urgency shield him from view. His steps were unhurried, yet precise—each one taken with purpose, as though the crowds were part of a larger choreography only he understood.
Ahead, the entrance to the Underground loomed, and Harry descended into the depths of the station without breaking stride. The cool air of the tunnels greeted him as he reached the platform for the Piccadilly Line, the familiar hum of the approaching train vibrating beneath his feet. The bustle of tourists and commuters barely registered as Harry stepped onto the train, slipping into a seat near the window.
The doors hissed shut, and the train jolted to life. As it began its journey toward Heathrow, Harry watched the darkness flicker past the window, his gaze distant. He leaned back in his seat, letting the rhythm of the train guide his thoughts. His mind was already moving ahead—past London, past Boston, past the familiar and into the unknown.
He wasn't worried. He'd prepared for every possible variable, and the forged documents tucked neatly in his jacket were just one piece of the puzzle. He hadn't given them a second thought as he'd handed them over at the ticket counter earlier. They had passed without so much as a blink from the Muggle staff, exactly as they were meant to.
As the train sped past the stations—Green Park, South Kensington, Hammersmith—Harry pulled a guidebook from his rucksack, the well-worn cover rough against his fingertips. He flipped through the pages on Central America, skimming sections on flora and fauna he hadn't encountered before. His eyes darted over illustrations of dense jungles and hidden magical creatures, cataloging the information quickly. The Amazon was familiar ground to him, but North and Central America would be different—new landscapes, new rules. He'd need to adapt quickly, but that was something he excelled at.
The train slowed as it approached Heathrow, and Harry tucked the guidebook away. He joined the steady stream of travelers filing out onto the platform, the air thick with the scent of jet fuel and airport coffee. Heathrow was vast and humming with energy, its glassy architecture towering above him as he moved through the terminal. The polished floors reflected the bright lights, and the murmur of languages from all corners of the world washed over him.
He passed through the airport with the same practiced grace, his path weaving smoothly through the crowd. As he approached the check-in counter, Harry pulled out the forged documents, handing them over without hesitation. The airport official, a man with tired eyes and a voice worn thin by repetition, barely glanced at them. A quick stamp, a polite nod, and Harry was waved through. He slipped the papers back into his jacket, his expression neutral, though the satisfaction of moving unnoticed lingered at the edge of his thoughts.
Security was next. The rhythmic beep of the metal detectors blended with the low murmur of the passengers in line, but Harry's attention was elsewhere, his senses attuned to the movements around him. A security officer gave him a brief, lingering glance, but Harry didn't react. His posture remained relaxed, his movements steady. A slight shift in the crowd drew the officer's attention away, and Harry slipped through the checkpoint without further notice, as planned.
Heathrow's Terminal 3 sprawled before him, a labyrinth of glass, steel, and the occasional scent of expensive perfume from the duty-free shops. Families clustered near gates, their conversations blending into a dull roar, while business travelers moved with purpose, eyes glued to their phones. Harry walked with the flow of the crowd, unhurried yet efficient, never lingering long enough to draw attention. His clothes were simple, the kind that wouldn't raise an eyebrow in a place like this.
As he neared his gate, Harry found a quiet spot by the window, leaning casually against the plate glass. The planes outside rolled across the tarmac, their engines humming, their wings catching the last light of the day. He watched them for a moment, his mind flickering between the present and the journey ahead. North and Central America. He'd have to rely on his instincts and the guidebooks tucked in his rucksack, but that didn't bother him. The unknown wasn't something to fear—it was a challenge, a test. And Harry had always thrived on tests.
The hum of the terminal filled the background, but Harry remained focused. His eyes scanned the crowd, picking out small details without really looking—families gathered near the gates, the steady shuffle of passengers boarding flights. It was all background noise, nothing more. His thoughts were already shifting to Boston, to the next step of the journey.
When the announcement for his flight came over the speaker, Harry stood, adjusting the strap of his rucksack with a practiced motion. He joined the line to board, his expression calm, his focus razor-sharp. He had planned every detail, every step, and now it was all unfolding as it should.
Once seated, Harry felt the steady thrum of the plane's engines beneath him, a faint vibration that filled the cabin as the plane taxied toward the runway. Outside, Heathrow began to fall away, shrinking into the distance as the plane lifted into the sky.