Helped with A.I
The night was bitter with November frost, a sharp wind cutting through the air like the whispers of a thousand restless ghosts. Godric's Hollow lay in ruins, its serenity shattered by betrayal and bloodshed. High above the village, Albus Dumbledore surveyed the wreckage with solemn eyes, his expression unreadable under the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat. In his arms lay the savior of the wizarding world—a fragile infant swaddled in blankets far too thin for the chill of destiny's hand.
The boy slept, his breath shallow, his forehead marked by the lightning bolt scar—a cruel testament to his survival and the power that had vanquished the Dark Lord. Dumbledore placed him gently on the doorstep of Number Four, Privet Drive, a neatly folded letter resting atop the bundle. He stepped back into the shadows, his silhouette fading as the orange glow of streetlights flickered. A sigh escaped his lips as he vanished into the night, leaving fate to decide the rest.
Weeks passed in quiet resentment within the Dursley household. Petunia's loathing grew unchecked, her husband's disgust fueling her spite. The boy was an anomaly, an unwelcome disruption in their immaculate, orderly lives. It was Vernon who finally spoke the unthinkable as they sat at the breakfast table one morning, Dudley's tantrum ringing through the air like a war drum.
"An orphanage," he said, his voice dripping with finality. "Let them deal with the freak. It's not our responsibility."
Petunia hesitated for a moment, her gaze flickering to the child sitting silently on the floor, green eyes far too large for his tiny face. But the hesitation passed, replaced by an icy resolve. That same evening, the boy was packed into a plain pram with no more ceremony than a forgotten parcel. They left him on the steps of a weathered orphanage on the outskirts of Little Whinging.
The door creaked open, revealing a matron whose face was as hard as the winter chill. She peered down at the boy and the note pinned to his blanket, her mouth curling in displeasure. "Another mouth to feed," she muttered, dragging the child inside. The door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through the empty street.
Ten years later, Harry Potter sat on the threadbare mattress in the attic of that orphanage, his gaze fixed on the barred window above him. His body was lean, wiry from years of deprivation, his skin a canvas of bruises and scars—a testament to a decade of cruelty. But it was his eyes that told the true story, a chilling tale of bitterness and quiet rage. They were sharp, predatory, devoid of the innocence one might expect of a child his age.
"I suppose you think I should feel something for them," Harry mused to himself, his voice low, more growl than whisper. "Gratitude, pity, guilt? They thought they could break me, but all they did was sharpen the edges. Fools."
He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms until they drew blood. He welcomed the pain; it reminded him of his purpose.
"Power," he murmured, the word rolling off his tongue like a prayer. "I will have it. I will wield it, and no one—no one—will ever hold me down again."
The memory of every sneer, every kick, every insult was etched into his mind like scars upon his soul. Harry Potter was no longer a boy; he was a storm brewing, a tempest waiting to unleash its fury. The weak deserved their fate—servitude, suffering, oblivion. They were tools to be used, pawns in the game he intended to win.
The attic was both Harry's prison and his sanctuary. It was where he first realized that he wasn't like the others. The peeling walls and creaky floors, filled with the smell of dust and decay, became the backdrop of his growing isolation. He never cried out, never screamed for help. Harry understood early on that there was no one to hear him. There was only power, and he would claim it, in whatever way he could.
The other children were weak—sniveling, unimportant. They fought for scraps, for fleeting moments of affection from the matron, for the smallest crumbs of happiness. But Harry knew something they didn't: strength was all that mattered. And he would be strong.
The first time he truly understood his difference was when he was five years old. He had been angry, the way he often was in the orphanage, with its oppressive rules and meaningless routines. Someone had pushed him—one of the older boys. A shove, a sneer, and a mocking laugh. It was nothing new, but it was enough to make the anger bubble up inside him, something dark and hungry that he couldn't name.
The room had felt wrong, thick with tension. He had stood there, fists clenched, and suddenly, the door to his room slammed shut with a deafening crash. No one had touched it. The boy who had shoved him had looked at the door, his eyes wide in confusion. But Harry had known. It had been him. Without thinking, without even trying, he had made it happen. The door was nothing more than an object, a thing in the way, and he had willed it to respond.
At first, Harry hadn't understood what had happened. He didn't know how he had done it, but he felt it—felt the surge of something powerful rushing through him. It made him feel... alive. It was a feeling he craved, a hunger he couldn't silence.
By the time he turned seven, Harry knew his abilities were unlike anything the other children could comprehend. He could make things float, could move them with just a thought. A spoon, a pillow, a book—all would obey his commands, hovering in the air before him like pieces on a chessboard. He was careful, though. He kept his talents hidden, cloaking them beneath the mask of a quiet, seemingly ordinary boy.
But Harry was far from ordinary.
The more he tested his powers in secret, the more he realized how much control he had over them. He could break things—small things at first, then bigger ones—until the walls around him trembled. He could snap the lock on the attic door without a sound, and sometimes, he would let the power surge within him, just to feel the thrill of it. He reveled in it, the sheer audacity of it, of knowing that he could do what none of the others could.
The matron, a stout woman with a face like stone, had grown suspicious of him. She often watched him from the doorway, her eyes narrowing whenever she caught him staring at something with an intensity that unsettled her. But Harry didn't care. Her presence was nothing. She was just another weakling, just like the others.
Harry's mind, sharp and calculating, was already light-years ahead of them. He knew what he wanted. He knew that the world was full of fools, too busy with their small, pathetic lives to see the truth. The truth that strength was the only thing that mattered, that those with power ruled, and those without were doomed to serve. He was a king in the making, and he would have his throne.
It was on his tenth birthday that Harry fully embraced the path ahead of him. His birthday had been no different from any other—a cold meal in the dining hall, a mockery of celebration with nothing but pitiful words of congratulations from the staff. The other children hadn't even noticed, too caught up in their own insignificant lives to realize that Harry was not like them.
That evening, Harry locked himself in the attic once more, as he had done many times before. This time, however, his thoughts were clearer, sharper than ever. He had learned to control the surge of power within him, and tonight, he would push it further.
A broken chair sat in the corner, discarded and forgotten. With a thought, Harry raised it into the air, his mind wrapping around it like a vice. The chair spun slowly, then faster, twirling before him like a puppeteer's marionette. He focused harder, willing it to move further, higher. The chair hovered above his head, a silent monument to his will.
"Is this what I am?" Harry whispered, his voice echoing off the walls. "A god among insects?"
The thought both terrified and exhilarated him. There was something monstrous about it, but that was what he was becoming, wasn't it? He could feel the hunger grow, the insatiable need for control, for power, to crush everything around him under his heel.
Over the next few months, Harry became bolder. He used his talents to torment the other children, never letting them know what was really happening, just small, unsettling moments designed to break them. A glass shattering in the kitchen, a chair tilting dangerously under someone's weight, a loud bang in the dead of night. They would jump and whisper about the strange happenings, but Harry said nothing. He simply watched them quiver in fear, delighting in the knowledge that he was the cause.
He had learned to make them believe in things they could not understand. And that, Harry knew, was power.
He was no longer the scared, neglected child they thought he was. He had become something else entirely—something darker, something that thrived on control. And as his mind grew sharper and his abilities stronger, one thought consumed him above all others: he was meant for greatness, for something more than what this wretched orphanage could ever offer.
Harry Potter
The knock at the door startled everyone. Not that I cared. I watched from the corner of the dining hall, carving absentmindedly into the table with the dull blade I'd taken from the kitchen. The sound of the knife dragging against the wood helped drown out the insipid chatter of the other children. They were always yammering about nothing, laughing at jokes that weren't funny, clinging to each other like the pack of weaklings they were.
The matron shuffled to the door, her usual sour expression hardening into something curious. Visitors were rare—unheard of, really. I barely looked up. What did it matter?
And then I heard the voice.
"Good afternoon. I am Professor Minerva McGonagall. I'm here to speak with one of your wards—a Harry Potter."
My knife stopped mid-scratch. For a moment, the dining hall seemed to fall away, the clatter of plates and the prattle of children fading into silence. My name. Someone had come for me.
The matron called my name, her voice uncertain, almost nervous. That was new. I stood, letting the knife clatter to the table. As I walked past the other children, their wide-eyed stares followed me. Good. Let them stare. Let them wonder.
She was waiting in the doorway—a tall woman dressed in robes of deep green, her presence commanding. Everything about her spoke of authority, from the sharpness of her gaze to the way she stood, her back straight as a blade. But there was something else, too. Something I couldn't quite place.
She looked... disappointed. Disappointed and—what was that? Concerned? For me?
"Harry Potter," she said, her voice steady but quiet.
I tilted my head, studying her the way I studied everyone. She was calm, composed, but I could see the cracks—tiny hesitations in her expression, her fingers tightening around the letter she held. She was wary of me. I liked that.
"And you are?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she answered anyway.
"I am Professor McGonagall. I've come to deliver something very important to you."
Her hand moved, pulling an envelope from her robes. My eyes flicked to it, and something twisted in my chest—a spark of recognition. She reached out, holding the letter toward me, and I snatched it from her grasp. My fingers closed around the parchment, feeling its weight, its purpose. My name was written on it in flowing script, every detail painstakingly correct:
Mr. H. Potter
The Attic
Wool's Orphanage
Little Whinging, Surrey
The attic. They knew where I lived. They'd known all along.
I glanced at the wax seal, the strange crest pressed into the crimson blob—a lion, a serpent, a badger, and a raven. My fingers worked quickly, breaking the seal and unfolding the letter inside.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...
Witchcraft. Wizardry. I read the words again, slower this time, letting them sink in. My chest tightened, a knot of vindication and fury twisting together. I was right. I'd always known. I wasn't like them, the sniveling fools who spent their days groveling for scraps of attention. I was more. Better.
"So," I said, my voice even, though I could feel the storm building inside me. "This confirms it."
The woman tilted her head, her brow furrowing. "Confirms what?"
"That I'm not like them." I jerked my chin toward the dining hall, where the children were still whispering and peeking around the corner. Their wide-eyed curiosity made me want to laugh. Pathetic.
McGonagall's face tightened, her lips thinning further. "Hogwarts is a place where you'll learn to control your abilities," she said, her tone carefully measured. "It's a school for gifted individuals like yourself."
"Control and use," I murmured, more to myself than to her. The words tasted good, powerful. Yes, I could work with that.
Her eyes softened for a moment—pity. She looked at me like I was some tragic case, a boy who needed saving. I wanted to snarl at her, to tear that look off her face. But I didn't. Let her think what she wanted. Let her believe I was a child who needed guidance.
"You'll need to prepare," she said finally, her tone brisk again. "Your school supplies will be purchased in Diagon Alley, a wizarding marketplace. I'll arrange for someone to accompany you."
"I'll manage," I said, my voice flat. I didn't need anyone's help. I never had.
Her lips twitched, but she didn't argue. "Be that as it may, arrangements will still be made. I'll be in touch."
She turned to leave, her robes sweeping behind her, but I caught a flicker of hesitation as she stepped onto the threshold. She glanced back at me, her eyes lingering. For a moment, I thought she might say something more, but she didn't. She simply nodded and walked away.
The attic was quiet, save for the faint sound of the wind brushing against the cracked window. I sat cross-legged on the creaking floorboards, the letter resting in my lap. My fingers traced the words again and again, as though the ink itself held the key to a door I had been waiting my whole life to open.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
They'd hidden this from me. Whoever they were—these wizards, this school, this "magical" world—they had kept me here, in this filth, rotting away with these animals. They'd left me to claw my way to survival, to endure years of indignities and brutality. Did they think I'd forget? That I wouldn't remember every sneer, every bruise, every pathetic attempt to break me?
No, I wouldn't forget. And I wouldn't forgive.
I unfolded the second sheet of parchment—a list of supplies. A robe, a cauldron, books. A wand. My eyes lingered on that last word. A wand. The tool of a wizard, a symbol of power. My power.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I allowed myself a flicker of something close to anticipation. Not happiness—happiness was a lie for fools—but the thrill of potential. This would be my chance to rise above it all, to claim what was mine by right.
The days passed slowly as I waited for whatever arrangements Professor McGonagall had promised. I spent the time as I always did: alone, observing. The other children were even more unbearable than usual, their whispers and stolen glances grating on my nerves. They'd seen the letter. They knew something was different about me, though they couldn't possibly understand.
"Do you think he's leaving?" one of them muttered, a sniveling boy whose name I couldn't bother to remember. "Maybe he's going to a special school."
"Good," another one said, a girl with matted hair. "He's creepy. Always staring. Always… weird."
I smiled to myself, letting their words wash over me like rain. They were so predictable, so small. Soon, I'd be gone, and they'd fade into nothingness. Just shadows in my past.
The morning of my departure came unceremoniously. The matron knocked on the attic door, her face as sour as ever. "Someone's here for you," she said, her tone clipped.
I didn't reply. I gathered the few things I cared to take—mostly just the letter—and followed her downstairs.
Professor McGonagall was waiting outside, her green robes standing out starkly against the drab gray of the orphanage. She nodded as I approached, her sharp eyes scanning me as though she were trying to see something hidden beneath the surface. Good luck with that, I thought. I'd learned long ago how to keep people from seeing the real me.
"Mr. Potter," she said, her tone brisk but carrying an undercurrent of something I couldn't quite place. Pity, perhaps. Concern. It didn't matter. "Are you ready?"
I tilted my head, studying her as I had before. "I said I was ready."
She nodded, though her lips tightened slightly at my response. "Very well. We'll be traveling by apparition. Have you ever—no, of course you haven't." She paused, holding out her hand. "You'll need to take my hand."
I stared at it, the thin, pale fingers stretched toward me. It took every ounce of restraint I had not to recoil. Touching people, letting them invade even that much of my space—it disgusted me. But I wasn't stupid. This woman held the key to the world I was about to enter, and for now, I needed her.
I reached out, gripping her hand firmly. Her gaze flicked to mine, and I saw the briefest flicker of unease. Good. Let her feel it. Let her know what she's dealing with.
"Hold on tightly," she said, her voice steady but her grip stiff. Then, with a sharp twist, the world fell away.
It was like being pulled through a tunnel, every part of me compressed and stretched at once. My stomach lurched, and for a moment, I thought I might be sick. Then, just as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. I stumbled slightly as my feet hit solid ground, but I steadied myself quickly, refusing to show weakness.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," McGonagall said, releasing my hand.
The street before us was unlike anything I'd ever seen. Shops lined the cobblestone road, their signs painted with strange, swirling letters. People in robes bustled about, carrying odd-looking packages or chatting animatedly. There was a strange energy in the air, something that hummed just beneath the surface, and for the first time, I felt a twinge of curiosity. This was the world I was meant for.
But I didn't let it show. Instead, I turned to McGonagall, my voice flat. "And now?"
She hesitated, her sharp eyes scanning me again. I could tell she was trying to read me, trying to decide how much to say. "We'll start with your wand," she said finally. "It's the most important tool a young wizard can have. But first—"
She paused, and I saw something shift in her expression. "Harry," she began, her voice softer now, "don't you want to know? About Hogwarts? About your parents?"
Her words hit me like a cold wind. My parents. The word felt foreign, meaningless. I'd spent years watching other children cry for their parents, wishing for letters, for visits. I had never joined them. Parents were just another weakness, another excuse for the weak to cling to.
"No," I said, my voice sharp. "I don't care about them."
McGonagall blinked, taken aback. "But surely—"
"They're dead," I said simply, cutting her off. "What else is there to know?"
Her mouth opened slightly, as if she were going to protest, but then she stopped. She was studying me again, her expression tinged with something darker this time. "They loved you, Harry," she said quietly. "They gave their lives for you."
I laughed—a cold, hollow sound that seemed to startle her. "Love. What good did that do them? What good has it ever done me?"
McGonagall's face tightened, and for a moment, I thought she might lash out. But then she sighed, her shoulders sinking slightly. "You've been through more than any child should," she said, almost to herself. "But Hogwarts can be a new beginning. A chance to—"
"To what?" I interrupted, my voice cutting through her words like a blade. "To be like them? Weak and blind and clinging to dreams that don't exist?"
Her eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, I thought she might walk away, might leave me here and decide I wasn't worth the effort. But she didn't. Instead, she straightened her back, her expression hardening.
"Believe what you like," she said, her tone firm now. "But there is more to this world—and to yourself—than you realize. You'll see soon enough."
I smirked, turning away from her to look at the street before me. "We'll see," I muttered. "But don't expect me to be impressed."
The grand hall of Gringotts stretched endlessly, its towering marble columns gleaming under the green glow of enchanted lanterns. The air was cold, stagnant, and thick with the weight of generations' worth of wealth. Goblins scurried about like insects, their sharp features twisted into permanent expressions of greed and calculation. Every step we took echoed unnaturally, swallowed by the oppressive stillness of the space.
Professor McGonagall walked beside me, her posture stiff, her expression unreadable. She had explained the purpose of this trip in brief, clipped sentences as we'd entered the bank: my vault, my inheritance, my "legacy." Words that meant nothing to me. Words for someone else.
"This," she began, her voice low but firm as we approached the center of the hall, "is Gringotts, the wizarding bank. It's run by goblins, as you've seen, and it is unmatched in its security. No safer place for your parents'—"
"Don't," I interrupted, my voice flat. "Don't call them my parents."
She stopped mid-step, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Harry," she said carefully, turning to face me. "They were your parents. And they left this for you. It's important you understand—"
"What's important," I said coldly, cutting her off, "is that I don't care. They left me? Congratulations. So did everyone else."
Her jaw tightened, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly, but she didn't respond immediately. I could see the flicker of emotion in her face—controlled, restrained, but there. A small, almost imperceptible crack in her composure.
We stood there in silence for a long moment, the murmur of the goblins and the clink of coins in the background. Finally, she drew herself up, her voice colder now, though not unkind. "Regardless of how you feel about them, Harry, they left this for you. And whether or not you care for it, you need it."
"I need nothing from them," I said, my tone sharp and emotionless. "They died, didn't they? Whatever they thought I needed clearly wasn't enough to keep them alive. So why should I trust they knew anything about what's good for me?"
Her face stiffened, her lips parting slightly as though to speak, but she stopped herself. Instead, she inhaled deeply through her nose, her fingers tightening slightly around her wand. "Harry," she said quietly, her voice calm but strained. "I understand that you've had a... difficult life. But don't make the mistake of thinking their sacrifice was meaningless. They gave everything for you."
"And they failed," I said simply, my gaze unwavering. "Whatever they gave wasn't enough. And now you're telling me I'm supposed to take this... charity? Their guilt? No."
Her expression faltered, her eyes softening in a way that made my skin crawl. "It's not charity," she said gently. "It's their love for you, Harry. The only way they could protect you after they were gone."
I let out a short, cold laugh, the sound cutting through the air like a knife. "Love?" I repeated, my tone dripping with disdain. "That's a useless word. It didn't keep me warm. It didn't stop them from dying. It didn't stop the orphanage from being a prison. Love is meaningless. Power is what matters."
Her mouth tightened, and for the first time, I saw something like anger flash in her eyes. "Power," she said sharply, her voice rising slightly, "without purpose leads to destruction, Harry. And it is love—"
"Spare me," I snapped, my voice low and icy. "You're trying to teach me lessons that mean nothing to me. I've survived this long without their love or their money. I'll survive without it now."
Her composure broke, just slightly. "This isn't about survival anymore," she said, her voice trembling at the edges, though her tone remained firm. "This is about living, Harry. You're not in that orphanage anymore. You're not alone. You don't have to be."
"I choose to be," I said coldly. "Alone is stronger. Alone is safer. What I don't need is a vault full of gold to remind me that the only people who were supposed to care about me are nothing but a memory."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Her expression shifted, the anger fading, replaced by something deeper—something almost mournful. But I didn't care. Her pity was as meaningless as the legacy she wanted to drag me toward.
She straightened, pulling herself back into her usual composure. "Very well," she said, her voice cool but tinged with sadness. "If that's how you feel, wait here. I'll retrieve what's necessary."
I watched as she turned and strode toward one of the goblin counters, her steps quick and precise. The space around me felt colder, the weight of the hall pressing down like a suffocating hand. I crossed my arms, leaning against one of the marble columns, my gaze drifting over the goblins scurrying around like ants. Their world was built on hoarded power, locked behind walls and doors. My world had taught me that power was taken, earned, forged in struggle—not handed out in bags of gold.
When McGonagall returned, she carried a small leather bag, its weight evident in the way it pulled against her hand. She stopped in front of me, her expression carefully controlled, though there was an unmistakable tension in her movements.
"This," she said, holding out the bag, "is enough for your school supplies. And for whatever else you may need."
I didn't take it immediately, my gaze locking onto hers. "And when it runs out?"
"There's more," she said simply. "But you won't run out. Not unless you're reckless."
"I don't need it," I said, my voice cold.
"You do," she said, her tone firm but softening. "You may not think so now, Harry, but you will. Take it."
I reached for the bag, my movements deliberate, the leather cold against my skin. It felt heavier than it should have, like it carried more than just gold. It carried expectations, legacies, ghosts.
"This changes nothing," I said quietly, my voice flat. "I don't owe them. Or you."
Her gaze softened again, her lips pressing into a faint line. "No, Harry," she said gently. "You don't owe anyone. But you do owe yourself the chance to live."
I said nothing, turning away from her and the suffocating weight of Gringotts. Whatever chance she thought I had wasn't hers to give. I didn't need chances. I didn't need legacies. I didn't need anyone.
Power was all that mattered. And I would take it on my terms.
As we made our way down the bustling street, I couldn't help but let my mind wander. Hogwarts. A school for people like me. Wizards and witches, the letter had said. And yet, even in this crowd, I felt it—the same thing I'd felt in the orphanage, in every room I'd ever entered.
I was different. Not just from the people I'd left behind, but from these people too. I wasn't one of them. I was something more.
And soon, they would all know it.
The bell above the door jingled as we stepped into the shop. It was smaller than I'd expected, cramped with racks of robes in every imaginable shade of black. The smell of fabric and old parchment lingered in the air, a strange combination that tickled at the edges of my nose. Behind the counter stood a stern-looking woman with pinched features and a measuring tape draped over her shoulders.
"Madam Malkin," Professor McGonagall said briskly. "This is Mr. Potter. He'll need the full set of Hogwarts uniforms."
Madam Malkin's eyes flicked to me, her expression softening into what might have been an attempt at warmth. "Ah, of course. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter. Come along, stand over here, and we'll get you fitted in no time."
I followed her wordlessly to a raised platform in the corner of the shop, where a tall mirror reflected my thin, wiry frame. I stepped onto the platform and stood still as Madam Malkin bustled around me, muttering about lengths and hems as she pinned fabric against my shoulders.
I caught sight of McGonagall in the mirror. She stood a few paces away, watching me with that same appraising look she always seemed to wear. It made my skin prickle. I wasn't used to people watching me—not like that, anyway. It wasn't the fearful glance of a child in the orphanage or the disapproving scowl of the matron. It was something else. Calculating.
"Mr. Potter," she said suddenly, breaking the silence. "I need to attend to a few errands while you're here. Madam Malkin will take good care of you, and I'll return shortly."
My reflection smirked. "Leaving me already, Professor?"
Her lips twitched, but she didn't rise to the bait. "I'll only be a few minutes," she said, her tone firm. "Please behave yourself."
She turned and strode out of the shop, the bell jingling again as the door swung shut behind her.
The doorbell chimed, a hollow sound that reverberated through the stillness of the shop. I didn't turn immediately. Instead, I let the presence of the boy wash over me—his footsteps, light but assured; the faint swish of fabric as he moved with the ease of someone accustomed to having space made for him. He was deliberate, arrogant, and utterly blind to how fragile he was.
He approached, his shadow cutting across the polished floor like a blade. I remained still, waiting, savoring the tension as he paused just a few paces away. Finally, I turned, letting my gaze rise to meet his.
He was pale, his hair sleek and shining as if it had been spun from ice. His sharp features held the faintest smirk, a mask of self-assured superiority. He reminded me of a bird perched on a high branch—fragile bones cloaked in feathers, blissfully unaware of the hawk circling above.
"You must be here for Hogwarts," he said, his voice smooth but with a touch of condescension that grated like sandpaper. "First year, I suppose?"
I tilted my head slightly, studying him. His posture, his tone, even the way he held his hands—it all spoke of someone who believed they were invincible. The kind of belief only fools and the sheltered possess.
"And if I am?" I replied, my voice soft, measured.
His smirk widened, as if he'd uncovered some great truth. "Thought so. You've got that look—new, uncertain. First time in Diagon Alley, I'd wager."
I let the silence stretch, watching as his confidence faltered ever so slightly. When I finally spoke, my tone was like silk stretched taut. "And you? Are you here to play the guide, or merely to hear yourself speak?"
The faintest flicker of annoyance crossed his face, but he recovered quickly. "I'm Draco Malfoy," he said, extending a pale hand toward me. His movements were precise, rehearsed. A noble's gesture, meant to command respect.
I glanced at his hand, then slowly let my gaze rise back to his face. I didn't move to take it. The smirk on his lips froze, faltered. He withdrew his hand, brushing it against his robes as though the rejection hadn't stung.
"And you are?" he asked, his voice sharper now.
"Harry Potter," I said simply.
His reaction was subtle, but I saw it all—the widening of his eyes, the faint tightening of his jaw. He knew the name, of course. Everyone did. And now, he was recalculating, reassessing the boy standing before him. Good.
"The Harry Potter," he said, his voice softening into something almost reverent. "I'd heard you'd be starting this year. I must admit, I thought you'd be... different."
"Different how?" I asked, my lips curving into a faint smile. It wasn't a friendly smile.
"Well," he said, his smirk returning, though it no longer felt as assured. "I thought you'd be famous already. Surrounded by admirers."
"Admirers," I murmured, letting the word roll off my tongue as if it were foreign. I took a step closer, and he tensed ever so slightly. "Fame is a candle in the dark, Malfoy. It draws the moths, yes. But it also casts shadows."
His gray eyes narrowed, his smirk fading. "Shadows?"
"Power," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that sliced through the air like a scalpel. "The kind of power that doesn't need admirers. The kind that makes them irrelevant."
He blinked, his composure slipping further. "I—yes, well, power is important, of course. My father says—"
"Your father," I interrupted, letting my words cut clean through his. "Do you think he'd approve of you speaking to me this way?"
His mouth opened, then closed. For a moment, his mask cracked, revealing a flicker of fear. Then, he forced himself to smile, though it looked strained now. "I think we'll get along," he said, his voice quieter. "Most of the others will be insufferable. Too many Muggle-borns. No respect for tradition."
"Tradition," I repeated, stepping closer still. He didn't back away, but his shoulders stiffened. "Do you think that's what gives you power, Malfoy? Bloodlines? Names?"
"Of course," he said, though the confidence in his tone was brittle now. "That's the foundation of—"
"No," I said, my voice cutting through his like a scalpel. "Power isn't inherited. It's taken. Earned. Stolen, if need be. And those who can't take it for themselves? They end up like the rest." I gestured vaguely toward the shop around us, the muted hum of voices and bustling movement. "Scraps for the table."
Draco stared at me, his gray eyes wide, his lips parting as if to speak. But no words came. For the first time, he seemed unsure of himself.
Madam Malkin's voice broke the silence, calling from across the shop. "Young Mr. Malfoy, we're ready for your fitting."
Draco straightened, his mask sliding back into place, though it was cracked now. "We'll see each other at Hogwarts, Potter," he said, though his voice lacked its former edge. "I'm sure of it."
He turned and strode toward the fitting platform, his parents following like specters in his wake. I watched him go, my faint smile fading into something colder, sharper.
"Power," I murmured to myself, the word a whisper in the stillness. Draco Malfoy thought he understood it. He thought he could wield it, shape it to his liking. But he was wrong.
Power wasn't something you held. It was something you became. And soon, they would all see.
The bell above the door jingled, heralding the return of Professor McGonagall. I turned toward the sound, my faint smile lingering as I saw her step inside. She held a cage in her hands, its contents concealed by a cloth draped over the top. She moved with the same brisk efficiency she always seemed to carry, but there was something in her expression—an unreadable tightness in her jaw, a flicker of something behind her sharp eyes.
"Finished, Mr. Potter?" she asked, her voice clipped, though not unkind.
I nodded, the faintest inclination of my head. "Quite."
Madam Malkin bustled forward, eager to escape the tension that had been thick in the air since Malfoy's departure. "A pleasure, Professor," she said quickly, passing McGonagall the receipt for the robes before scurrying back to her counter.
McGonagall stepped closer, holding the cage out toward me. "This is for you," she said. "A gift. Every Hogwarts student requires a means of communication, and an owl is both practical and traditional."
My eyes dropped to the cage as I took it from her hands. The cloth shifted slightly, and a soft rustling came from within. Slowly, I pulled the fabric away, revealing the creature inside.
It was beautiful in its simplicity—pure white feathers, sharp golden eyes that met mine with a quiet intensity. The owl tilted its head, observing me as I observed it, its talons gripping the perch with perfect stillness. There was no fear in its gaze, no hesitation. It reminded me of a mirror, reflecting back only what it saw.
"Beautiful, isn't she?" McGonagall said, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. "A snowy owl. They're known for their intelligence and independence."
I traced my fingers over the edge of the cage, the metal cool beneath my touch. "And yet," I murmured, "she's caged."
McGonagall stiffened slightly, her brows knitting together. "Only for travel," she said, her tone firmer. "An owl like this requires freedom. You'll release her when you're ready."
I smiled then, slow and deliberate. "When I'm ready," I repeated, my eyes still locked on the owl's. "Yes. She'll be free when I decide."
The owl blinked once, unperturbed, and I felt a faint ripple of satisfaction. She understood, I thought. Or perhaps she simply didn't care. Either way, it pleased me.
McGonagall cleared her throat, drawing my attention back to her. "I trust you're finding Diagon Alley… enlightening?"
I glanced toward the window, where the bustling street stretched before us like a living tapestry of noise and motion. "It's… educational," I said, choosing the word carefully. "But I can't say I'm impressed."
Her lips thinned, though whether it was from disapproval or something else, I couldn't tell. "You've seen very little of it yet," she said. "There's much more to our world than this street, Mr. Potter. Hogwarts will show you that."
"Hogwarts," I murmured, the word lingering on my tongue. A school. A place to learn, to grow, to understand the true depths of what I could do. The idea was appealing, but only as a stepping stone. A means to an end.
"You seem troubled," McGonagall said, her tone carefully neutral. "Is there something on your mind?"
I turned my gaze to her, letting my expression remain blank. "I've been wondering," I said slowly, "about my parents."
Her sharp intake of breath was subtle, but I caught it. "I see," she said, her voice quieter now. "What exactly have you been wondering?"
I let the silence stretch, savoring the tension that coiled between us. "Why they left me," I said finally. "Why they didn't protect me."
She blinked, and for a moment, the mask of composure slipped. "Harry," she began, her voice softening, "your parents didn't leave you. They gave their lives to save you. They—"
"They died," I said, cutting her off. "And in doing so, they left me defenseless. Whatever their intentions, the result is the same. They're gone, and I was alone."
Her expression tightened, her lips pressing into a thin line. "They loved you," she said firmly. "More than anything. You were their world, Harry."
I chuckled softly, a sound that seemed to unsettle her further. "Love," I said, the word bitter in my mouth. "It's a comforting lie, isn't it? A fairy tale to make the weak feel strong."
"Love is not a lie," she snapped, her tone sharper now. "It's the most powerful force there is."
"Is it?" I asked, tilting my head. "Then why didn't it save them?"
Her silence was telling, and I smiled again, the faintest curve of my lips. "You see? Power doesn't come from love. It comes from control. From understanding what others can't—or won't."
McGonagall stared at me, her gaze heavy with something I couldn't quite name. Pity? Fear? I couldn't tell, and I didn't care. Whatever she felt, it wouldn't change what I knew to be true.
"Come," she said finally, her voice colder now. "There's still much to do."
I followed her out into the street, the owl's cage clutched in my hand. The creature inside was silent, its golden eyes watching me with an intelligence that felt almost familiar. Yes, I thought. She would be useful.
And when the time came, I would decide if she deserved to be free.
The bell above the door let out a hollow chime as I stepped inside Ollivanders. The sound echoed unnaturally, as though the shop was far larger than it appeared. Or perhaps it was just empty—too empty. The air carried a sharp stillness that pressed against my skin, heavy and cloying, like the moments before a storm.
Professor McGonagall's hand rested lightly on my shoulder, a guiding touch that I didn't need or want. Her presence grated against the silence, her crisp movements a discordant note in the stillness. I shrugged her off as I moved further inside, my eyes scanning the shelves that stretched into shadow. Row upon row of long, thin boxes filled every space, stacked haphazardly, as though the place itself was alive and refused order.
"This is where you'll find your wand," McGonagall said, her voice low, reverent. She almost seemed reluctant to speak, as though afraid the shop itself might disapprove.
A wand. The word hung in the air like a whisper, brushing against my thoughts. I knew little of what it meant, only that it was mine to take. The thing I'd been promised. The tool that would turn whispers of power into something real.
The idea unsettled me—not the power itself, but the act of claiming it. I wasn't used to taking things freely. Everything in my life so far had been wrested from cold hands, torn from a world that fought back at every step. Yet here, I was meant to simply... receive. It felt wrong.
Then a voice cut through the silence, soft and sharp all at once. "Mr. Potter."
I turned, and there he was. A man with hair like winter frost and eyes that seemed to cut straight to the marrow of my bones. His pale face was smooth, ageless, and his robes hung from his wiry frame like shadows clinging to flesh. He moved without sound, his footsteps as silent as thought.
"Welcome," he said, his tone more observation than greeting. "I had wondered when I might see you."
"Are you Ollivander?" I asked, my voice steady. Emotionless.
He inclined his head, his pale eyes glinting in the dim light. "Indeed. And you, Harry Potter, have come to claim what is yours."
I bristled at his words. Claim? As though it had been waiting for me all this time. As though it were a gift, and not something I had earned.
"I need a wand," I said bluntly. "That's why I'm here."
Ollivander smiled faintly, his lips barely moving. "Of course. The wand chooses the wizard, after all. But it is not always clear why."
His words irritated me. They suggested uncertainty, and I loathed uncertainty. But I said nothing, watching as he turned and disappeared into the labyrinth of shelves. The faint rustling of boxes and whispered incantations followed him as he searched.
Professor McGonagall stood behind me, silent but watchful. I felt her gaze like a weight on my back. Did she expect something? Did she think this would be some kind of revelation for me?
When Ollivander returned, he carried a box with an almost reverent care. "Let us try this," he said, opening it to reveal a wand of pale ashwood, its surface smooth and unblemished. "Ash and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. A fine wand for a wizard of great potential."
I reached for it, the wood cool against my palm. For a moment, there was nothing, and then a faint vibration, like a breath held too long. I waved it, and a stack of parchment nearby burst into flames.
Ollivander snatched it from my hand immediately, shaking his head. "No," he murmured. "Not right. Not right at all."
The process repeated. Wand after wand was placed in my hands, each one humming with the promise of power, but none of them fit. Too weak. Too timid. Too... ordinary. I could feel their rejection, the way they recoiled as though afraid of me. It was a sensation I'd grown used to.
"You're difficult," Ollivander said softly, almost to himself, as he returned to the shelves. "Very difficult."
Good, I thought, my lips curling faintly. Let them find me difficult.
When he returned, his hands were empty, his pale eyes sharper than before. "Perhaps," he said, almost whispering, "there is one."
He moved to the farthest corner of the shop, his movements deliberate. This time, he didn't simply pull a box from the shelf. He opened a hidden compartment, drawing forth a case wrapped in black silk. When he returned, his expression was guarded, almost wary.
"This," he said, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a wand unlike any I had seen, "is... unique. Blackthorn and basilisk fang. Fourteen inches. Unyielding."
The wand was dark, its surface polished to an almost glasslike sheen. The handle was sharp, etched with jagged runes that seemed to shift as I looked at them. At the tip, faint streaks of green glinted like venom.
"This wand," Ollivander said slowly, "is rare. Dangerous. Not every wizard can wield it."
I reached for it, the weight of his words meaningless to me. The moment my fingers touched the wood, the world seemed to tilt. A surge of energy roared through me, violent and raw, like a tidal wave crashing against the edges of my mind. It wasn't just power—it was hunger, seething and alive, demanding control.
The shop darkened, the air growing heavy and suffocating. The hum of the wand was deafening, a chorus of screams and whispers, all speaking a language I didn't understand but somehow knew.
"Extraordinary," Ollivander breathed, his voice trembling. "I have never seen such a connection."
The wand pulsed in my hand, a living thing. It didn't just fit—it belonged. It was mine, and I was its. Together, we would tear through the world.
"It will do," I said quietly, my voice cold.
Ollivander watched me, his expression inscrutable. "Be careful, Mr. Potter," he said softly. "This wand is... powerful. But power, as you will learn, always has a cost."
I met his gaze, unblinking. "Then I'll pay it."
McGonagall said nothing as we left, though her tension was palpable. The wand hummed against my palm, its weight grounding me, anchoring me to something deeper than I could name.
Whatever this world thought it was offering me, it didn't matter. With this wand, I would take what I needed. What I deserved. And nothing—not rules, not traditions, not people—would stand in my way.
The innkeeper handed Professor McGonagall a brass key with a bow so low it looked like he might topple over. She accepted it with a brisk nod, then motioned for me to follow. The staircase creaked beneath our feet as we ascended to the second floor, the dimly lit corridor lined with heavy wooden doors.
"This will be your room for the night," she said, unlocking one of the doors. It swung open to reveal a modest space—a single bed, a writing desk, and a small fireplace crackling softly in the corner. The walls were bare except for a worn tapestry that might once have been colorful but now hung faded and dull. A trunk containing my new belongings sat at the foot of the bed, the leather gleaming faintly in the firelight.
She stepped inside, placing a thick envelope on the desk before turning to face me. Her sharp eyes lingered on mine, searching, though for what, I couldn't say.
"You'll find everything you need for the journey to Hogwarts tomorrow. Your ticket is inside that envelope, along with... something else," she said, her voice quieter now. "Take some time to yourself, Mr. Potter. We leave for King's Cross in the morning."
With that, she turned and left, the door clicking shut behind her. I waited until her footsteps receded down the hall before moving to the desk. The envelope sat there, its weight disproportionate to its size, as though it carried more than just its contents.
I opened it with slow, deliberate movements, my fingers sliding beneath the flap and tearing it open. A train ticket fell out first—thick parchment with bold lettering, marking my passage to Platform 9. I placed it aside and reached in again, pulling out a small stack of photographs.
The first showed a man with untidy black hair and glasses, his grin wide and mischievous. Beside him stood a woman with vivid red hair and piercing green eyes—eyes I'd seen before. My own. The two of them beamed at the camera, their arms wrapped around each other.
I stared at the image, my face unreadable. This, then, was them. My parents. Strangers with my blood in their veins. Strangers who had abandoned me, whether by choice or by circumstance. I flipped through the other photos, each one capturing a moment of their happiness. Laughing, holding a baby—me. Smiling as though the world couldn't touch them.
But it had. It had touched them and burned them to nothing, leaving only ashes in its wake. They were gone, and I was left to scrape through the ruins of their failure.
My hand clenched around the photographs, crumpling them into a single mass. I turned to the fireplace, its flames licking hungrily at the air, and tossed them in. The paper caught instantly, the images blackening and curling as the fire consumed them.
I watched until nothing was left but ash.
Turning back to the room, I opened the trunk at the foot of the bed. Inside were the textbooks McGonagall had helped me purchase earlier. Thick volumes with gilded titles, their pages filled with secrets that had been hidden from me for far too long.
I took out the first book, The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), and ran my fingers over the embossed cover. Opening it, I scanned the first few pages, my eyes devouring the words. Incantations, wand movements, theories of magical manipulation. It was all so... precise, so ordered. A language of control, written in ink and power.
I read until the fire burned low, the pile of books beside me growing smaller with each passing hour. Each page was a revelation, each spell a glimpse into the vast potential of what I could become. This wasn't just knowledge. It was a weapon. And like all weapons, it would be wielded by the one who understood it best.
The past was gone, reduced to ashes in the grate. The future lay before me, bound in leather and ink, waiting to be claimed.
And I would claim it.
Professor McGonagall
The crack of Apparition echoed through the quiet grounds of Hogwarts as I stepped onto the cobblestones of the courtyard. The castle loomed before me, its many windows glowing softly against the twilight sky. Usually, returning here filled me with a sense of warmth and purpose. Tonight, however, there was a heaviness in my chest—a weight I couldn't shake since leaving Harry Potter at the inn.
I pushed the thought aside as I made my way to the staff room. The sound of voices drifted through the heavy oak door, a mixture of laughter and excitement. They were waiting for me. I straightened my robes, squared my shoulders, and stepped inside.
The room fell silent as I entered. Albus Dumbledore sat at the head of the long table, his half-moon glasses perched on his nose, his blue eyes twinkling in that maddeningly enigmatic way. Around him, the other professors were seated: Flitwick, beaming with enthusiasm; Sprout, her face warm with anticipation; and Snape, of course, who sat with his arms crossed, his expression colder than the dungeons he presided over.
"Minerva," Dumbledore said, his voice as calm as ever. "Welcome back. I trust all went well?"
"Well enough," I said curtly, taking my seat near the head of the table. The others began talking almost immediately, their voices overlapping in a wave of excitement.
"Harry Potter," Flitwick said, his high-pitched voice brimming with enthusiasm. "Can you imagine? The Boy Who Lived, here at Hogwarts!"
"A remarkable young man, I'm sure," Sprout added, her hands clasped together. "What an honor it will be to teach him."
Snape scoffed, his dark eyes narrowing. "Let's not canonize him just yet," he said, his tone dripping with disdain. "The boy's fame precedes him, and fame has a way of corrupting."
"It isn't fame that concerns me," I said sharply, cutting through the chatter. The room fell silent again, all eyes turning toward me.
Dumbledore's gaze settled on me, his expression curious. "Something troubles you, Minerva?"
I hesitated for a moment, the weight in my chest pressing harder. Then I spoke, my voice steady but cold. "Yes, Albus. Something troubles me. Harry Potter troubles me."
That got their attention. Even Snape's indifferent mask faltered slightly as he leaned forward. "Oh?" he said, his voice laced with curiosity. "Do tell."
I ignored him, my focus on Dumbledore. "I've just come from Diagon Alley, where I escorted Mr. Potter through his preparations for Hogwarts. And I must say, he is not what I expected."
"What did you expect, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked, his tone infuriatingly neutral.
"A child," I snapped. "A boy who'd been through unimaginable loss and hardship but who still carried some spark of innocence, some shred of hope. What I found instead was a boy who..." I hesitated, searching for the right words. "A boy who sees the world in shadows and cold logic. There is no warmth in him, Albus. No kindness."
The silence that followed was deafening. Flitwick looked troubled, Sprout confused, and Snape... Snape looked intrigued.
"He's eleven," Dumbledore said softly. "Children are often shaped by their circumstances, Minerva. And Harry's circumstances were... exceptional."
"Exceptional," I repeated bitterly. "You left him on a doorstep, Albus. At the mercy of people who clearly wanted nothing to do with him. And when they discarded him, as we should have predicted they would, he was sent to an orphanage. An orphanage, Albus! Do you have any idea what that place did to him? What he endured there?"
Dumbledore's expression tightened, the twinkle in his eyes dimming. "I made the decision I thought was best at the time."
"And it was the wrong one," I said, my voice rising despite myself. "You didn't even check on him, Albus. Not once. None of us did. We left him there to fend for himself, and now we're reaping the consequences."
"What consequences, exactly?" Snape interjected, his tone cold but curious. "What is it about the boy that has you so rattled, Minerva?"
I turned to him, my gaze hard. "He's not a boy," I said quietly. "Not in the way children should be. He is calculating, detached. He speaks with the precision of someone twice his age, yet with none of the compassion. When he looks at you, it feels as though he's dissecting you, piece by piece. He's... unnerving."
Snape's lips curled into a faint smirk. "Sounds like Slytherin material."
"Severus," Dumbledore said warningly, but Snape only shrugged.
"I am not exaggerating," I said, my gaze fixed on Dumbledore. "This is not the boy we imagined. He is not the savior everyone expects him to be. He is... something else entirely."
Dumbledore's face was unreadable, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. "And what do you suggest, Minerva?"
"I suggest," I said firmly, "that we prepare ourselves. Harry Potter is coming to Hogwarts, and we are not ready for him."
The room fell silent again, the weight of my words settling over us all. Dumbledore nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Thank you, Minerva," he said finally. "Your concerns are noted."
But as I looked around the table, at the mixture of curiosity, doubt, and unease on the faces of my colleagues, I couldn't shake the feeling that my warning would go unheeded.
And Harry Potter would make us all regret it.
The staff room was silent, save for the soft crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of parchment. Dumbledore sat at the head of the table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his blue eyes fixed on me with quiet intensity. Around the table, my colleagues sat expectantly, their earlier excitement muted by the tension in the air. I knew they were waiting for me to speak, but the words lodged in my throat, heavy and bitter.
At last, Dumbledore broke the silence. "Minerva," he said gently, though his voice carried a weight that demanded honesty, "you've spoken plainly of your concerns about young Mr. Potter. But I must ask—what precisely have you seen? What has he said or done that troubles you so?"
I let out a sharp breath, my hands gripping the edge of the table. "It's not what he's done," I began, my voice trembling despite myself. "It's what he is, Albus. What he's become."
Dumbledore's gaze sharpened. "What do you mean?"
I hesitated, feeling the weight of the room pressing down on me. "I mean he isn't like any child I've ever encountered. He isn't like the boy we imagined—the boy we hoped for. He's... cold. Detached. I can't quite explain it, but there's something wrong about him."
Flitwick's brow furrowed, his cheerful demeanor dimmed by confusion. "Wrong? In what sense, Minerva?"
"In every sense," I said, my voice rising. "He doesn't react like a normal child. He doesn't feel like a normal child. When he received his wand, there was no excitement, no wonder. It was as if he'd been expecting it all along—as if he already knew exactly what it meant."
I turned to Dumbledore, my eyes pleading. "You should have seen the way he looked at me, Albus. His eyes... they're like windows into something dark. He speaks with precision, with calculation. Every word feels weighed, measured, as though he's testing you, pushing you."
"What did he say?" Dumbledore asked, his tone steady but his expression troubled.
I leaned forward, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and fear. "He spoke of control. He told me, 'Power doesn't come from love. It comes from understanding what others can't—or won't.' And when I gave him his owl, a beautiful snowy owl meant to bring him some connection to our world, he said, 'She'll be free when I decide.'"
Gasps rippled through the room. Flitwick's hands flew to his mouth, while Sprout exchanged a worried glance with Madam Hooch. Even Severus Snape, ever composed, straightened slightly, his dark eyes narrowing in interest.
"And that's not all," I continued, my voice now thick with emotion. "I gave him photographs of his parents. Of James and Lily, hoping—hoping—they might spark something in him. Some sense of connection, of love. But when I watched without him knowing, he crumpled them up and threw them in the fireplace."
Dumbledore's expression tightened, the twinkle in his eyes extinguished. "He burned them?"
"Yes," I said, the word barely a whisper. "He destroyed the only link he had to them. Without hesitation, without remorse. And when I asked about his parents—about whether he wanted to know more about them—do you know what he said? He said, 'They're dead. What else is there to know?'"
The room fell into a stunned silence, the weight of my words suffocating. Flitwick looked horrified, his tiny hands trembling. Sprout clutched the edge of her chair, her face pale. Even Snape seemed momentarily at a loss, his usual sneer replaced by something unreadable.
Dumbledore exhaled slowly, his gaze distant. "And his demeanor? Beyond his words?"
"Cold," I said, my voice breaking slightly. "Emotionless. It's as if he views people as tools, Albus. Things to be used. After I got his Owl, I watched from outside. He was talking too. Draco Malfoy . I cast my eyes to Snape, he said to the boy, 'Fame is a candle in the dark. It draws the moths, yes, but it also casts shadows.'"
Dumbledore's brow furrowed deeply, his expression now one of profound unease. "A curious sentiment," he murmured.
"It's not curious—it's alarming!" I snapped, slamming my hand on the table. "This boy is not the Harry Potter we dreamed of, Albus! He is not the innocent child we imagined growing up in the safety of his aunt's home. He's something else entirely—something shaped by the neglect we allowed to happen. Do you understand? We did this. By abandoning him to that wretched orphanage, by failing to check on him even once, we created him!"
Dumbledore flinched at the accusation, his fingers tightening around the edge of the table. "I made the decision I thought was best at the time," he said quietly.
"And it was the wrong one," I said, my voice trembling with barely contained fury. "Do you know what that orphanage was like, Albus? The way they treated him? The way he learned to survive? No child should have to live like that. And now we're reaping the consequences."
Dumbledore's gaze met mine, and for the first time in all my years, I saw something I'd never seen in him before: doubt. Deep, gnawing doubt.
"What are you suggesting, Minerva?" he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm suggesting," I said, my voice cold and fierce, "that we prepare ourselves. Harry Potter is coming to Hogwarts, and we have no idea what he's capable of. We've already failed him once. We cannot afford to fail again."
The room fell into an uneasy silence, the fire casting long shadows across the walls. Dumbledore remained still, his gaze fixed on the flames, his face lined with something that looked alarmingly like fear.
And for the first time, I realized that even he didn't know how to handle what was coming.
I left the meeting with my heart hammering in my chest. The weight of the conversation lingered over me like a storm cloud, every step toward the door heavy with doubt and anger. The castle's cold stone corridors offered no comfort as I made my way to my chambers, desperate to escape the oppressive silence of the staff room. But before I could leave, a voice called out behind me.
"Minerva."
I froze, recognizing the oily drawl of Severus Snape. My hands clenched at my sides, and I turned slowly, finding him standing in the hallway, his black robes pooling around him like shadows. His face, as ever, was unreadable, but there was a glint in his dark eyes that set my teeth on edge.
"What is it, Severus?" I snapped, my patience worn thin.
He stepped closer, his voice low and measured, as if savoring every word. "I have a proposal."
"I'm in no mood for games," I said sharply, moving to step past him.
But he raised a hand, his expression calm, almost smug. "It's about Potter."
I stopped dead, my anger flaring anew. "What about him?"
Snape's thin lips curved into a faint smirk. "Clearly, you're... concerned about the boy. And from what you've described, rightly so. But perhaps what he needs is guidance. Discipline."
"Discipline?" I repeated, my voice rising with incredulity. "And you think you're the one to provide it?"
"Why not?" Snape asked smoothly. "I've dealt with difficult students before, and this one, from what you've said, seems to be particularly in need of a firm hand. I'll take him to Hogwarts tomorrow."
I stared at him, aghast. "Absolutely not," I said, my voice trembling with a mixture of anger and disbelief. "You, of all people? Severus, you have no idea what you're dealing with!"
His expression darkened slightly, the smirk fading. "And you do?" he asked, his tone cold. "You've just spent an hour convincing us all that the boy is dangerous, Minerva. Detached. Calculating. Someone needs to take control of him before he spirals further. Or would you prefer to let him arrive at Hogwarts completely unchecked?"
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words caught in my throat. He wasn't entirely wrong, and that only made my anger burn hotter. "Guidance," I said bitterly. "Is that what you call what you do, Severus? Your version of guidance would only push him further into whatever darkness he's already in."
"And what's your solution, then?" Snape countered, his voice dripping with disdain. "Coddle him? Pretend everything is fine and hope he grows out of it? This isn't a matter for sentiment, Minerva. The boy is dangerous—your words, not mine. Someone needs to show him his place."
"Show him his place?" I hissed, stepping closer. "He's a child, Severus. Not one of your scheming Slytherins. He needs compassion, not cruelty."
"And what has compassion done for him so far?" Snape retorted, his voice sharp. "You said it yourself—he was abandoned, left to fend for himself in that wretched orphanage. Compassion failed him, Minerva. Perhaps discipline is the only language he'll understand."
My hands trembled at my sides, my voice breaking as I spat, "You have no idea what that boy has endured. None of us do! And you think you can fix it with your cold lectures and snide remarks? He'll eat you alive, Severus."
Snape's expression hardened, his dark eyes narrowing. "Perhaps. But at least I'm willing to try."
I shook my head, my anger giving way to something deeper—fear. "This isn't a game, Severus. Harry Potter is... he's not like anyone we've ever met. And if you go into this thinking you can mold him into something manageable, you'll fail. Worse, you'll make him hate you. And hate, Severus, is something that boy knows far too well already."
He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps hate is exactly what he needs to focus his mind."
I stared at him, horrified. "You don't believe that."
"Don't I?" he said softly. "You're frightened of him, Minerva. You should be. But fear isn't a reason to abandon him entirely to his own devices. If I don't take him, who will?"
"Albus," I said, though even as the word left my mouth, I felt the hollowness of it. Dumbledore was hesitant, conflicted. I couldn't be sure he would act in time.
Snape's smirk returned, faint but pointed. "Dumbledore will coddle him as you would. And you've just told us all how well that will go."
Tears stung at my eyes, but I blinked them away, refusing to show weakness. "You'll regret this, Severus," I said, my voice shaking. "If you go through with this, you'll regret it."
He stepped back, his expression cold but satisfied. "We'll see."
Without another word, he turned and disappeared down the corridor, his robes sweeping behind him like a shroud. I stood there for a long moment, my breath ragged, my chest tight with a mixture of anger and dread.
The echoes of Severus Snape's retreating footsteps still hung in the air when I heard the faint creak of a door behind me. I didn't turn immediately. I knew who it was without needing to look. Only one person could move so silently yet still carry a presence that pressed against you like a weight.
"Minerva," Dumbledore said softly.
I stiffened, my hands trembling slightly as I clenched them into fists at my sides. "You heard," I said, my voice hollow.
"I did." He stepped closer, his familiar silhouette framed by the flickering light of the sconces lining the corridor. His face, usually so serene, was lined with something that might have been concern—or perhaps regret.
I spun to face him, my composure slipping as the emotions I'd been holding back surged to the surface. "He can't take Harry, Albus! He can't! Severus Snape, of all people? Do you have any idea what that boy will do to him?"
Dumbledore sighed, his gaze steady. "Severus believes he can help."
"Help?" I said, my voice rising. "Help by pushing him further into the darkness? By treating him like some misbehaving student in need of punishment? Harry isn't like the others, Albus! He's not just a troubled child! He's... he's..."
"What, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked gently, his tone tinged with a sadness that only infuriated me more. "What is he?"
I stared at him, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. "He's dangerous, Albus! He's cold and calculating, and he sees the world in ways no child should. He doesn't feel—doesn't connect. He's a shadow in a child's form. And you—" My voice broke, and I took a shuddering breath. "You left him there. At that orphanage. To become this."
Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, his shoulders slumping ever so slightly. "I have made many mistakes, Minerva," he said quietly. "And this may be one of them. But I did what I thought was best."
"Best?" I spat, the word bitter on my tongue. "You abandoned him, Albus. You left him in a place where love was a foreign concept, where survival meant cruelty and manipulation. And now, we're seeing the results."
"I hoped," Dumbledore said softly, his gaze meeting mine, "that he would find strength in hardship. That he would rise above it."
"Well, he hasn't!" I snapped. "He's become something else entirely. He speaks of power, of control, as though the world is a chessboard and we're all just pieces to be moved. He destroyed his parents' photographs, Albus. Ripped them apart and burned them without a second thought. Does that sound like a boy who found strength?"
Dumbledore's expression tightened, his eyes darkening. "No," he admitted, his voice barely audible. "It does not."
For a moment, the weight of my anger pressed against the silence between us. Then, trembling, I said, "You have to stop this. Don't let Severus take him. You saw what he did with Draco Malfoy—he shredded that boy's confidence in seconds, and Draco thought he was the one in control. Harry... he doesn't see people as people, Albus. He sees tools, weaknesses, pawns. Severus will only make that worse."
"And what would you have me do, Minerva?" Dumbledore asked, his voice tinged with weariness. "What would you suggest for a boy who already views the world through such a lens? Should we isolate him further? Shelter him? Pretend that what he is will change on its own?"
I faltered, my resolve cracking beneath the weight of the question. "I don't know," I admitted, my voice trembling. "But Severus isn't the answer."
Dumbledore studied me for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. "Perhaps not," he said finally. "But I fear there are no easy answers where Harry is concerned. He has lived through horrors we cannot imagine. And he has emerged... different. But that does not mean he is beyond saving."
"Saving?" I said bitterly. "How do you save someone who doesn't want to be saved?"
"You give them the opportunity," Dumbledore said, his voice soft but firm. "And you prepare for what may come if they refuse it."
The words chilled me, their meaning sinking into the pit of my stomach. "And if he refuses?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
Dumbledore's gaze grew distant, his expression unreadable.
"No." The word escaped me before I even realized I was speaking. It wasn't just a denial; it was a command, sharp and unyielding. "You cannot let Severus take him to Hogwarts tomorrow, Albus. You must be the one to go."
Dumbledore's gaze, weary yet piercing, met mine. He didn't reply immediately, his silence as deliberate as the slow rising of the sun. But I didn't waver. My anger, my fear—everything I felt for that boy—had built to a breaking point, and I would not leave this conversation without answers.
"You are the only one who can do this," I pressed, my voice trembling but resolute. "The only one who can even hope to reach him. Severus will not guide Harry—he will provoke him, challenge him in ways that will only push him further into the darkness."
Dumbledore raised a hand, a gesture meant to calm, but it only stoked the fire within me. "Minerva," he began, his tone soft, measured. "I have long trusted you to speak your mind, and I value your counsel more than you know. But I fear you may be too close to this."
"Too close?" I repeated, my voice rising with incredulity. "Albus, I am the only one in that meeting who saw Harry for what he truly is—not as a symbol, not as 'The Boy Who Lived,' but as a child who has been shaped by unimaginable cruelty and neglect! I am close because I care, because someone in this castle needs to care!"
Dumbledore's shoulders slumped, a faint sigh escaping him. "And you believe I do not?"
"I believe you mean well," I said, my voice softening despite the tempest of emotions within me. "But you've distanced yourself, Albus. You've always believed that time and circumstance would shape Harry into what he was meant to be. But what he has become is not a savior. It is something darker, something more dangerous. And if you send Severus to collect him tomorrow, you may as well light a fuse on a powder keg."
Dumbledore's expression darkened, his hands folding on the table before him. "Severus has his flaws," he admitted. "But he understands darkness in a way few others do. He may see in Harry what I cannot."
"No," I said firmly, taking a step closer. "He will see what he wants to see—a reflection of his own bitterness, his own pain. He will look at Harry and see only a rival, or a threat, or worse, a failure he can exploit. And Harry will look at Severus and see nothing but another obstacle to be crushed."
"Perhaps," Dumbledore said quietly. "But Severus also—"
"Enough!" My voice cracked, raw with emotion. "You can rationalize this however you like, but I am telling you, Albus, as someone who has spent even a fraction of time with that boy—this is not a decision to leave to chance."
Dumbledore's blue eyes, so often filled with quiet understanding, now held a shadow of something heavier. "What would you have me do, Minerva?" he asked softly. "Leave this castle, abandon my duties, and personally escort Harry to Hogwarts? Do you believe he will respond differently to me than he would to Severus?"
"Yes," I said, my voice trembling with conviction. "Because whether you realize it or not, Albus, you are the only person Harry might see as an equal. You are the only one whose power he might respect."
The weight of my words hung in the air, pressing down on both of us. Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled as he stared into the flickering fire.
"I fear you give me too much credit," he murmured. "But perhaps you are right."
I stepped forward, my hands gripping the back of a nearby chair as I fought to steady my voice. "Please, Albus," I said, my tone softer now, almost pleading. "You left him once. Don't abandon him again."
The room was silent for what felt like an eternity. Then, slowly, Dumbledore nodded. "Very well, Minerva. I will take Harry to Hogwarts tomorrow."
Relief flooded through me, though it was tempered by the knowledge that this was only the beginning. "Thank you," I said quietly. "You're doing the right thing."
Dumbledore rose from his chair, his expression heavy with thought. "Perhaps," he said. "Or perhaps I am merely delaying the inevitable."
Harry Potter
The first rays of morning sunlight crept through the curtains, slicing through the dim room like silent blades. I hadn't slept. I didn't need to. Sleep was for the weak, for those who thought the world would pause and wait while they rested. I had spent the night consuming everything Hogwarts thought I needed to know: spell theory, incantations, the fundamentals of wizardry. It was all too simple, too pedestrian. If this was the height of magical education, the wizarding world would crumble before me with ease.
The blackthorn wand rested in my hand, its cool surface a constant reminder of the power that hummed just beneath my skin. It wasn't merely a tool—it was alive, its whispers threading through my thoughts every time I wielded it. The wand spoke to me in a way no book or teacher could, urging me to push further, to demand more. Each spell I cast felt like a conversation, a negotiation between two forces that were inexorably tied. It didn't obey; it collaborated. And when I pushed it, it purred with approval.
I raised the wand now, preparing to cast a spell I had plucked from the depths of one of my books. It was far beyond what a first-year student should know, but the idea of failure didn't even cross my mind. The incantation rolled off my tongue, smooth and precise, and the magic began to coalesce, bending to my will.
"Impressive," a voice said, breaking through the charged air. "But there is always room for refinement."
The spell unraveled, the magic dispersing with a faint hiss as I turned sharply. My grip on the wand tightened, its hum sharpening as though responding to the presence of a potential threat. In the doorway stood a man I didn't recognize, his long robes a deep, serene blue. His silver hair and beard gleamed in the fractured morning light, and his bright blue eyes, framed by half-moon spectacles, seemed to hold the weight of the world.
He didn't move, didn't so much as flinch under my sharp gaze. Instead, he inclined his head slightly, his expression one of calm curiosity. "Good morning, Harry."
"Who are you?" I demanded, my voice cold, the wand still raised. The blackthorn pulsed faintly in my hand, urging me to stand my ground.
The man stepped into the room, his movements deliberate but unthreatening, like a river flowing steadily downstream. "I am Albus Dumbledore," he said, his voice gentle but carrying an undeniable authority. "Headmaster of Hogwarts."
I studied him for a long moment, my mind racing. His name was familiar from my reading—a leader, a strategist, someone revered in the wizarding world. Yet standing here, he didn't feel imposing. He felt... serene, like the eye of a storm.
"What do you want?" I asked sharply, unwilling to lower my wand.
"I wanted to meet you," he said simply, as though the answer were obvious. "And perhaps answer any questions you might have before your journey to Hogwarts."
"I don't have any questions," I said flatly. "And I don't need your help."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, though I caught the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Concern, perhaps, or curiosity. "No questions at all?" he said lightly. "You are a remarkable young man, Harry. Most your age would have questions. Perhaps even a few worries."
"Worry is for those who lack control," I said coldly. "And I don't."
For the first time, Dumbledore's gaze flicked to the wand in my hand. "Blackthorn," he said softly, almost to himself. "A rare wood. And its core... thestral tail hair, if I'm not mistaken. A most unusual combination."
His words hung in the air, and I felt the wand pulse faintly again, as though acknowledging his observation. "It chose me," I said simply.
"Indeed," he said, his voice thoughtful. "A wand such as that does not choose lightly. It speaks of resilience, defiance, and an unyielding will. Qualities it seems you possess in abundance."
I said nothing, watching him carefully. His calm demeanor was unsettling, as though he was constantly two steps ahead, observing rather than acting.
"May I?" he asked suddenly, gesturing toward the wand.
I hesitated, the blackthorn thrumming against my palm, its whispers sharpening. Reluctantly, I handed it to him, my movements deliberate. The wand felt heavier as I passed it over, as though it resented leaving my grasp.
Dumbledore held it lightly, turning it over in his hands. His expression didn't waver, but there was something in his eyes—something distant, as though he were looking beyond the wand itself. "Powerful," he murmured. "But demanding. A wand like this is not merely a tool. It is a companion. One that will test you as much as it serves you."
"It already does," I said, my tone devoid of emotion.
He handed the wand back to me, his movements deliberate. "Then it seems you and it are well-matched," he said. "But, Harry, if I may offer a word of advice... power, no matter how great, must be tempered with understanding. It is the difference between a flame that warms and a fire that consumes."
"Understanding is a lie," I said coldly. "Power doesn't need to be tempered. It needs to be wielded."
Dumbledore's expression remained calm, though I thought I saw a flicker of something deeper—sadness, perhaps? "And wield it you will," he said softly. "But remember, Harry, that power without purpose often leads to paths we do not intend."
I met his gaze, unflinching. "I'll choose my own path."
His lips curved into the faintest smile, though his eyes remained somber. "Of that, I have no doubt."
The silence between us stretched, heavy with unspoken tension. Finally, Dumbledore stepped back, his movements as steady and calm as they had been when he entered. "The carriage will be ready soon," he said. "I'll wait for you outside."
As he turned to leave, his presence lingered like the fading echo of a melody. The blackthorn pulsed again in my hand, its whispers sharper now, more insistent, as though mocking his words. Purpose? Understanding? They were luxuries for those who feared the weight of their own strength.
For me, there was only power. And I intended to wield it without restraint.
The cobblestones of Diagon Alley glinted faintly in the morning light, their surfaces polished by the tread of countless feet. Shopkeepers moved about, setting up displays, chatting with early customers, but their bustling activity felt distant, muffled. The noise of the street didn't reach me; it was a meaningless hum, like wind rushing past a sealed window.
I walked beside Dumbledore, my trunk in one hand and my blackthorn wand thrumming faintly in the other. Its whispers brushed against my thoughts, a constant undercurrent that I couldn't ignore. It felt alive, eager, almost expectant, as though it sensed something coming. Maybe it did.
Dumbledore matched my pace, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He moved with an air of serenity, as if the chaos of the world couldn't touch him. I hated it. That calmness, that patience—it grated against the sharp edges of my thoughts.
"You've had quite the journey already, Harry," he said, his voice light but firm. "And yet, it seems the most important parts are still ahead of you."
I didn't respond, my focus fixed on the uneven stones of the street. He didn't press, merely continued walking, his presence as unyielding as the shadows cast by the morning sun.
After a moment, he spoke again, his tone softer. "I imagine there are things you've wondered about. Your past. Your parents."
The words sent a sharp jolt through me. My grip on the trunk tightened, and the blackthorn buzzed faintly in my pocket, like an animal sensing danger. I stopped walking, my chest tightening with something cold and unfamiliar.
"I don't wonder," I said flatly, turning to face him. "I know all I need to. They're dead. That's the end of it."
Dumbledore stopped as well, his blue eyes fixed on me with an intensity that didn't match his calm tone. "It may seem that way, Harry," he said gently. "But there is more to their story. And more to yours."
"I don't care," I said sharply. "Whatever story you think matters, it doesn't. They're gone. They left me. That's all I need to know."
Dumbledore's gaze softened, his expression tinged with something that might have been regret. "They didn't leave you by choice," he said. "Your mother and father loved you more than anything, Harry. They died protecting you."
The words were meaningless. I'd heard them before, from McGonagall, from others. Love. Sacrifice. It was all just noise, words meant to comfort those too weak to face the truth.
"They failed," I said, my voice cold. "And I paid the price for it."
His expression faltered, the faintest crack in his calm demeanor. "Your aunt and uncle were meant to protect you," he said quietly. "I had hoped—"
The air around me seemed to freeze, his words hanging in the space between us like shards of ice. My fingers twitched at my side, the blackthorn pulsing faintly as though urging me forward.
"You hoped?" I repeated, my voice low and sharp. "It was you."
He didn't deny it, his calm gaze steady on mine. "I left you in their care because I believed it was the best way to keep you safe."
The words hit me like a blow, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. Safe? I had been five when I found out the truth—when I overheard the matron talking about how my aunt and uncle had left me at the orphanage without so much as a second glance. They hadn't wanted me. They hadn't even cared enough to keep the pretense.
"Safe," I said softly, the word twisting in my mouth like poison. "They dropped me at an orphanage. Left me there like trash. That's what your hope got me."
His expression didn't change, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, perhaps, or guilt. "It was not the life I wished for you, Harry," he said gently. "But it was the only way to protect you from those who would have sought to harm you."
"Protect me?" I said, my voice rising slightly. "You didn't protect me. You left me there. With them."
He said nothing, his silence more infuriating than any words could have been.
"I remember what they said about me," I continued, my voice cold and sharp. "How they couldn't stand the sight of me. How they were glad to be rid of me. And you let it happen."
Dumbledore's gaze didn't waver, though his hands tightened slightly behind his back. "I made the decision I thought was best at the time," he said. "And I regret that it caused you pain."
"Pain?" I said, my lips curling into a bitter smile. "You don't know anything about pain. But they will."
The words escaped before I could stop them, and for the first time, Dumbledore's calm faltered. His blue eyes sharpened, his expression growing still, like a pond frozen over in the dead of winter.
"What do you mean?" he asked softly.
I met his gaze, unflinching. "They left me there," I said. "And one day, I'll remind them of it."
The silence between us was deafening, charged with unspoken tension. Dumbledore's gaze searched mine, as though trying to find something beneath the cold exterior I had built. But there was nothing to find. I had made my choice long ago.
"Revenge is a heavy burden, Harry," he said finally, his voice calm but firm. "And it rarely brings the satisfaction we think it will."
"I don't want satisfaction," I said simply. "I want them to know what they did. And I want them to pay."
Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but there was a faint shadow in his eyes now, something deeper and darker than the calm he projected. "I hope," he said quietly, "that one day you'll find another path."
I didn't respond, my grip tightening on the blackthorn wand as I turned away. Whatever path he thought I should follow didn't matter. The world had taken from me, and now it was my turn. Let him hope. Let him regret.
I would take my revenge. And I would never look back.
Dumbledore didn't say anything for a long while. The morning sun cast long shadows over the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, the bustle of early risers picking up pace around us. Yet, as we stood there, the noise felt muted, as though the world had pulled back to watch the conversation unfold.
He turned toward me slightly, his hands now clasped in front of him. His expression had softened, but his eyes were sharper, more focused than before. "Harry," he said gently, "I can see that your journey has not been an easy one."
The statement annoyed me. It was a transparent attempt at sympathy, a meaningless gesture from someone who had already admitted his hand in my suffering. "And what of it?" I said coldly. "It made me stronger. That's all that matters."
His brows furrowed slightly, though his calm tone didn't falter. "Strength is a valuable thing," he said, choosing his words carefully. "But it is not the only thing that matters."
"Maybe not to you," I said, turning away to avoid his piercing gaze. "But for people like me, it's everything."
"People like you?" he asked, stepping closer. His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it, a note of concern that only irritated me further.
"People who don't have anyone else," I said flatly. "People who have to take what they need because no one's going to give it to them."
The weight of my words seemed to settle heavily in the space between us. Dumbledore's gaze didn't waver, but I could sense his discomfort, his quiet battle with whatever thoughts had risen to the surface.
"Harry," he said softly, "you've been dealt an unfair hand. That much is clear. But strength isn't only about taking. It's about how we choose to use it."
I turned back to him, my expression icy. "Strength isn't a choice," I said. "It's survival. You don't understand. I've always known I was different. From the moment I was old enough to see the world for what it is, I knew."
Dumbledore's eyes flickered, a shadow passing over his serene expression. His hands tightened slightly, the only betrayal of the calm he so carefully projected. "What do you mean by 'different,' Harry?"
I didn't answer immediately, my grip on the blackthorn wand tightening as I spoke. "I wasn't like the others at the orphanage," I said. "They were... ordinary. Weak. But I could feel it—the power, even then. I knew I wasn't like them. And they knew it too."
Dumbledore's face remained composed, but I caught the faintest flicker of unease in his eyes. "And how did that make you feel?" he asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"It didn't matter how I felt," I said, my tone sharp. "It mattered how they felt. Scared. Angry. Jealous. They hated me for it. And I hated them right back."
The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter. Dumbledore's silence was deafening, the weight of his gaze almost unbearable. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter, almost pleading. "Harry, feeling different—knowing you're different—can be isolating. But it doesn't have to define you. It doesn't have to control you."
"It doesn't control me," I said, my voice like ice. "It drives me."
For a moment, his expression faltered, and I saw something there—fear, perhaps, or regret. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but it was enough to remind me that even someone like him could be unsettled.
"Harry," he said carefully, his voice trembling just slightly at the edges, "the choices you make now will shape your path for years to come. Power is a tool, yes, but without compassion, without purpose, it can—"
"Spare me," I interrupted, my voice cold and cutting. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You're trying to make me into someone you can control. Someone who fits into your world. Well, I don't. And I won't."
His face grew even softer, his tone almost sorrowful. "That's not what I want, Harry," he said gently. "I only want to help you."
"Help me?" I said, my lips curling into a bitter smile. "You already did, didn't you? When you left me with people who threw me away."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Dumbledore's eyes, those piercing blue eyes, seemed to grow distant for a moment, as though he were looking at something far beyond me. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, almost resigned.
"I made mistakes," he said simply. "And for that, I am deeply sorry. But I hope you'll allow yourself the chance to make a different path."
I stared at him, unblinking. "I don't need your paths," I said flatly. "I'll make my own."
Dumbledore's gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, his shoulders straightening as though bracing himself for something he couldn't control. "Very well," he said quietly. "But know this, Harry: there is no shame in seeking guidance when the path grows dark."
I said nothing, turning away from him and gripping the handle of my trunk tightly. The blackthorn pulsed faintly in my pocket, its whispers sharp and approving. Whatever guidance he thought I needed, he could keep it. The world had taken from me, and now it was my turn.
The world twisted and snapped around me, a sensation like being yanked through a tunnel of coiled wire. My stomach lurched, but I kept my composure, refusing to give any sign of discomfort. When the pull released me, my feet landed on solid ground, and the sounds of bustling chaos rushed to greet me.
We stood in the middle of King's Cross Station, the air thick with the scent of oil and iron, mingled with the chatter of hurried voices and the clatter of rolling luggage. People streamed past us, oblivious to the fact that we had just appeared out of thin air. My wand was still clutched in my hand, the faint residue of magic prickling against my fingers, but not a single person looked our way.
"Curious," I murmured, more to myself than to the man standing beside me.
Dumbledore turned his head slightly, his blue eyes glinting with quiet amusement. "What is?"
I glanced around, my gaze sharp. "We just did magic. Out in the open, in the middle of all these people. Yet no one noticed."
"Ah," he said, his tone as light as the morning breeze. "A perceptive observation, Harry."
I didn't respond immediately, my mind racing. I'd read about spells of concealment, charms designed to obscure magical activity from Muggles, but I hadn't expected it to be so seamless. The people around us moved as if nothing had happened, their eyes sliding over us without truly seeing.
"How does it work?" I asked, my curiosity genuine despite the edge of my tone. "Why don't they see?"
Dumbledore smiled faintly, gesturing for me to follow as he began walking toward the station's interior. "Magic has its own ways of staying hidden," he said. "It's woven into the very fabric of our world. Muggles, as we call non-magical folk, have an extraordinary ability to overlook what they cannot comprehend. And where their minds falter, our spells ensure they never notice."
I filed the information away, my mind already dissecting the implications. Spells to obscure, to manipulate perception—tools for control. The possibilities were endless.
"And no one ever notices?" I pressed.
"Rarely," Dumbledore said, his tone calm but firm. "It is a delicate balance, Harry. One that requires great care. Magic thrives in secrecy."
"Convenient," I said, letting a faint smirk tug at the corner of my lips. "Being invisible to the world."
Dumbledore paused for a moment, turning to meet my gaze. "Convenient, yes. But also necessary. Power without restraint, Harry, can be a dangerous thing."
I didn't answer. I didn't need to. The truth was self-evident: power was dangerous. That was the point.
We wove through the station, the crowd parting around Dumbledore as though sensing his presence without understanding it. He moved with an ease that made him almost invisible, his steps quiet but purposeful. I followed, my wand still in hand, my thoughts churning.
Platform 9, the letter had said. A place hidden within the mundane. Another layer of the world I was beginning to see for what it truly was: a game of shadows and illusions.
When we reached the barrier between Platforms 9 and 10, Dumbledore stopped, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. "This is where we part ways, Harry," he said, his voice quieter now. "You'll step through the barrier, and on the other side, you'll find your train."
I raised an eyebrow, my skepticism evident. "Through a barrier?"
"Indeed," he said, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Simply walk straight at it. Trust the magic."
I tilted my head slightly, studying the solid brick wall before me. The idea was absurd, but I had no reason to doubt him—not after everything I'd already seen.
"And you won't be coming?" I asked, my tone carefully neutral.
"Not this time," Dumbledore said, his expression softening. "You'll be fine, Harry. Hogwarts will take care of you."
The lie was almost laughable, but I let him have it. It didn't matter what Hogwarts promised or what Dumbledore hoped. I wasn't there to be cared for. I was there to learn, to understand, to master.
Without another word, I stepped toward the barrier. My steps were deliberate, each one measured. The crowd around me blurred, their voices fading as I focused on the wall ahead. The magic hummed faintly, like a whispered promise, and then—
I was through.
The air was different on the other side, charged with an energy I couldn't quite place. The platform stretched before me, crowded with students and parents, their voices mingling in a symphony of excitement. The train itself was a marvel, its gleaming black engine and scarlet carriages pulsing with life.
But I wasn't looking at the train. My eyes scanned the platform, taking in every detail, every face. These were the people I would be surrounded by for the next year—my peers, my competition, my tools.
