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Harry still felt like he was right back at the start of this whole mess. He had trudged through the bureaucratic nightmare of trying to find somewhere to sleep, only to be told by one shelter worker, "Come back tomorrow. You'll be alright." And he knew full well he'd still be stuck come morning.

The first thing he learned about life on his own was that absolutely everything took longer than he expected. The walk from Privet Drive to the nearest bus stop seemed to stretch on for miles, the bus showed up late and got even more behind schedule as it trundled through town, and then the queue at the first homeless shelter was alarmingly long, despite it being only midmorning.

The second thing he learned was that there were far more homeless people out there than he'd ever realized. Even at ten in the morning, the first shelter had a line curling out the door—and well before Harry reached the front, someone emerged to announce they were already full for the night. Their daily sign-up policy meant arriving before dawn if you wanted a bed.

The second shelter Harry tried—a place someone in that first queue had mentioned—always had space, apparently. He soon discovered why: they charged nearly thirty pounds a night. It got you a small, single room instead of bunking down in a noisy dormitory, but it would also swallow a third of the meager cash he'd scraped together. It simply wasn't feasible.

By the time he arrived at a third shelter, it was clear none of them would have free spots that night, and it was only midday. With little else to do, he resolved to look for work next. He ate the hastily wrapped sandwiches that Aunt Petunia had begrudgingly handed him on his way out the door—shoving them at him as though she couldn't wait to see him vanish. A gulp or two from a public water fountain helped wash the last crumbs down, and he tried not to think too hard about how many days he might need to survive like this.

Unsurprisingly, the job-placement center had a queue that spilled into a waiting area. First, Harry had to wait in line just to collect the forms; once he had them, he had to sit in a shabby plastic chair, fill out all the details, and then queue again to hand everything back in.

It was a process, all right.

At least, Harry thought, glancing up at the dreary sky, it wasn't raining. That was the one silver lining. It was nearly six by the time he realized there was no way he'd manage to visit any other official offices that day—everything would soon close. And besides, they'd likely demand more valid identification than he currently had. The Dursleys, of course, had never lifted a finger to help him sort out his documents before chucking him out on his eighteenth birthday. Uncle Vernon had made it very clear that once the "allowance" for Harry's stay ended, Harry was to fend for himself.

Figuring he might as well pack it in for the night, Harry decided to check one last time with the pricey shelter. Despite the hefty fee, at least he'd get a bed. Maybe they served dinner or breakfast, too—he hadn't thought to ask earlier. Kicking himself for not sorting that out sooner, he turned down a narrow alley to cut across to the bus stop.

Suddenly, someone grabbed him from behind and slammed him into the wall beside a large dumpster. His head cracked painfully against the bricks, sending spots flickering across his vision.

"Gimme your money!" a harsh voice snarled.

Harry blinked, disoriented. "What—"

"I said your money, kid!" the stranger spat, breath smelling of old cigarettes and desperation. He had a knife, small and filthy, waving it just inches from Harry's face. The man's eyes were wild, ringed by greasy hair and an unkempt beard.

Harry's heart pounded. He had barely over a hundred pounds to his name, and this man was about to rob him of everything. Happy eighteenth birthday indeed. Anger flared in him—rage at the Dursleys, at his unknown parents who left him in their care, at the system that had spat him out onto the street, and now at this stranger wanting to take what little he had left.

A weird tingling sensation rippled over Harry's skin, one he'd felt a few times in the last year—an odd, magical static that made the hairs on his arms rise. Not now, he thought grimly, trying to keep himself from panicking. The man shoved him harder against the wall.

"Hand it over," the mugger growled, pressing the knife close.

Harry closed his eyes, half-expecting to feel the blade slice into his cheek. Maybe I'll get a bed in the hospital, he thought darkly. That would solve the problem of finding somewhere to sleep… if he survived being stabbed.

But the tingling grew stronger, skittering up his arms and across his chest. He was too furious to just give up.

"Go to hell," he spat. "I'm broke. I've got nothing!"

The man's lip curled. "Lyin' brat!" He yanked back his fist and drove it into Harry's gut. Harry folded in pain, winded, trying not to collapse. The tingling flared, a strange heat under his skin.

"Now gimme the bag!" The mugger seized Harry's worn backpack—the one that contained everything: clothes, birth certificate, even a battered photo of his parents he'd liberated from one of Aunt Petunia's old boxes.

Harry's vision blurred, a mixture of tears and the near-blinding spark crawling beneath his skin. He tugged back, refusing to let go. If he lost the backpack, he truly lost everything.

"Let go!" the man demanded, wrenching the strap.

"Never!" Harry gasped, panting through the pain in his ribs. The magical prickle in his body felt like it was building to a fever pitch. He clung stubbornly to the bag, thinking of how the Dursleys had already taken so much—his childhood, his dignity—and how he refused to let another stranger rob him blind.

Suddenly, an echo overlapped his memory—the bored voice of the job-placement clerk earlier that day:

"Harry Evans? Next, please—window eight."

He'd bolted from his seat, forms in hand, only for the woman behind the desk to look him up and down in disapproval.

"ID?" she had asked.

"Er… I've only got my school ID," he'd said, voice faltering.

"That's expired," she'd replied flatly, tapping her lacquered nails on the papers. "No current address, no valid photo ID… I can't place you in any job without at least something from these lists."

She'd rattled off official forms like some incantation: a passport, a license, a Social Security card—so many hoops. He had his birth certificate, sure, but it wasn't enough if he couldn't prove who he was otherwise.

"What you need to do," she'd explained, exasperated, "is get into a shelter for the night, then be first in line at the DMV in the morning to get a proper ID. Then come back here and we'll see if we can find you something. Otherwise, you're not legally employable."

So he'd wasted the entire day, and ended up here—hungry, exhausted, and now pinned against a brick wall by some deranged mugger.

"Give it!" the man hissed, tugging violently on the backpack.

Harry's skin felt like it was on fire—his chest was a swirl of hot, crackling magic. In a moment of pure desperation, he twisted his body, still clutching the bag. He could almost feel something raw and powerful coursing through him, ready to burst.

He gritted his teeth, letting out a strangled cry, "Get—off!"

For a split second, the alleyway seemed to shimmer. The mugger's wild gaze darted around, confusion flickering there. Harry had no idea what he was doing, but the tingle swelled, intensifying until a faint crackle of invisible energy sparked between them.

Then, as though some unseen force had yanked the man away, the mugger stumbled back, nearly losing his footing. He howled in alarm, dropping the knife with a clatter. Harry seized the moment, snatching the backpack free and bolting, not even sparing a look behind him.

He sprinted to the end of the alley, heart hammering, the energy ebbing as quickly as it had appeared. He stumbled onto the main street, gasping for air, eyes darting frantically for any sign of pursuit. But none came. The mugger must have thought better of chasing him out into the open.

Harry slumped against a lamppost, chest heaving. His stomach still throbbed where he'd been punched. Slowly, the adrenaline faded, leaving behind sheer exhaustion. Yet, he clung to his backpack with grim determination—he'd managed to keep the few possessions he had left.

Harry felt the cold metal of the knife pull away from his face, and for a split second, he thought he might escape without losing anything. But then the mugger's fist slammed into his gut, driving every ounce of air from his lungs. He gasped, and that tingling under his skin surged, almost like accidental magic coursing through him.

"Gimme the bag!" the mugger snarled.

He was tugging at Harry's worn backpack—one that held every scrap of his belongings: the pitiful spare clothes, the documents Aunt Petunia had shoved at him before throwing him out of the Dursley house, and what little money he'd saved. If he takes this… Harry thought in a cold sweat, I lose everything. Replacing those papers alone could take ages.

"Let go!" Harry choked out, voice tight.

His vision blurred. The burning sensation intensified until every nerve in his body felt aflame.

"Gimme it!" the man yelled, yanking harder.

"Motherfucker!" Harry roared, yanking back with all the strength he could muster, letting the anger stoke that strange crackling heat in his core.

The backpack tore free, and as soon as it did, Harry spun around, hoping the momentum of the heavy bag might knock the knife from the mugger's hand.

"Get the fuck away from me!" he shouted, swinging the bag wildly.

He hit nothing but air, his weight carrying him in a stumbling circle. He dropped to his knees, panting, and watched through bleary eyes as the mugger staggered backward. Harry tried to scramble to his feet, but the fiery energy pulsed again, making his head spin. Instead, he collapsed, slamming face-first onto the wet pavement.

He managed a dazed glance at the mugger… and saw something impossible. The man charged directly into the brick wall opposite, face-first, as if an invisible force had drawn him there. He ricocheted off with a sickening thud, blood streaming from his nose, then staggered and lurched at the wall again.

Harry blinked, trying to fight the dizziness. Magic? It had to be. It felt like the very air crackled with it, sapping his strength. He attempted to lift himself, but his arms shook, and he smacked his head on the ground again. Thankfully not as hard as the mugger, who continued pounding himself into the wall.

A grisly crunch echoed through the alley when the man's skull connected with the bricks once more. Harry heard a strange tinkling sound—like a faint bell—just before his vision went black.

He was in a forest.

It made no sense. Harry knew no forests like this in Little Whinging—he'd barely visited any beyond the occasional municipal park. And yet here he was, trudging through tall trees and thick undergrowth. Shafts of sunlight streamed in at an angle, and the distant twitter of birds filled the air. Leaves crunched beneath his feet as he followed a winding path through the forest.

Eventually, he emerged into a small clearing. Sunlight flooded the open space, illuminating a rough-cut stone slab set a bit off-center.

"Come on, Harry, we haven't got much time."

He looked down, startled to find a slight figure—a girl of perhaps seven or eight—standing beside him. She was barefoot, wearing what looked like a shapeless sack.

"It's called a shift, Harry," the girl said, glancing up at him. Stranger still, her lips didn't move when she spoke.

He nearly stumbled. "How… did you—"

"Oh—sorry," she said aloud this time, and her lips moved perfectly in sync with her voice. "I forget sometimes."

"Right…" Harry murmured, feeling oddly calm, in spite of the bizarre situation. He recognized that this was impossible, yet it felt strangely safe. As though his fear, his humiliation at being attacked… all of it was locked in a sealed box, observed but not directly felt.

A smile lit the girl's face, making the sunlight grow even warmer. Harry felt cocooned in comfort, as if strong arms had wrapped around him.

"Come on," the girl repeated, taking his hand and leading him toward the stone slab. "We need to talk."

"Are… are you the one who woke me up this morning?" he asked, remembering that mysterious voice that had dogged him throughout the day.

"It was yesterday now," she said serenely. "But yes, I had to wake you so we could speak."

Harry stopped beside the worn stone, about waist-high on him, maybe eight feet long by four feet wide. It looked centuries old. The child hopped onto it, pulling the hem of her shift under her legs. Grass stains tinted her bare feet green.

"You woke me so we could talk, but then waited until I was asleep again?" Harry asked, vaguely recalling how exhausted he'd been.

She gave him a playful scowl. "You're not just asleep, silly. There are different levels of consciousness, and I needed to make sure your power woke up before you faced the world on your own. Good thing I did, because you certainly needed it in that alley. You poured way too much mana into defending yourself and then collapsed."

He blinked. "Mana? Is this… some kind of magic you're talking about? And who are you? My subconscious or something?"

Her small face scrunched in thought. "You can call me… Chloe!" Another brilliant smile, and once again the clearing felt as warm and welcoming as a summer day. "It means 'dawn,' signifying new beginnings, which is exactly what we're doing. And it's pretty, don't you think?"

Harry swallowed thickly. "Yes, it's very… pretty."

She beamed. "Do you think I'm pretty?"

He paused, suddenly noticing how flawlessly lovely her childish features were. "Yes," he admitted, "you're a beautiful little—um, girl."

Chloe's expression lit up in delight. "Thank you! But I'm not really a little girl. It's just the easiest way to appear to you."

"Why?" he asked, uneasy. "What does it matter if I'm…"

"Because you're a boy." She pouted, looking momentarily affronted by that fact. A passing cloud cast the clearing into shadow, and Harry shivered. "I've tried appearing in older, wiser forms for other people. Girls respect the wrinkles, the gray hair—they listen. But boys never listen to that, for some reason. So then I tried showing up the way I truly like—young and beautiful, no wrinkles. The girls still listened; the boys, though, just wanted to have sex with me, which was even more annoying. Boys are weird."

Harry's cheeks flamed, unease prickling at his neck. This was officially far too strange, yet the dreamlike warmth of the place dulled his alarm.

"Anyway," Chloe went on, "I got tired of having to fix the boys so they wouldn't be all… hormonal. So I decided to appear like this." She shrugged again, and the sun popped back out from behind the cloud, banishing Harry's anxiety. "Boys don't try to sleep with me when I'm a child—well, not usually—and they do pay attention. Might be some paternal instinct, who knows?"

Harry swallowed, feeling a twist of surrealism. "Right," he managed.

Chloe's gaze flicked up, as if listening to something in the distance. "Oh dear, we haven't much time. I brought you here because I have three very important things to tell you. Listen carefully."

Harry nodded, feeling the strangeness intensify.

"First," she said, "be yourself. Things are going to get weird, confusing… but you'll be alright. I promise."

Harry's mind flickered back to the vicious mugger, the swirling crackle of magic, the entire day of dead-end bureaucracy and humiliations. Yet here, in Chloe's clearing, he felt oddly safe.

"Be myself. Got it," he murmured.

She nodded, satisfied. "Second: I love you."

His knees went weak at the overwhelming surge of warmth that followed those words. It flooded him from head to toe, like a tangible proof that, yes, here was someone who truly cared. Unconditional love—something he'd never known with the Dursleys. It almost made him sob.

"Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry," Chloe said, taking his hand gently. "I know it's been hard, but you're going to know so much love—it'll be disgusting, really." Her eyes sparkled. "Definitely exhausting. I promise you, though, it will happen. Do you believe me?"

He drew a shaky breath and nodded. He did believe her, in that instant. The intense wave of emotion receded, leaving a cozy, comforting glow in his gut.

Chloe gave his hand a final squeeze. "Good. Now, the last thing. I need you to do something for me."

"Anything," Harry said fervently. He meant it.

She gave him a chiding look. "Careful—don't make promises like that lightly. They have too much power. But this task is important. Maybe I'm being selfish, using mine this way, but…"

She trailed off, staring into the middle distance.

"Using what?" Harry prompted, but Chloe shook her head.

"Just listen." A sigh slipped past her lips, and the breeze picked up, rustling the treetops. "A long time ago, I made a bad mistake. Someone I love dearly asked me for something, and I gave it to her—but she misunderstood. She… well, she offered a trade she never needed to make. And I was too preoccupied to realize the consequences. That's no excuse, of course, but…" Chloe's voice turned soft, laced with sorrow. "She believes I did something terrible to her. She's spent ages hating me for it, and I can't reach her."

Rain began to fall, spattering across Harry's shoulders and trickling down Chloe's cheeks, though he wasn't certain if the dampness on her face was rain or tears. Thunder rumbled overhead.

"She won't listen to me anymore," Chloe said, voice trembling as the wind whipped around them. "I need you to tell her something when you meet her. Trust me, you will know the moment."

"Wh-what?" Harry asked, bracing himself against the pounding rain. "What do I tell her?"

"Tell her: 'I wouldn't do that.' That's all." She lifted her face to the stormy sky. "You'll understand when the time comes."

Lightning flashed, followed by a tremendous crack of thunder. Chloe suddenly stamped her bare foot on the stone slab. "Stop that!" she shouted skyward. Instantly, the rain ceased, leaving only the lingering drip of water from the leaves. The clouds parted, beams of sunshine flooding the clearing once again.

"That's the trouble with this form," she muttered, looking half-embarrassed. "Hardly any emotional control. If I were in my Crone aspect, the weather would never dare—" She broke off with a dismissive wave. "Doesn't matter. Anyway, I'm about out of time."

She turned her gaze back to Harry, eyes full of a startling urgency. "So you'll remember, right? 'I wouldn't do that.' Don't forget."

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but Chloe leaned forward and tapped him gently on the tip of his nose. "Boop!" she said brightly.

And everything went dark.

Thank you for reading! If you want to read chapters 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21 right now and discover even more stories, join me on . Your support helps me bring you even more magical adventures!
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