Fear

Harry was afraid of him.

No questions about it.

Dudley was larger than him. He had more mass than him and even his bones were bigger. Despite his childish blubber, Harry knew the kid developing muscle beneath it all. Harry had overheard the PE teacher talking to Vernon about it. Vernon had proudly boasted about how once Dudley started his boxing training, he'd be unstoppable.

Harry didn't need to know this. He lived through this reality on a daily basis. Dudley smashed his heavy set fists against his skull, abdomen, thighs, and shoulders often enough. He didn't need Vernon to tell him that. Any attempts to fight back only amused the older boy. Just like it did right now.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Dudley sneered in vile amusement.

"I didn't—" Harry started, but the words were cut off as Dudley grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him into the wall.

"Liar!" Dudley spat, his breath hot and rancid in Harry's face. "You just couldn't keep your mouth shut, could you? Now I've got detention thanks to you."

Something inside Harry hardened. He wasn't going to just take it. Not today. Balling his fist, he swung upward, knuckles connecting with the soft expanse of Dudley's stomach.

Dudley staggered back half a step, more from surprise than pain. For a fleeting second, Harry thought he'd managed to fend him off. But then Dudley grinned.

"That it?" Dudley asked mockingly, his deep laugh echoing in the narrow alley. "That's the best you've got?" He slapped his own belly for emphasis, his gang jeering behind him.

Before Harry could react, Dudley's massive fist crashed into his face. Pain exploded across his cheekbone as he crumpled to the ground, blinking against the stars swimming in his vision.

"Enjoy that," Dudley said, grinning as he reared back and kicked Harry square in the ribs. The force sent him rolling onto his side, gasping for air.

"You know what your problem is, Potter?" Dudley snarled, his voice dripping venom. "You think you're better than me. But you're nothing. Always running your mouth—just like your mum did, I bet."

"MUM SAVE ME!" Harry cried out but there was no salvation. Lily Evans Potter was long dead in a car crash or so the story goes. Dudley punted him in stomach to shut him up lest his moaning attract the grown ups.

He curled tighter, clutching at his ribs, but Dudley only laughed and kicked Harry's bag down the alley. His gang cheered as they disappeared around the corner, leaving Harry bruised and trembling on the ground.

Gritting his teeth, Harry wiped the blood from his nose, staring at the path they'd taken. This wasn't over. Not by a long shot. After a while, Harry collected himself and started the long trek back home.

Night Time

Just because you feared something, doesn't mean you had to accept it. He was powerful than Dudley. He knew this to be true. When particularly troubled, he could make things happen. However, this power surged at its own will. Not his. Harry scowled as he was surrounded by a glow that healed his wounds.

Bruises vanished in record time and bones readjusted themselves to their proper position. Harry scoweld, now Petunia would never believe him. He willed his mind to work. With every ounce of determination within him, he imagined the lock on his door to open.

*CLICK*

The power worked! It could be harnessed to work in ways beyond merely healing! He felt something warm trickle down his nose. He wiped it at it only to discover blood. Harry made a mental note of dealing with that at a later time. The cupboard door creaked as it opened, and Harry peeked out cautiously. The house was quiet; the low hum of the air conditioning hummed in the background. The cool air swept over his skin, raising goosebumps as he climbed out and stood.

For a moment, he hesitated, the back of his neck prickling with anxiety. If the Dursleys found out he'd gotten out… but no. He pushed the thought aside. Fear was crippling. He need to overcome this.

Harry padded softly toward the kitchen. His stomach growled angrily, urging him forward. He'd been given nothing but stale bread earlier—if that—and his hunger outweighed the fear of getting caught. Pulling open the refrigerator, Harry's eyes scanned the shelves until he settled on a block of cheese and half a loaf of bread. Snatching his prize, he bolted before anyone came to investigate the light spilling from the fridge.

Next, the garage. The room smelled faintly of oil and rust. Tucked in the corner, behind discarded gardening tools and boxes of old toys, he found what he was looking for: a portable television, still in its box. Dudley had been gifted it last birthday but had discarded it almost immediately when Uncle Vernon bought him a larger one for his room.

Harry smirked faintly to himself as he carried the box back to the cupboard along with a pair of headphones he found hanging by the door. He struggled for a few minutes to get the contraption set up, his hands fumbling to connect the wires properly, but eventually, it crackled to life, the screen buzzing with static before settling on a channel.

He took a bite of cheese as he nestled into the corner, the screen now showing a documentary.

"Despite their smaller numbers, the Mongols used psychological tactics and overwhelming force to dominate empires far greater than themselves. They made us of horrifying acts of violence to coerce people into thinking they were something beyond human." The narrator said and Harry looked on, almost transfixed. "Entire cities were put to sword. Men killed. Women enslaved. The children slaughtered infront of their parents."

Harry watched on.

"Thus, people started believing Mongols to be something aking to demons and ghosts. Most armies lost the battle psychologically before even the first volley of arrows were exchanged. People feared the outcome of defeat so much that the possibility of victory didn't even occur to them."

The documentary played on, its stories of strategies and conquest captivating Harry until his eyelids grew heavy.

People feared the outcome of defeat so much that the possibility of victory didn't even occur to them The word kept playing in his mind as sleep soon claimed him.

An Overwhelming Strike

He winced as his body ached. For no reason this time around, Dudley and Piers had decided to pummel him again and leave him a bleeding mess. Piers had been worried at the sight of blood but Dudley had waved him off saying that Harry healed fast. And apparently that was all she wrote.

The last thing Harry saw before his world darkened was the gravel beneath him, dappled with his own blood. His aching body refused to move as everything faded into nothingness.

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer lying on the ground in the middle of Privet Drive. Instead, he was sitting upright on a wooden bench.

Everything was white. White as far as the eye could see. No shadows, no shapes—just a blank expanse stretching into eternity. Harry blinked, his mind struggling to make sense of the surreal environment.

"Comfortable?"

The voice startled him, and he turned sharply. Sitting opposite him, on another identical wooden bench, was… himself.

No, not quite himself. The boy opposite him looked identical in every way—his unruly hair, too-large hand-me-down clothes, green eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses—but his expression was different. Smug. Confident. There was a spark in his eyes that Harry had never seen in his own reflection.

The doppelganger leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his wide smile almost taunting. "How are you, Harry?"

Harry stared, too shocked to respond.

"Not too good, huh?" the other boy continued, answering for him. Harry dumbly nodded, unable to look away.

"Figures," the doppelganger said, leaning back casually. His gaze hardened. "For how much longer are you going to ignore yourself? Ignore your strengths?"

Harry opened his mouth, his protest weak and faltering. "I… I don't have any strengths. I'm too weak. Too—"

"Stop it!" the other Harry snapped, his voice a whip-crack in the endless white. His sudden vehemence made Harry flinch.

"You're not weak, and you know it!" the doppelganger said, pointing a finger at him. "When are you going to stop lying to yourself? You could stop all of this—the bruises, the sneers, the pain—but you just let them do it. Day after day." His voice softened, the venom replaced by something far sharper: disdain. "You allow filth to trod all over you."

Harry shook his head. "I can't stop them. I… I'm not strong enough."

The other Harry sneered, standing abruptly. His figure cast a shadow despite the lack of light. "It's not strength you need, you fool. It's fear. Fear paralyzes. It can bring down giants, topple armies. Fear alone is enough to turn the strongest into sniveling wrecks. And it's right there, just waiting for you to take it."

"I don't know how," Harry admitted, his voice trembling.

The doppelganger grinned again, dark and cold. "Don't worry about that. You have me now."

Harry's breath hitched. "What… what does that mean?"

"It means you just need to let me in." The doppelganger leaned closer, his smile widening. "Let me take over. I'll show them what it means to fear."

Harry hesitated, the words stirring something deep and primal in his chest. His body still ached, and his mind screamed against the unfairness of it all. Slowly, he nodded.

"Good," the doppelganger said softly, his form beginning to shimmer, the white expanse glowing brighter and brighter. "You won't regret it."

The whiteness overwhelmed him, the bench dissolving beneath him. For a fleeting moment, he felt himself spiraling, falling back into his body. But when he opened his eyes again, something was different. His hands didn't shake, and the sharp pain in his ribs was replaced by a cool, calculated calm.

A dark smirk tugged at his lips, one that felt entirely foreign and entirely right. He flexed his fingers, the edges of his magic tingling beneath his skin.

It was time to teach Dudley Dursley what it truly meant to fear.

Served Raw

Dudley smelt it far before he felt it. Something was burning. He sniffed around, hoping it was just his computers overheating. But… was it getting hotter? He started to feel sweat trickle down his forehead and cranked up his air conditioning.

There was a momentary relief. But then it persisted. He started coughing. The stench didn't subside but got worse.

"Did the freak burn something again?" Dudley muttered as the heat grew worse. Sweat poured from almost every orifce of his body and his shirt clung to him. Dudley rolled his eyes in annoyance at having his gaming session interrupted. He yanked his door open only to hit by a fierce heat wave that "slapped" him awake.

The house was on fire.

A wall of heat surged into him, nearly knocking him off his feet. Flames danced along the walls, devouring the wallpaper and crawling across the ceiling like fiery serpents. The hallway was unrecognizable, choked with thick, black smoke that billowed and swirled, a living thing that clawed at his lungs. The roar of the fire was deafening, a beast consuming everything in its path.

Survival instinct kicked in, primal and all-encompassing. His mind raced. The window. It was the only way out.

Without thinking, without planning, he climbed onto the windowsill and leapt.

The fall seemed endless. The rush of wind tore at him, and then—crunch. Pain exploded through his leg.

The roof collapsed with a deafening crash. Distantly, he heard the wail of sirens, growing louder with each passing second. Help was coming.

But then Dudley's eyes snapped to a figure standing at the edge of the yard.

It was Harry.

The boy stood eerily still, his green eyes glinting in the firelight. There was something wrong about him, something unnatural. He wasn't the meek, pitiful cousin Dudley had bullied for years. His expression was calm, too calm, and a twisted smile curved his lips.

Dudley tried to speak, to call out for help, but the words wouldn't come. His breath caught in his throat as Harry raised his hand, forming it into the shape of a pistol. The boy tilted his head, his smile growing wider.

"Hasta la vista," Harry whispered. And then he vanished.

Exile

"You're a monster!" Harry spat, his voice echoing into the infinite expanse. "How could you—how dare you—burn their house down? They died!"

The doppelgänger stopped, cocking his head with a smirk that oozed smug amusement. "Oh, spare me your theatrics," he drawled, pretending to inspect his nails. "I'm a monster, am I? Last I checked, you're the one who called me up."

Harry bristled. "I didn't ask for that! I didn't ask for murder! You crossed the line."

The doppelgänger chuckled, low and menacing, and began to circle Harry like a predator toying with its prey. "No, you didn't ask. But you needed me. Let's not pretend you didn't. You were tired, weren't you, of cowering like a beaten dog? You wanted power. A voice. Justice."

"That wasn't justice!" Harry shouted, spinning to face him. His voice cracked, thick with emotion. "What you did—it was cruel, malicious, wrong. We agreed to scare Dudley! Maybe prank him, humiliate him like he did me. Not—" He choked, gesturing helplessly. "Not this!"

The doppelgänger stopped abruptly, his expression twisting into something darker. "Justice?" he repeated mockingly, drawing out the word as though it tasted foul. "Oh, Harry. Sweet, naive Harry. Let me ask you—where was your justice when Dudley and his cronies pushed you into the dirt? Where was it when they stuffed your head down the toilet or took turns hitting you like some bloody piñata?"

"That doesn't mean—"

"Where was your justice when the teachers looked the other way? When Petunia and Vernon laughed while Dudley treated you like his favorite punching bag?" The doppelgänger's voice rose, his sneer deepening. "You think the police would've done anything for you? Those fat, corrupt bureaucrats couldn't care less about a scrawny little orphan, Harry. Admit it—you know I'm right."

Harry clenched his fists until his nails dug painfully into his palms. The words struck home in a way that left him trembling. A bitter silence fell between them.

The doppelgänger shrugged lazily, as if dismissing the argument entirely. "I told you: justice was served. Dudley's so paralyzed by fear, so wracked with guilt, he'll never treat another person the way he treated you. Mission accomplished." He smiled that maddening smile again, sharp and predatory. "You're welcome."

Harry's mouth opened, but no words came out. His throat burned with unshed tears, his chest aching with frustration.

The doppelgänger stepped back, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. "You can't even argue, can you? Deep down, you know the truth. That house deserved to burn."

"Shut up!" Harry shouted, his voice ragged. "You're not me. You're not anything. You're just a mistake—something I never should've let exist. Get out. Leave and never come back!"

For a moment, the doppelgänger stood motionless, his expression unreadable. Then his lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. "We'll see, Harry," he said, "You called me once. And I have a feeling...you'll call again."

Orphanage

The air was thick with the smell of cheap gruel and boiled vegetables, and his stomach churned at the thought of another tasteless meal. This new orphanage was one of many hastily built after a devastating war had ravaged Europe, leaving children homeless and forgotten in its wake. Though he rarely paid attention to the news, Harry had overheard hushed whispers from the staff about the ongoing conflict—NATO, Russia, death tolls in the tens of thousands.

A sea of grey and black surrounded him on all sides.

His mind drifted, unbidden, back to Dudley. He hadn't meant to check on his cousin after the fire—after everything—but something inside him had tugged at his conscience, a toxic cocktail of guilt and morbid curiosity. He hadn't been prepared for Dudley's reaction, though.

The instant Dudley had seen him, the boy had screamed—no, shrieked—as if Harry were a ghost crawling out of some horror story. His eyes had bulged, and his body shook uncontrollably as he yelled incoherent words of panic. Staff had rushed in to sedate him before he hurt himself. They'd transferred him to an asylum after that.

The guilt gnawed at him. That wasn't my fault, Harry told himself over and over, but it never sank in. The memory hung heavy in his chest, a phantom weight pressing him down with every step.

A sharp jolt to his side startled him. Harry stumbled forward, and his food tray clattered to the ground, spilling its contents across the cold tiles. The world seemed to slow as laughter bubbled up from nearby tables.

The culprit—a boy roughly his age—barely glanced back as he strode past, his head held high, his hands shoved into his pockets. Harry froze, heat crawling up his neck and into his cheeks. He knelt to gather the scattered bits of bread and mush, trying to drown out the snickers around him.

"See?" The voice was unmistakable, dripping with disdain.

Harry flinched as his doppelgänger materialized nearby, leaning casually against a cracked gray pillar. Black eyes sparkled with sardonic amusement as he regarded Harry with a slow shake of his head. "Pathetic. He didn't even apologize. They don't respect you, Harry. Why would they? You let them treat you like this. They don't respect you because they don't fear you. And why should they? You do pretty well in portraying youself as prey."

Harry clenched his teeth, focusing on scooping the slop back into the tray. Ignore him. He's not real.

"Does ignoring me make me go away?" the doppelgänger mocked, pushing off the pillar. He swaggered over, towering above Harry like a dark specter. "Face it. You're nothing to them. A joke. Prey."

Harry slammed the tray onto the table and shot him a glare. "Go away."

But the doppelgänger only smirked, crossing his arms as he leaned down. "Do you know what you could be, Harry? A god among mortals. With me by your side, no one would ever laugh at you again. They wouldn't dare. They'd look at you and tremble." He tilted his head, his voice a low, venomous whisper. "But no. You cling to this weak little shell of yours. Morality this, conscience that. It's … nauseating."

Harry's hands tightened into fists, trembling as he spat back through gritted teeth, "Power through fear isn't power. It's corruption."

The doppelgänger straightened, his grin dissolving into a sneer. "Don't pretend they care about your misplaced morals. You're nothing to them! They didn't fight for you before, and they sure as hell won't now. You don't even believe yourself." He gestured toward the boy who had knocked him down. "You could've stopped him. Reminded him where he stood. But you didn't. Why?"

"I'm not like you," Harry hissed. His words were meant to sound resolute, but they quavered, uncertain. "I don't need fear to get by."

Regression

The trustees had distributed personal stereos earlier that day—cheap ones, sure, but they were the only Christmas gift anyone here would get. Harry had been quietly excited to lose himself in music, to tune out the orphanage's endless noise.

The days had already been bad. The shitty heater that never seemd to work. Cold water in the showers. Tasteless, bland food. Stupid admins and teachers who never cared for anything. They were more concerned if somebody stood up for themselves rather than pro-actively resolving a situation.

All of them preferred pushing out useless slides and "studies" publishes by useless NGOs who just wanted government kickbacks and improve their media image. They would prefer if kids used asanine "de-escalation" methods rather than resorting to time tested methods.

But then his had been stolen. Of course, it had been stolen. Nothing was ever his for long in this cursed world.

And he knew who took it—everyone did. Danny. The hulking, swaggering, self-proclaimed ruler of this place. It wasn't even subtle. He'd flaunted it like a trophy, deliberately choosing Harry's stereo from the many to further humiliate him.

Harry swallowed the lump rising in his throat and clenched his fists tighter. Across the room, a flicker of movement caught his eye. The doppelgänger lounged lazily on a chair nearby, casually flipping through a thick, leather-bound book. He didn't even glance up. Instead, a smirk tugged at his lips, as though he could sense Harry's simmering rage and was savoring every drop.

Something inside Harry fractured.

He stood, moving on autopilot. His footsteps echoed dully against the wooden floor as he walked out of the library, leaving the quiet behind for the chaos of the common area. The doppelgänger didn't follow, not in the traditional sense, but Harry could still feel him there—his presence like a shadow carved into his own thoughts.

Danny locked eyes with him and smiled brightly, a smile that Harry returned. He went behind him and observed. Danny was alone. This was good.

His fingers closed around the weighty encyclopedia from a nearby table. And then, without hesitation, he swung.

CRACK!

The sound was sickening, reverberating through the common area like a gunshot. Danny's head jerked forward violently, and he toppled out of his chair, hitting the floor face-first. Blood bloomed from his nose in vivid crimson streaks as gasps erupted from the onlookers. For a moment, time froze, the collective intake of breath seeming to suck all the sound out of the room.

Harry stood over him, the encyclopedia still in his hand, his chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths. His mind buzzed, hollow and yet electrified at once.

"Oi, Harry—what the hell's wrong with you?!" one of Danny's friends shouted, moving to help the fallen boy.

But Harry didn't stop. The book came down again. THUD!

"That's for taking my shit." Harry's said.

He swung again. THUD!

"Tha's for fucking with me!"

Another swing. THWACK!

"And this—" Harry punctuated his words with another strike—"is for thinking you could get away with it!"

Danny groaned, his hands flailing uselessly as Harry stood over him, his eyes blazing. The gang froze in place, none of them daring to move or speak.

Harry turned his fiery gaze to Danny's closest crony, pointing the blood-smeared edge of the encyclopedia at him. "I want my stereo back. By tonight," he commanded, his voice low but carrying a promise of unrelenting brutality.

Later that night, Harry returned to his bunk and paused. His stereo was sitting neatly on his bed, the cassette rewound as though brand new. Beside it sat a packet of crisps—an unspoken peace offering.

He stared at the items for a long moment. his fingers brushing the smooth plastic of the stereo. It was cold to the touch. His chest felt tight, the earlier rage replaced by a confusing mix of triumph and guilt.

"Looks like they learned," came the doppelgänger's voice.

Harry didn't turn to look, but he could feel the dark version of himself lingering in the shadows at the edge of his bunk. "You don't have to like it," the doppelgänger added with a sly smirk. "But this is how the world works. Fear Harry. They fear you. Ergo, they respect you."

Harry couldn't deny. It felt sickeningly good.

Bedtime Philosophy

"Did you get your stereo back?"

Harry tilted his head, squinting at the vague outline of the boy lying above. He didn't look down, merely kept staring at the ceiling.

"Yes," Harry whispered back after a pause.

"Hmm." The older boy's voice was tinged with bemusement. "Got it like a weakling, though, didn't you? Took the coward's route. Attacked him from behind."

Harry stiffened, his fingers tightening around the stereo. "I did what I had to," he muttered.

"That's what all cowards say," the boy countered, still not looking at him. There was no heat in his voice, no malice—just the faint edge of disappointment. "You didn't stand up to him like a man. You hid behind cheap tricks. No honor in that."

Harry sat up slightly, his green eyes narrowing as he glanced at the boy. He wasn't used to being questioned like this. After all the humiliation he'd endured, after taking a stand for himself for once, this felt like salt on the wound.

"Fear and surprise," Harry said quietly, though his tone carried weight. "I needed them both. You don't win otherwise. Not with someone like Danny."

The older boy finally shifted.

"Big words for a little kid," he said. "Color me impressed."

"But tell me something, kid," he continued. "What'll you do one day when you go up against someone who doesn't scare so easily? Someone who looks at you and your tricks and thinks, 'So what?' What'll you do then?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and sharp.

"Think about it," he said over his shoulder, his voice dropping to a murmur as he stretched out. "The world's a lot bigger than this place. And there's always someone bigger, someone meaner. You won't scare them with surprise and fear. Not for long."

He glanced at the stereo in his lap, then at the packet of crisps beside it. Somehow, they didn't feel like a victory anymore. He clenched his jaw, sliding back under the thin blanket, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

The doppelgänger didn't show up, but its presence lingered, unspoken, a quiet echo in Harry's thoughts. Because for all his bluster, all the fury and resolve that had pushed him earlier, Harry didn't know what he'd do when the day came.

And it scared him.

Hogwarts Entry

Harry couldn't quite explain it, but her presence commanded attention in a way that felt effortless, as though the room shifted around her. She moved gracefully, her deep midnight-blue robes trailing behind her, the faint shimmer of stars woven into the fabric catching the dim light.

Harry's heart raced as she approached.

He fidgeted with his fingers, struggling to appear calm and composed. The air around her held a weight of authority mixed with quiet kindness, but Harry wasn't about to take any chances. He had already learned the hard way that trying to be clever with her didn't end well.

"Good morning," she said softly, setting a stack of parchment neatly on the table in front of him. "Let's finalize your entry forms for Hogwarts."

Harry fidgeted a little more, her steady presence making him feel smaller than he was used to. He'd been sizing people up for years, learning how to talk his way out of trouble or strike fear into bullies. But Sinistra? She was something else entirely. Her composure made him feel more like an ordinary boy than the scrappy survivor he prided himself on being.

"I imagine this all feels overwhelming," Sinistra said, her words cutting through his thoughts. "To be plucked from one world into another… it takes strength. You've done well to hold your own."

Harry blinked at her, caught between wanting to shrug off her praise and wanting to bask in it. His mind flickered to his encounter last night with the older boy's mocking words. Hary wondered how he would feel knowing he was so correct.

Sinistra didn't give a shit about him. If she wanted, she could end him in a single second.

"Yes, Professor," Harry murmured finally, his voice barely audible.

"We normally wouldn't bring in students mid-year," she continued, her attention moving to the parchment in front of her. Her tone grew faintly rueful. "But the chaos caused by the war… it's complicated matters. Many students have been difficult to locate."

Harry's inner monologue sniggered. He had changed the records himself weeks ago when he overheard murmurs about "special" students. He didn't care about the legality of it—he couldn't stand the name Potter. His aunt and uncle had drilled into him that his parents were worthless drunks, and though part of him wanted to deny it, he didn't want anyone to associate him with failure, not here, not in the wizarding world.

she said nothing more, simply handed him a quill.

He signed quickly, the strokes clean and deliberate, feeling a peculiar weight lift from his shoulders as he scrawled his new identity across the page. He passed the form back to her with care, trying not to appear eager, and she examined it briefly before nodding.

"Good," she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She gathered the parchments and stood, smoothing her robes. "We'll make our way to Diagon Alley shortly to collect your school supplies. I'll explain everything else on the way."

Ollivander

Harry stood in silence, his hands clasped behind his back, his gaze darting to the occasional flash of Ollivander disappearing deeper into the stacks to fetch another wand.

Unlike the stark tension of the muggle orphanage, the wizarding world bustled with life. Outside, the streets of Diagon Alley were alive with shoppers, laughter, and haggling voices. It felt like another universe altogether, untouched by the cold shadows of the muggle world war Harry had left behind. But for now, Harry focused on staying calm and composed, waiting for what Ollivander had in store for him.

The shop's bell jingled sharply, and Harry instinctively turned toward the door. In shuffled a boy around his age, red-haired, freckled, and dressed in hand-me-down robes that were frayed at the edges. He clutched a crumpled list in one hand and looked around nervously, his wide eyes catching sight of Harry.

"Er—hello," the boy said, his ears pinking slightly. He stepped forward, looking unsure of where to stand in the cramped shop. "You're getting a wand too, then?"

Harry hesitated before offering a polite nod, keeping his posture relaxed, though his instincts told him to stay guarded. "Yeah," he said simply, testing the waters of this new encounter.

The boy smiled sheepishly, his nervousness abating slightly. "Me too. First year at Hogwarts?"

"Yes," Harry replied, glancing at the boy from under his lashes. He had perfected the art of feigned interest back at the orphanage, though this interaction felt a touch more sincere. There was something almost endearing about the awkward way the boy shifted from foot to foot.

"I'm Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley." He held out a hand, his grin hopeful and open, if a bit crooked.

Harry hesitated, his heart skipping slightly as the familiar tug-of-war in his mind began. He chewed the inside of his cheek. If Ron knew who he really was—knew the name Potter, the rumors surrounding the war in Europe—it might make everything more complicated. His fingers twitched for a brief second before he accepted the handshake.

"Jago Sevatar," he said smoothly, the practiced alias slipping from his lips without hesitation.

"Nice to meet you, Jago," Ron said.

Fin

Author Notes: Read and Review!