Chapter 9: Crossroads

The summer was never-ending. Each day dragged on, bleeding into the next, as Harry counted down the days until he could escape. Hogwarts was his lifeline—his only escape from the suffocating monotony of Privet Drive. He kept track of the days with an almost obsessive persistence, counting them in his head, sometimes even the hours if it had been a particularly bad day.

At least Vernon was away. A business trip had taken him out of the country for a few weeks, and though that meant Petunia was particularly frazzled, it also meant fewer volatile outbursts. Petunia had little patience for either of them, but she tolerated Charlie far more than him. It seemed as if their time apart at Hogwarts had smoothed over the rift between Charlie and Dudley; the two had become thick as thieves once more, united by their mutual ignorance of anything Harry did.

Still, when Harry reminded Petunia—quietly, when Vernon was out—that they needed to collect their school supplies soon, she barely looked at him before dumping them unceremoniously at the Leaky Cauldron.

"I have errands to run," she had said curtly, adjusting her handbag. "You have until noon." And then she was gone, slipping back into the Muggle streets as if the entrance to the wizarding world hadn't just appeared before her eyes.

Harry exhaled and stepped through the archway into Diagon Alley. Magic thrummed through the air, and for the first time in weeks, he could breathe again.

The second Charlie became distracted, waving eagerly at a group of Gryffindors, Harry muttered a Notice-Me-Not charm. The Ministry could track magic used outside of Hogwarts, but not in a place as magically dense as Diagon Alley. Here, spells overlapped like tangled wires, and one stray charm wouldn't even register. He just needed space—away from Charlie, away from people, away from prying eyes.

Harry melted into the crowd, slipping away before anyone could notice. He let the charm drop once he reached Gringotts, stepping into the grand marble hall. The goblins paid him no mind at first, but as he approached one of the tellers, their beady gaze fixed on him.

"I'd like to speak to my account keeper, Griphook," Harry requested.

The goblin barely glanced up from his ledger. "Griphook is busy. I doubt he has time for a child."

Harry frowned. He had anticipated resistance. Goblins did not waste their time on frivolous requests. But he also knew they valued business—and above all, their contracts.

He pulled a small slip of parchment from his pocket, one that bore Griphook's own signature. It detailed their previous correspondence—the retrieval of his family's lost belongings, the transfer of his accounts.

"He is expecting me," Harry pressed, carefully sliding the document onto the counter.

The goblin's eyes flicked to it, his fingers curling around the edge as he read. A beat passed before he let out a disgruntled noise and gestured for a younger goblin to take his place.

"Follow me," he said shortly.

Harry was led to a private office at the back of the bank, smaller than he expected but no less impressive. A silver shield, polished to perfection, hung on the wall—its intricate carvings catching the dim torchlight.

"My ancestor forged it for a now-extinct family," Griphook said without prompt, his sharp teeth flashing in what might have been amusement. "It was kindly recovered."

Harry had no doubt that kindly meant something very different to a goblin. He took a seat, barely sinking into the uncomfortable chair before Griphook placed a stack of parchment in front of him.

"We have much to discuss."

Harry frowned. "I don't have much time."

Griphook hummed but didn't look particularly concerned. "Albus Dumbledore has been visiting your family vaults frequently."

Harry's fingers twitched. "What?"

Griphook didn't look up from his papers. "He had himself appointed your and Charlus Potter's guardian in the days following your parents' deaths. As such, he has been granted restricted access to your family holdings—unable to withdraw anything but still able to monitor the vault's contents."

Harry felt something cold settle in his chest. Dumbledore. His guardian? The man had never once spoken to him. Not before Hogwarts. Not after.

"Why would he do that?" Harry asked, voice carefully measured.

"We do not meddle in wizarding affairs," Griphook said smoothly. "But I can tell you that he has been particularly interested in the rare tomes that were returned to the family vault last year."

Harry's thoughts raced. Books? Dumbledore had been searching through the Potter family vault for books?

"I want the vault locked," Harry said, gripping the quill as Griphook slid the appropriate document toward him. "No one goes in except me."

"That can be arranged," Griphook agreed, watching as Harry's signature glowed faintly on the parchment. "From this moment forward, only you may access the Potter holdings."

Harry exhaled. One problem solved. But another still loomed in the back of his mind.

"The Philosopher's Stone," he said suddenly. "Have you ever heard of it?"

Griphook's expression didn't change, but his sharp eyes gleamed with interest.

"There is said to be only one in existence," he answered. "It grants the holder eternal life and boundless gold. Even with your wealth, Potter, you would not be able to so much as glance at it, let alone own it."

Harry nodded absently, his mind already working through what he had just learned. The Stone. Immortality. Power. He had handed it over without even knowing what it was. He left Gringotts with a heavier bag of gold and an even heavier mind. But he didn't make it far.

A thread of magic pulled at him, faint but familiar—a dark undercurrent weaving through the air. It was a sensation he had felt before. It led him toward Knockturn Alley. Harry hesitated. He knew he shouldn't follow it. Every logical part of him told him to turn back, to return to the bustling safety of Diagon Alley.

But logic had never won against curiosity. The further he walked, the colder the air became. Shadows stretched long over the cobblestone street, and the scent of damp rot clung to the walls.

Then, without warning— A hand caught his chin, tilting his face upward.

Crimson eyes met his.

"The Muggle will pay in time," the man murmured, tracing a finger over Harry's still-healing lip, "You will be rewarded in time, no doubt."

Harry stiffened.

"Who are you?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

The man's lips curved into something that might have been a smile.

"You already know, little serpent," he said softly. "You simply do not wish to admit it."

Harry didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. Instead, he met those piercing red eyes with his own. And something deep in his chest—something buried—stirred. A startling smirk was all he received before the stranger disappeared into the shadows.

He had handed the Dark Lord his victory. And Voldemort had let him live. Harry didn't look back as he left Knockturn Alley. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his face remained neutral, an expression carefully schooled into something unreadable. His hands, though, trembled slightly, tucked firmly into his pockets as he reentered the lively streets of Diagon Alley.

The noise hit him all at once. The laughter, the shouts of shopkeepers, the occasional pop of Disapparition—everything bright and bustling, a stark contrast to the suffocating darkness he had just left behind.

It was disorienting. Had he really just spoken to Voldemort? Had the Dark Lord truly been standing there, in the shadows of Knockturn Alley, watching him with those piercing crimson eyes? He could still feel the phantom touch on his chin, the way Voldemort's fingers had traced the bruise on his lip, like a mark of ownership.

You will be rewarded in time.

Harry swallowed hard, pushing the memory aside as he forced his feet to move. He needed to act normal. He needed to find Charlie and finish his school shopping before anyone noticed he had disappeared. As expected, Harry found Charlie at the center of a crowd.

The bookshop Flourish and Blotts was overflowing—students and parents packed shoulder-to-shoulder, many craning their necks toward the raised platform near the back of the store. Golden banners hung from the rafters, each adorned with the smirking face of a blond, extravagantly dressed wizard.

Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry resisted the urge to groan. Of course.

Charlie was front and center, standing beside Ron and Hermione. Ron looked like he'd rather be anywhere else, Hermione looked absolutely thrilled, and Charlie—well, Charlie was positively glowing under Lockhart's attention.

Harry had no choice but to push through the throng of witches and wizards to get to them.

"Ah! There's the other Potter!"

The moment Harry emerged from the crowd, Lockhart's voice boomed across the store, and suddenly every pair of eyes turned toward him. Harry barely resisted the urge to hex him.

"I must say," Lockhart continued, flashing a dazzling smile, "what an honor it is to meet the young man who, like his brother, defeated the darkest lord of all time when they were mere babies."

Harry stiffened. And yet, the man was grinning, seemingly unaware of the sheer rage that now flickered behind Harry's neutral mask.

"I didn't realize I was part of the attraction," he said smoothly.

Lockhart laughed, clearly enjoying himself. "Come now, Mr. Potter! There's no need to be shy!"

Before Harry could react, Lockhart threw an arm around his shoulders, forcefully dragging him up onto the platform. Harry barely kept his temper in check.

Lockhart turned back to the audience, speaking with the dramatic flair of a stage performer. "That's right, my dear friends! Today is not just about me—it's about the next generation of heroes! And what better way to celebrate than with a gift?"

A photographer snapped a picture, the flash momentarily blinding Harry.

Lockhart then grabbed a full set of his own books and shoved them into Harry's arms. "For you, my boy! Free of charge!"

Harry forced a smile. "How generous."

Lockhart didn't notice the flatness in his tone. Charlie, however, was beaming.

"This is brilliant," he whispered, elbowing Harry. "Lockhart is amazing."

Harry bit back his response. Eventually, the spectacle ended, and Lockhart moved on to autographing books. The moment Harry was able to slip away, he shoved the stack of books into Charlie's hands.

"Here. Since you're such a fan," he said dryly.

Charlie didn't notice the sarcasm. "Really? Thanks, Harry!"

Harry rolled his eyes, scanning the store. He needed to get his books and get out. Unfortunately, fate had other plans.

"Bet you loved all that attention, didn't you, Potter?"

Harry stilled, already expecting the familiar voice before he turned. Draco Malfoy stood in front of him, his expression one of lazy amusement rather than the usual sneer. Unlike Charlie's cheerful, oblivious arrogance, Draco's was calculated—wielded like a polished blade, sharp enough to cut but never clumsy enough to strike first.

Behind him, Lucius Malfoy stood in his usual immaculate black robes, silver-handled cane resting lightly in his palm. His cold grey eyes swept over Harry in quiet calculation, studying him like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

Beside him, Narcissa Malfoy was a stark contrast—elegant and poised, but softer, her gaze lingering on Harry with something curious, something that felt strangely familiar. Harry met Draco's smirk with an unimpressed stare.

"Not particularly," he said evenly, brushing imaginary dust from his robes. "Unlike you, I don't have a desperate need to be seen."

Draco grinned rather than scowled. "Oh, please. You had the entire shop watching you, and you didn't even have to try."

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "My mother and I just got back from France, and what's the first thing I hear when I step into Diagon Alley? That Harry Potter is up on a stage with Gilderoy Lockhart, taking pictures like he's the star of the show."

Harry fought the urge to roll his eyes. "I was dragged up there."

"Uh-huh," Draco drawled, clearly unconvinced. "Sure you were."

Narcissa gave a small, approving smile, while Lucius merely observed in silence.

Draco exhaled dramatically. "Not that I should be surprised. Everything interesting happens while I'm away. And now, after this dreadful shopping trip, we're off to Spain."

"Spain?" Harry echoed, quirking an eyebrow.

Draco groaned. "Yes. Do you have any idea how awful it is having to listen to delayed match commentary in a different language? It's barbaric."

Harry snorted. "Must be rough."

Draco huffed, crossing his arms. "It is, actually. Do you know how hard it is to find decent coverage of the Falcons in the middle of bloody Madrid? And don't even get me started on the Cannons—though I suppose it's better than suffering through one of Puddlemere's endless strategy breakdowns."

Harry found himself smirking, despite himself. "You know, most people would just be happy to be on holiday."

Draco waved a dismissive hand. "And I would be, if it didn't mean missing every decent match this season." He shook his head in mock disappointment. "It's tragic, really."

Lucius finally spoke, his tone light but laced with something pointed. "Draco, I do believe Mr. Potter has better things to do than listen to you lament about Quidditch."

Draco scoffed but straightened immediately, looking far less casual under his father's gaze.

Lucius turned his full attention to Harry. "You seem to be adjusting well to your… placement."

It wasn't quite an insult. But it wasn't not an insult, either. Harry knew what Lucius was really saying. Slytherin. Lucius was watching him closely, weighing his value, his potential, his usefulness.

"I do my best," Harry answered smoothly.

Lucius hummed, tilting his head just slightly. "A good philosophy. I trust you will continue to make… wise choices."

Harry didn't react, refusing to give anything away. But beside Lucius, Narcissa's expression shifted, and she cast her husband a sharp look—a silent reprimand. Lucius ignored it. Narcissa turned back to Harry, her gaze flickering over him once more thoughtful but unreadable.

"I see you've already done your shopping," she noted, eyeing the bags at his side. "We should not keep you."

Lucius inclined his head. "Come, Draco."

Draco hesitated, his smirk fading just slightly as his eyes flickered between Harry and Charlie. Then, with a huff, he turned on his heel and followed his parents out of the shop. As the Malfoys disappeared into the crowd, Harry exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets. Charlie appeared beside him a moment later, grinning.

"What was that about?" he asked.

Harry shrugged. "Nothing important."

Charlie snorted. "You Slytherins are all weird."

Harry didn't argue. Instead, he cast one last glance in the direction the Malfoys had gone, thoughts swirling in his head. By the time they had finished their shopping, Petunia was already waiting outside the Leaky Cauldron. Harry felt her glare before he even saw it, a sharp, burning sensation at the back of his head.

"You're late," she snapped the moment they emerged onto the Muggle street.

She stood by the car, arms crossed, foot tapping against the pavement in agitation. Her eyes flicked over them, scanning for any sign of mischief, any trace of magic that might have clung to them.

Charlie rolled his eyes, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Relax, Aunt Petunia, we—"

"I don't want to hear it," she cut in. Her tone was clipped, dismissive, as if she could banish the mere idea of magic just by speaking over it. "Get in the car. Now."

Harry exhaled, forcing his expression into something neutral. This was what he had been expecting. Petunia had been tense ever since Vernon's return from his business trip. She had been snapping more, eyes darting toward him with something that wasn't quite her usual disdain—something more uncertain, almost wary. He had no doubt she was still thinking about what he had said weeks ago.

That he knew. That he had felt it. That she had magic. Harry slid into the passenger seat, keeping his mouth shut.

Charlie, far less adept at keeping quiet, huffed as he dropped into the back. "What's the big deal? It's not like we were running wild."

Petunia didn't dignify that with a response. She merely started the engine, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, and pulled onto the road. The moment they left the alley behind, it felt like the world had dimmed.

No more magic. No more excitement. Just gray streets, dull houses, and an endless summer stretching out before him like a prison sentence.

Harry leaned his head against the window, watching the rows of uniform houses blur past. He should have been thinking about Privet Drive, about enduring another long stretch of mind-numbing chores and avoiding Vernon's wrath.

But he wasn't. Because his mind was still in Diagon Alley. Still in that shadowed side street. Still on the brush of cold fingers against his skin. Still on a pair of crimson eyes burning into his own. Voldemort had been there. Not some fragmented whisper of a soul. Not a lingering curse. Not a memory.

And yet, Harry was still breathing.

He had walked straight into a Dark Lord's grasp—had handed over the very thing Voldemort had been seeking—and yet, he had simply been… let go.

The last few weeks of summer had dragged like a slow-moving curse, each day bleeding into the next in a haze of chores, boredom, and forced silence. But now, as Harry stood on Platform 9, feeling the familiar pulse of magic in the air, it was like breathing freely for the first time in months.

The scarlet Hogwarts Express billowed steam, the scent of metal and magic mingling in the crisp morning air. Students bustled about—trunks being loaded, cats weaving through legs, excited chatter filling the platform.

It was a world apart from Privet Drive. And Harry couldn't wait to leave. Petunia had driven them to King's Cross without a word. She hadn't looked at Harry once. Charlie had rushed ahead the moment they crossed through the barrier, eager to reunite with his friends. Harry, on the other hand, had lingered.

There had been no parting words from Petunia. No sneer, no insult, not even the usual 'Don't do anything freakish.'

Just a stiff nod in Charlie's direction before she turned and walked away—as if leaving Harry behind was as simple as shutting a door. Good riddance.

Harry squared his shoulders, adjusting his grip on his trunk, and made his way toward the train.

"Harry!"

Harry had just managed to drag his trunk onto the train when Draco Malfoy appeared beside him, grinning like a Kneazle who'd caught a particularly slow mouse.

"Thought you might've gotten yourself trampled in the rush," Draco drawled, falling into step with him. "Or did you take a detour to bask in the crowds begging for Charlie Potter's autograph?"

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. "Please. As if I'd willingly subject myself to that circus."

Draco grinned. "Good answer." He nudged Harry toward an empty compartment, wasting no time claiming the window seat.

As Harry stowed his trunk, Draco continued, "We only just got back from Spain yesterday, I wasn't even able to unpack."

Harry quirked a brow. "I thought you liked that fancy manor of yours, you've hardly been there.."

"I do," Draco sighed, dramatically flopping back against the seat. "But Mother says I need 'broader cultural experiences.' I swear, she's got a checklist of historical sites and wizarding landmarks we must visit before I turn seventeen. The moment we got back to England, she was already on about Andalusian spellcraft and something about Catalan magical architecture."

Harry smirked, stretching out his legs. "Sounds exhausting."

"You have no idea." Draco shot him a mournful look. "And to make matters worse, I missed the entire English Quidditch season."

"Tragic," Harry deadpanned.

"It is!" Draco huffed, crossing his arms. "The only matches I could catch were the ones happening wherever we were. Italy was a disaster—you'd think they were conducting ballet with all the preposterous maneuvering they do. Spain was slightly better, but I swear, they're obsessed with Chasing formations to an unhealthy degree. No appreciation for a well-executed Bludger strategy!"

Harry bit back a laugh. "So what I'm hearing is that you missed out on your beloved Falcons and are now bitter about it."

Draco shot him a look. "Obviously. Not to mention, you were supposed to come with me to a Puddlemere match, but then you went and disappeared off the face of the earth."

Harry shrugged, feigning innocence. "I wasn't exactly given much of a choice."

Draco narrowed his eyes, but before he could press further, Harry suggested a friendly game of Wizard's Chess. The steady clatter of chess pieces filled the compartment, accompanied by Draco's smug grin as his knight smashed through Harry's bishop with a dramatic swing of its sword.

"Face it, Potter," Draco drawled, lounging comfortably against the seat as his knight dusted itself off. "You have no strategic mind."

Harry barely twitched, eyes still on the board. "You're awfully confident for someone who's one bad move away from disaster."

Draco scoffed. "Please, I—"

The compartment door slammed open. Harry barely glanced up, but Draco scowled immediately, his irritation only growing as Charlie, Ron, and Hermione stepped inside without invitation.

Charlie grinned as if nothing was wrong. "Room for three more?"

"No."

Both Harry and Draco answered at the same time—Harry's voice calm, Draco's exasperated.

Charlie faltered, frowning. "Come on, Harry, don't be like that—"

"I'm always like this," Harry said dryly, still studying the chessboard.

"You can't seriously want to sit here all day," Ron complained, eyeing Draco with suspicion. "Come sit with us."

"Yeah, no thanks," Harry didn't even look up.

Draco smirked. "Harry's exactly where he wants to be. Now run along, Weasley. Shouldn't you be off worshiping his brother by now?"

Ron's face turned red, but it was Charlie who reacted first.

"Alright, enough," he sighed, stepping forward. "Come on, Harry—"

His hand closed around Harry's arm. Harry immediately stiffened, but before he could jerk away, Draco spoke up instead.

"Take your hands off him."

Draco's voice was sharp, his expression dark as he snapped his book shut and stood up. Charlie turned in surprise, but Draco wasn't backing down.

"He clearly doesn't want to go," he stated coolly, crossing his arms. "And if you force him, I'll have Farley and the other prefects in here so fast your heads will spin."

Charlie's grip loosened, hesitating.

Hermione's brows furrowed. "Charlie's his brother. He's just—"

"Dragging him off against his will?" Draco arched a brow, smug. "Yeah, real brotherly of him."

Ron bristled, but Charlie took a slow step back, his jaw clenched.

For a moment, he just stared at Harry—waiting, expecting.

But Harry said nothing. Finally, Charlie exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

"Fine," he muttered. "Suit yourself."

With a final glance at Harry, he turned and strode out of the compartment, Ron and Hermione trailing reluctantly after him.

As soon as the door slid shut, Draco plopped back into his seat, rolling his eyes.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, watching his queen drag Ron's discarded knight off the board. "It's like they think they're entitled to your time."

Harry just hummed, focusing back on the chessboard.

Disclaimer:

JK Rowling is a TERF. Protect Trans Youth.
I do not own Harry Potter, any of its characters or world.

Chapters 1-8 have been heavily edited as of March 2025, I recommend rereading through them if you have read the story before.