Slytherin's Red Prince

[Drinor]

Chapter 1: Knowledge is Power

Harry Potter knew exactly how to handle Mrs. Figg. At nine years old, he had mastered the art of the sympathetic nod while she showed him pictures of her cats, knowing that maintaining eye contact for precisely three seconds per photo was the difference between stale cake and no cake at all.



"And this is Mr. Tibbles when he caught that mouse in the garden," Mrs. Figg said, her wrinkled finger jabbing at a blurry photo of a tabby cat.



"He looks very proud," Harry replied, his green eyes wide with manufactured interest. "You can tell he's a skilled hunter."



Mrs. Figg beamed. "Oh, he is! Very observant of you, Harry."



Harry smiled and took another bite of the slightly stale chocolate cake she'd served. It wasn't delicious by any measure, but it was better than nothing, which is what awaited him back at the Dursleys. His aunt and uncle had been furious when his teacher had called about Dudley's bullying, somehow blaming Harry when his cousin had been caught red-handed.



Strange how that always happens, Harry thought while nodding appreciatively at another cat photo. Everything is always my fault, even when I'm nowhere near the problem.



"Mrs. Figg," he said during a rare pause in her monologue, his voice taking on the hesitant quality he'd learned worked best with adults, "I was wondering if I could stay just a bit longer today? Aunt Petunia mentioned they'd be having company for dinner, and..."



He let his voice trail off, eyes downcast. The implication was clear: the Dursleys wouldn't want him visible when guests arrived.



"Of course, dear," Mrs. Figg said, her voice softening. "I could use the company myself. And I have a new photo album I haven't shown you yet!"



Harry suppressed a sigh. More cat photos were a small price to pay for avoiding Uncle Vernon's temper. Besides, he'd successfully turned a punishment into an extended reprieve from the Dursleys. Not bad for a day's work.



Harry remembered the exact moment he realized that direct confrontation would never work in his favor. At seven years old, blood trickling from his nose after another chase from Dudley's gang, he'd had an epiphany while hiding behind the school kitchens.



"What are you doing back here, Potter?" Malcolm, one of Dudley's more reasonable friends, had found him.



Instead of running, Harry had met his eyes. "Hiding. But you probably guessed that."



The unexpected honesty had given Malcolm pause.



"Dudley will be looking for you."



"I know," Harry had said, wiping blood from his nose. "But he'll get bored eventually. He always does."



Malcolm had frowned. "Why does he hate you so much anyway?"



Harry had shrugged. "Dunno. Maybe because I live with him? You'd probably hate someone who suddenly appeared in your house too."



That had made Malcolm laugh, surprising them both.



"Listen," Harry had continued, sensing an opening, "I'm not asking you to stop being friends with Dudley. But maybe you could... I don't know, distract him sometimes? Suggest football instead of Harry Hunting?"



"What's in it for me?" Malcolm had asked, though with curiosity rather than malice.



Harry had thought quickly. "I'm good at maths. I could help with homework sometimes. When Dudley's not around, obviously."



Two weeks later, Harry's nose remained unbloodied, and Malcolm's math scores had improved enough for his mother to buy him a new video game. A fair trade, in Harry's estimation. He'd learned an important lesson: even when you have no power, you can sometimes negotiate a better position.



"Boy! Are you going to stare out that window all day, or are you going to cook breakfast?"



Aunt Petunia's shrill voice yanked Harry from his memories. At ten years old, he'd perfected the art of daydreaming while maintaining just enough awareness to avoid serious trouble.



"Sorry, Aunt Petunia," he said, quickly turning from the window to the stove. "Just thought I saw Mrs. Number Seven's cat in our garden again."



He knew mentioning the neighbors would momentarily distract her, and it did. Petunia's neck craned toward the window as Harry deftly cracked eggs into the pan.



"That mangy creature better not be digging in my flower beds again," she muttered.



Harry didn't bother mentioning that the flowerbeds in question were primarily maintained by him, not her. He focused on not burning the eggs, knowing that Vernon expected his breakfast to be just right.



As he worked, he felt Petunia's eyes on him, particularly on his unruly red hair that stubbornly refused to lie flat no matter how short she cut it.



"We'll need to cut that mop again," she said with distaste. "It's growing like a weed. Horrid red color. Just like—" She stopped herself, lips pinching into a tight line.



"Like my mother's?" Harry supplied innocently, tilting his head. He knew this was dangerous territory, but sometimes he couldn't resist poking at the strange silence that surrounded his parents.



Petunia's face contorted as if she'd bitten into a lemon. "Don't ask questions," she snapped automatically. After a moment, unable to help herself, she added, "Yes. Just like her. You even have her hair."



There was something in her voice – not just the usual annoyance, but something deeper. Resentment? Maybe even pain?



Interesting, Harry thought, filing this reaction away. He knew precious little about his parents beyond that they had supposedly died in a car crash when his father had been driving drunk – a story Harry had long suspected was, at best, highly edited.



"Is red hair really so horrible?" he asked, keeping his voice light as he flipped the eggs with practiced ease. "Tommy Wilson in my class has red hair, and the girls seem to like it."



"Don't be smart with me," Petunia hissed. "And don't burn those eggs. Vernon has an important meeting today."



Harry nodded, knowing when to back off. "Yes, Aunt Petunia."



He'd noticed years ago that his appearance seemed to bother his aunt more than anything else about him. The times when she looked at him and seemed genuinely unsettled were almost always when his hair caught the light a certain way, or when he fixed his bright green eyes on her with too direct a gaze. Sometimes, when he wanted to be left alone, he deliberately positioned himself where the sunlight would ignite his hair to its brightest copper, then stare at her until she became uncomfortable and found excuses to be elsewhere.



It was a small power, but in the Dursley household, Harry had learned to use whatever advantages he could find.



Later that afternoon, freed from chores for a blessed hour while Petunia gossiped on the phone, Harry sat on the low wall outside the house, watching the neighborhood children play. Most avoided him, well-trained by Dudley to keep their distance from "the freak," but there were exceptions.



Emma Phillips, a seven-year-old from two streets over and too new to know better, was sitting nearby with an ice cream cone that was melting faster than she could eat it in the summer heat.



"It's going to drip all over your shoes," Harry observed casually.



Emma looked down in alarm at the vanilla rivulets approaching her fingers.



"Here," Harry offered, pulling a relatively clean tissue from his pocket. "You can wrap it around the bottom."



"Thanks!" Emma said, accepting his help. "I'm not supposed to be eating this. Mum says sweets before dinner ruin your appetite."



"Your secret's safe with me," Harry assured her with a conspiratorial smile. "Though it does look delicious on such a hot day."



Emma studied him for a moment, then held out the cone. "Want some? We could share."



"That's very kind," Harry said, seeming genuinely touched by the offer. "Maybe just a small taste?"



By the time Petunia stepped outside to call Harry in for more chores, he and Emma were chatting like old friends, the ice cream cone long gone. The look of disapproval on his aunt's face when she saw him socializing with a "normal" child was almost worth the additional chores she piled on afterward.



"Making friends, are we?" Petunia asked with a sniff after Emma had scampered home. "That poor child doesn't know any better, I suppose."



"She just moved here," Harry said with practiced innocence. "Maybe I should tell her about Dudley's Harry Hunting game? So she knows what to expect at school?"



Petunia's face paled slightly. "Don't you dare spread your lies—"



"Not lies, Aunt Petunia," Harry corrected gently. "Mrs. Peterson saw it happening last term and reported it to the headmaster. Remember the letter they sent home?"



For a moment, Petunia seemed caught between fury and fear – fury at Harry's mild defiance, and fear of what the neighbors might think if certain stories were circulated. Harry watched the calculation happen behind her eyes.



"Get inside and clean the bathroom," she finally ordered, her voice tight. "Every inch of it, mind you. And don't think your... your freakishness will get you out of it."



As Harry passed her to go inside, he caught her staring at his hair again, that same disturbed expression flickering across her face. He'd heard her once, talking to Vernon when they thought he was asleep: "It's not just the hair, Vernon. Sometimes he looks at me with her eyes, but his expressions... so calculating. Not natural in a child."



Harry had smiled in the darkness then, just as he smiled slightly now, heading upstairs to his chores. Let them worry. Let them wonder. Someday he'd have answers about his parents – real answers, not the Dursleys' obvious lies. And somehow, he suspected his "freakishness," whatever that really meant, would have something to do with finding those answers.



Seven more years, he thought as he gathered the cleaning supplies. Seven years until I'm legally free of them. It was his constant refrain, his private promise to himself. But lately, he'd been having the strangest feeling that something was coming – something that might change everything far sooner than that.



⏃



⏃



The last day of school before summer holidays was typically Harry's favorite day of the year. It meant two months of increased chores and Dudley's constant presence, yes, but it also meant no Malcolm Stanfield for eight blissful weeks.



Malcolm, Dudley's second-in-command since Piers Polkiss had moved away, had taken to shoving Harry into walls whenever teachers weren't looking. It was becoming tiresome, and Harry had decided it was time for a small lesson in consequences.



"Did you finish the history assignment?" whispered Ellie Bennett from the desk beside him. "It's due next period."



Harry nodded, sliding his completed paper slightly into view. "Just finished the conclusion."



"Brilliant, you are," she said, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. At thirteen, Ellie was three years older than Harry but had been held back due to excessive absences during her parents' divorce. This made her simultaneously an outcast and the subject of interest among the boys, a contradiction that Harry found educational to observe.



"It's nothing special," Harry said modestly, though he knew his paper was easily A-grade work. He'd learned early that showing his full academic potential only led to accusations of cheating from the Dursleys, so he maintained a careful B average – good enough to avoid trouble at school.



"You're always so modest," Ellie said with a smile that lingered a beat too long. "Has anyone ever told you that you have the most interesting eyes? And that hair – I'd kill for that color."



Harry felt his cheeks warm slightly. This was new territory. He'd noticed in the past year that some of the girls had started looking at him differently, but he wasn't entirely sure what to do with this information yet.



"Thanks," he said simply, then added with calculated timing as Mrs. Henderson walked by, "Oh, Ellie, do you need help with your conclusion? I could explain the structure Mrs. Henderson wants."



The teacher paused, overhearing. "That's very kind of you."



Ellie beamed at him, and Harry caught Malcolm glaring from across the room. Perfect.



⏃





During lunch break, Harry positioned himself carefully in the corridor outside the boys' toilets, a half-empty juice box in hand. Timing was everything. He could hear Malcolm and Dudley's voices approaching around the corner, laughing about something undoubtedly at someone else's expense.



"Oi, look who it is," Malcolm sneered as they spotted Harry. "The carrot-top freak."



Harry assumed a slightly nervous expression, backing up a step as if intimidated. In his peripheral vision, he could see Mr. Phillips, the strictest teacher in school, walking down the perpendicular hallway. The man would reach their intersection in approximately seven seconds.



"Leave me alone, Malcolm," Harry said, his voice deliberately a touch louder than necessary.



"Make me, Orphan Boy," Malcolm replied, advancing with Dudley sniggering behind him.



Harry took another step back, feigning a stumble. As Malcolm reached to shove him, Harry let himself fall, simultaneously squeezing the juice box so that its contents sprayed across Malcolm's pristine white school shirt – and also splashed onto Dudley's expensive new trainers.



"What the—" Malcolm shouted just as Mr. Phillips rounded the corner.



"Language, Mr. Stanfield!" the teacher barked. "And no roughhousing in the corridors!"



Harry sat on the floor, looking appropriately victimized, juice dripping from his hand.



"He did it on purpose, sir!" Dudley protested, pointing at Harry. "He squirted juice all over us!"



Mr. Phillips surveyed the scene: Harry on the floor, Malcolm standing over him with an aggressive posture, and Dudley red-faced with anger.



"Really, Mr. Dursley? It appears to me that Mr. Potter was knocked down and his drink was spilled in the process." The teacher helped Harry to his feet. "Are you alright, Potter?"



"Yes, sir," Harry said meekly. "It was probably an accident."



"It was not an accident!" Malcolm insisted, which only made him look worse.



"Detention, Mr. Stanfield. Last day of term or not, bullying will not be tolerated at this school." Mr. Phillips turned to Dudley. "And consider this a warning, Mr. Dursley. Your father's donations to the school fund do not exempt you from the rules."



As the teacher escorted Malcolm away, Dudley glared murderously at Harry.



"You did that on purpose," he hissed. "I'm telling Dad."



Harry shrugged, the picture of innocence. "Tell him what? That you got caught bullying me again? I'm sure Uncle Vernon will be thrilled to hear from Mr. Phillips about your behavior."



Dudley's face contorted as his tiny brain worked through the implications. Harry knew his uncle would be more angry about the school calling than whatever Harry had supposedly done.



"You'll pay for this at home," Dudley finally threatened, stomping away with his stained trainers squeaking on the linoleum.



Harry allowed himself the smallest smile of satisfaction. Sometimes, justice could be engineered with nothing more than a juice box and good timing.



⏃





As Harry cleared the lunch tables later that day – another "volunteer" assignment that only ever seemed to fall to him – he overheard two eighth-year girls giggling by the water fountain.



"No, but seriously, have you seen Potter lately? He's actually getting cute."



"The skinny one with the red hair? Doesn't he wear those awful glasses?"



"Yeah, but his face is really nice. And those eyes! Proper green, like emeralds or something."



"He's like ten years old, Sophie!"



"He will be eleven soon, actually. And I'm just saying, give him a few years and he'll be proper fit. Mark my words."



Harry kept his head down, pretending not to hear, but couldn't help feeling a strange mix of embarrassment and satisfaction. The Dursleys had spent years telling him how worthless and ugly he was – Petunia particularly seemed to find his appearance personally offensive. It was... interesting to discover that others might see him differently.



He filed the information away. Being "cute" wasn't particularly useful to him at the moment, but it was another data point about how the world worked, and Harry collected those avidly.



⏃



The drive home was tense with Dudley alternating between sulking about his trainers and shooting venomous looks at Harry. Vernon kept glancing in the rearview mirror, clearly picking up on his son's mood.



"Everything alright at school today, Dudders?" he asked.



"Fine," Dudley muttered, which Harry knew was a strategic move. If Dudley told the full story now, Vernon would erupt in the car, which would cut into Dudley's planned evening of television. Better to wait and drop selective details when it could result in maximum punishment for Harry with minimum disruption to Dudley's schedule.



Harry gazed out the window, mentally reviewing his hidden stash of emergency supplies under the loose floorboard in his cupboard. Half a chocolate bar from Mrs. Figg, an apple he'd pocketed at lunch, and a small flashlight that still worked if you jiggled it just right. If Vernon locked him in the cupboard tonight, he'd at least have something to eat and a way to read.



They pulled into the drive of Number Four, and Harry braced himself for the evening ahead.



⏃



"BOY! Wake up!"



Harry startled awake at the sound of Vernon's bellow and the accompanying rap of knuckles on his cupboard door. For a moment, he was disoriented, the remnants of a strange dream – something about a flying motorcycle – fading rapidly from his mind.



"I'm awake, Uncle Vernon," he called, fumbling for his glasses in the dimness.



The cupboard door was yanked open, spilling harsh morning light into his cramped sleeping space. Vernon's large, purple face loomed in the doorway.



"About time! Get up and fetch the post. And start breakfast after – Dudley wants bacon."



Harry suppressed a yawn as he crawled out of the cupboard, joints stiff from the small space. Another day at Privet Drive. Except... something was different today, wasn't it?



Oh right, he thought as he padded toward the front door. It's my birthday. I'm eleven today.



Not that it mattered to anyone else in the house. There would be no cards, no presents, no acknowledgment whatsoever. Harry had long since stopped expecting any.



He reached the front mat where several letters had been pushed through the mail slot. Bill, bill, postcard from Vernon's sister Marge (who was holidaying on the Isle of Wight, judging by the picture), more bills... and then something unusual.



Harry blinked, wondering if he was still half-asleep. There, amidst the mundane correspondence, was a letter addressed to him. Not just to him, but with a level of specificity that was frankly bizarre:



Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey



The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp.



How does anyone know I sleep in a cupboard? Harry wondered, turning the envelope over. On the back was a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter 'H'.



"Boy! What's taking so long?" Vernon shouted from the kitchen.



Harry made a split-second decision. Whatever this letter was, he wasn't going to let the Dursleys see it. He slipped the mysterious envelope under his oversized shirt, tucking it into the waistband of Dudley's hand-me-down trousers.



"Coming, Uncle Vernon," he called, gathering the rest of the mail.



As he walked back to the kitchen, he could feel the weight of the letter against his skin. It felt significant somehow, important in a way he couldn't articulate.



Harry handed the remaining letters to Uncle Vernon with indifference, careful to keep his movements casual despite the strange letter burning against his skin beneath his shirt. His uncle barely grunted an acknowledgment, too engrossed in his morning paper.



"Petunia!" Vernon called out. "Marge is ill. Ate a funny whelk."



Harry slipped back to his cupboard, shutting the door quietly behind him. In the dim light he carefully extracted the mysterious envelope from his waistband. The heavy parchment felt oddly warm in his hands, almost alive. He broke the wax seal and pulled out several pages of the same yellowish material.



His eyes widened as he read:



HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY



Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)



Dear Mr. Potter,



We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry...



Harry had to read the letter three times before the words began to make any sense. A school for magic? Was this some elaborate prank Dudley had concocted? But no—Dudley lacked both the creativity and the patience for something this detailed. Whoever sent this knew exactly where he slept.



"Magic is real?" he whispered to himself, the words sounding both ridiculous and strangely right in his ears.



His mind raced through a catalog of inexplicable incidents that had plagued his young life: appearing suddenly on the school roof when Dudley's gang had been chasing him; his hair growing back overnight after Aunt Petunia had butchered it with kitchen scissors, trying to tame what she called his "hideous red mop"; Dudley's massive hand-me-downs mysteriously shrinking to fit his much smaller frame. One time, Aunt Petunia tried to use hair color on his hair, making it black, and overnight, it turned back to red.



Each incident had earned him punishment, with Vernon and Petunia acting as though he'd done something deliberately wrong, something... freakish.



Harry's eyes narrowed as connections formed. Petunia's hatred of his appearance, especially his red hair—"just like her," she always said with such bitterness. The refusal to speak of his parents except in the most disparaging terms. The absolute ban on questions, imagination, or anything outside the aggressively normal world the Dursleys had constructed.



They knew, he realized with a cold clarity that seemed beyond his eleven years. They've always known I'm... different. That I'm a wizard.



He reread the letter, noting with frustration that it provided no practical information. Where was this Hogwarts? How was he supposed to find a place to buy a wand, of all things? And what exactly was a Mugwump?



For a moment, he considered confronting Aunt Petunia. She most likely knew something about this world. But the thought of Petunia's reaction made him wince. Best case, she'd tear up the letter and lock him in the cupboard for a week. Worst case... well, he'd rather not find out.



Better to wait, he decided pragmatically. If there's a magical school that wants me badly enough to track me to a cupboard, they'll probably send someone when I don't respond.



Harry carefully folded the letter and tucked it under his thin mattress, a rare smile playing on his lips. Whatever happened next, it had to be better than another summer at Privet Drive.



The knock that came an hour later was so thunderous that Harry initially mistook it for a small earthquake. He heard Uncle Vernon's heavy footsteps in the hallway, followed by the creak of the front door opening.



"What the bloody—" Vernon's indignant bellow was cut short by a sound like a startled hippopotamus.



"Sorry 'bout that," rumbled a voice deeper and rougher than any Harry had ever heard. "Don't know me own strength sometimes. You must be Mr. Dursley."



Harry cautiously pushed the cupboard's door open and peered into the hallway. What he saw made his jaw drop.



Filling the entire doorframe—and indeed, having to stoop considerably to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling—was the largest man Harry had ever seen. With a wild tangle of black hair and a beard that covered most of his face, he resembled nothing so much as a walking mountain draped in a moleskin overcoat.



"I DEMAND THAT YOU LEAVE AT ONCE!" Vernon had recovered enough to shout, his face cycling through impressive shades of purple. "YOU ARE BREAKING AND ENTERING!"



The giant ignored him completely, stepping past Vernon as though he were no more consequential than a garden gnome. Petunia appeared from the kitchen and let out a shriek that could have shattered crystal.



"Where's Harry?" the giant asked, his small black eyes scanning the house until they landed on the scrawny boy emerging from the cupboard. "There yeh are!"



Harry sized up the situation quickly. This had to be someone from the magic school, as far as he knew there were no giants.



"I'm guessing they don't make doors in your size," Harry said with a raised eyebrow and the ghost of a smile. "Or are you just trying to make a dramatic entrance?"



For a second, everyone froze. Vernon seemed to be choking on his own outrage, Petunia looked faint, and the giant's bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise. Then, unexpectedly, the giant let out a booming laugh that seemed to shake the entire house.



"Yeh sound just like yer dad," he said, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. "Same cheek, he had."



Harry felt a strange tightness in his chest. This strange man had known his parents—really known them, not the fictional drunkards the Dursleys had invented.



"I'm Rubeus Hagrid," the giant continued, extending a hand the size of a trash can lid. "Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. Call me Hagrid, everyone does."



Harry shook the massive hand, making a split-second calculation. He needed information, and this Hagrid seemed both knowledgeable and favorably disposed toward him due to his parents.



"Pleased to meet you, Hagrid," he said, making his voice warm. "I'm guessing you're here about Hogwarts? Are you going to show me where it is?"



"HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THAT?" Petunia screeched, finding her voice at last. "WE NEVER TOLD YOU!"



Harry reached into his back pocket and pulled out the letter, allowing himself a small, satisfied smirk. "I got this this morning. You really should check the mail more carefully, Aunt Petunia."



Vernon lunged for the letter, but Harry, well-practiced in avoiding his uncle's grasp, sidestepped neatly.



"HE WILL NOT BE GOING!" Vernon thundered. "WE SWORE WHEN WE TOOK HIM IN WE'D PUT A STOP TO THAT RUBBISH!"



"Are you saying you haven't told him anything?" Hagrid asked with disgust.



"Of course not. What else were we supposed to do?" shrieked Petunia suddenly. "Take him in and celebrate what he is? How could he not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that—that school—and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats!"



She drew a deep breath and Harry watched with fascinated detachment as years of bitterness poured out of her.



"Then she met that Potter at school and they left and got married and had you, and of course I knew you'd be just the same, just as strange, just as—as—abnormal—and then, if you please, she went and got herself blown up and we got landed with you!"



Harry felt as though ice water had been poured down his spine. "Blown up? You told me they died in a car crash."



"CAR CRASH!" Hagrid roared, so angry that the Dursleys scuttled back against the wall. "How could a car crash kill Lily an' James Potter? It's an outrage! A scandal!"



"Perhaps," Harry said, keeping his voice deliberately calm while fixing Hagrid with an intense stare, "you could tell me what really happened to my parents."



Hagrid's anger deflated somewhat, replaced by discomfort and something that looked like pity. "I didn't expect this," he muttered, shooting a glare at the Dursleys. "Didn't know yeh'd been kept in the dark."



Harry waited, patient but insistent. He'd spent ten years in ignorance; he could wait another minute to get the truth.



Hagrid sighed heavily. "I suppose yeh got to know. But not here." He gestured to the cowering Dursleys. "Got a lot to tell yeh, and we need ter get yer school supplies anyway. Best if we head out."



"Now wait just a minute!" Vernon found his courage again. "He's not going anywhere! We're his guardians, and we say—"



"Save yer breath," Hagrid cut him off. "This boy's had his name down for Hogwarts since he was born. He's goin' to the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world, and he'll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts has ever seen, Albus Dumbled—"



"I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL TO TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!" Vernon shouted.



Harry winced, recognizing the tactical error immediately. Hagrid seized the umbrella he had been carrying and pointed it at Vernon like a sword.



"Never—" he thundered, "insult—Albus—Dumbledore—in—front—of—me."



He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air, and there was a flash of violet light and a sound like a firecracker. Dudley, who had been hiding in the doorway to the kitchen, yelped and grabbed his bottom, dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat backside. When he turned around, Harry saw a curly pig's tail poking through a hole in his trousers.



Vernon roared with rage, pulling Petunia and Dudley into the kitchen and slamming the door behind them, leaving Harry alone with Hagrid.



"Shouldn'ta lost me temper," Hagrid mumbled, looking slightly abashed. "Didn't work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn't much left ter do."



Harry couldn't help but smile at that. "So, Hagrid," he said, deciding to shift the conversation to more practical matters, "what exactly is Hogwarts like? The letter didn't explain much."



Hagrid brightened, clearly on comfortable ground now. "Best place in the world, Hogwarts is! Yeh'll love it. Got four houses—Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Yeh get sorted when yeh arrive."



"Sorted how? And what's the difference between the houses?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.



"Well, Gryffindor's fer the brave ones—yer parents were in Gryffindor, yeh know. Hufflepuff's full of loyal, hard-working types. Ravenclaw's where the clever ones go, and, well..." Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, "Slytherin's got a reputation fer turnin' out dark wizards, but I shouldn't be tellin' yeh that."



Harry filed this information away carefully. Four houses based on personality traits, with his parents having been in the "brave" one. Interesting. And apparently Hagrid had a bias against Slytherin.



"And how do we get there? Where is Hogwarts located?" he pressed.



Hagrid scratched his beard. "It's in Scotland, but yeh take the train from London. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters at King's Cross Station." He checked a large gold pocket watch. "But we need ter get yer supplies first. Gotta go ter Diagon Alley in London."



As Hagrid led him toward the door, Petunia reappeared, her face contorted with a mixture of fear and lingering bitterness.



"Just like her," she spat, looking at Harry's red hair with loathing. "Witch's hair. Always knew you'd be trouble, just like she was."



Harry gazed at his aunt, not with anger but with something more unsettling—calm assessment. Harry had nothing to tell her, there was no point. He had known for a long time that his aunt hated him for some reason, and now, he simply knew half of the reason.



⏃





Diagon Alley was everything Number Four Privet Drive was not: chaotic, colorful, and brazenly, defiantly magical. Harry's senses were overwhelmed as Hagrid led him through the brick archway behind the Leaky Cauldron and into the bustling wizarding street.



Cauldrons of every size gleamed in the sunlight outside one shop. Owls hooted from another. Broomsticks hovered in display windows. Children pressed their noses against glass to admire what appeared to be actual dragon liver.



Despite his determination to appear unfazed, Harry couldn't help but stare. This was a world that had been kept from him, a world where he apparently belonged.



"Gringotts first," Hagrid announced, pointing toward an imposing white building. "Wizarding bank. Run by goblins, so don't try anything funny. Not that yeh would," he added hastily.



As they walked, Harry noticed the double-takes and whispers following them. At first, he assumed it was Hagrid's immense size drawing attention, but he soon realized people were looking at him.



"Hagrid," he asked quietly, "why is everyone staring at me?"



Hagrid looked uncomfortable. "Forgot yeh wouldn't know. It's 'cause yer famous, Harry. Everyone knows yer name in our world. Yer the Boy Who Lived."



Before Harry could ask what that meant, they were interrupted by a tall, elegantly dressed witch with silver-streaked black hair.



"Goodness gracious, is that—it can't be—Harry Potter?" she exclaimed, looking at his forehead with undisguised curiosity.



Harry, recognizing the need to make a good impression in this new world, gave her his most winning smile—the one that had charmed even stern Mrs. Henderson at school.



"Yes, ma'am," he said politely. "I'm just learning about the wizarding world today. It's all quite new to me."



"Well, welcome back, Mr. Potter. Clarissa Fawley," she introduced herself with a slight bow. "My son starts at Hogwarts this year as well. Perhaps you'll meet him on the train."



"I look forward to it," Harry replied smoothly, noting the way the woman preened at his response. Clearly, his status in this world carried weight. Useful to know.



As they continued toward Gringotts, more whispers followed:



"Did you see his scar?" "Red hair just like his mother..." "Can you imagine, living with Muggles all this time?"



Harry absorbed it all, saying little but missing nothing. This world had rules and hierarchies all its own, and he was somehow at the center of it without knowing why. The scar on his forehead, which he'd always been told came from the car crash, was apparently significant.



Knowledge is power, he reminded himself, an expression he'd read in a book smuggled into his cupboard. And right now, he needed all the knowledge he could get.



"Hagrid," he said as they climbed the steps to Gringotts, "my aunt said my parents were 'blown up.' What exactly happened to them? And why am I famous?"



Hagrid sighed heavily. "Suppose yeh need to know before someone else tells yeh. But it's a terrible story, Harry, terrible..."



Harry steeled himself for the truth, his green eyes intent behind his glasses.



"It begins with a wizard who went bad. As bad as yeh can go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..."



Hagrid trailed off, looking uncomfortable.



"His name?" Harry prompted, leaning forward on the stone steps of Gringotts.



"People don' like ter say it. Everyone in our world knows—"



"How am I supposed to know if you don't tell me?" Harry pointed out reasonably.



Hagrid gave a great sigh. "All right...His name was... Voldemort." He shuddered. "Don' make me say it again. Anyway, this—this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too. Some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust."



Harry listened intently, cataloging every detail.



"Yer parents fought against him. Best witch an' wizard of their age, they were. Head Boy an' Girl at Hogwarts in their day. Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried ter get 'em on his side...probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side."



Harry's eyes narrowed slightly. "But why did he come after them specifically?"



Hagrid looked troubled. "That's the biggest myst'ry, see... he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an'—an'—" Hagrid pulled out a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth and blew his nose loudly.



"Sorry," he said. "But it's that sad—knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find—anyway... You-Know-Who killed 'em. An' then—an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing—he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a powerful, evil curse touches yeh—took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even—but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you."



Harry's fingers traced the lightning scar on his forehead. A dark wizard targeting his family. His fame resulting from survival rather than achievement. The puzzle pieces were arranging themselves, but the picture remained incomplete.



"What happened to Vol—to You-Know-Who? Did they catch him?"



"Nah, he disappeared. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see... he was gettin' more an' more powerful—why'd he go? Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Some say he's still out there, bidin' his time, but I don' believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don' reckon they could've done if he was comin' back."



Hagrid shrugged his massive shoulders. "Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on."



"And you don't know why he went after my family?" Harry pressed.



"No one knows, Harry. It's a mystery."



There was more to this story, but he wouldn't get it now. Better to change the subject.



"So what's Gringotts like inside?" he asked, glancing up at the imposing white building.



Hagrid seemed relieved by the change of topic. "Run by goblins, like I told yeh. Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it. Goblins are clever—not the friendliest of beasts. Best stick close to me."



Two goblins bowed them through the silver doors into a vast marble hall. Harry took in the long counter where goblins were weighing coins, examining precious stones, and recording in ledgers. Dozens of doors led off the hall, with more goblins showing people in and out of them.



Hagrid approached a free goblin. "Morning," he said. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."



"You have his key, sir?"



"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, emptying various items from his pockets onto the counter. The goblin watched with a sour expression as dog biscuits, moldy cheese, and other debris piled up.



"Got it," Hagrid finally announced, holding up a tiny golden key.



The goblin examined it closely. "That seems to be in order."



"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," Hagrid added importantly, pulling an envelope from his coat. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."



The goblin read the letter carefully. "Very well. I will have someone take you to both vaults. Griphook!"



As another goblin approached, Harry seized the moment. "Excuse me," he said with his most charming smile, "I was wondering how exactly the vaults work? Is it like a Muggle bank with interest, or more of a storage system?"



The goblin behind the counter seemed surprised by the question from someone so young. "Gringotts provides secure storage with our own... protections. For a fee."



A fee, Harry didn't like that one. "And those protections are?" Harry asked.



"Sufficient," the goblin replied curtly.



Harry nodded, already forming more questions. "And if I wanted to make withdrawals when I'm at school? Is there a way to access funds without coming to London?"



"You have to come to London and have the key with you, as long as you have the key, you can do whatever you want."



That's way too stupid, Harry thought, so someone just needed a key, and goblins did not care if the person having the key was the actual owner of the vault. "Thank you for the information," Harry said, noting that Hagrid looked impatient. "I appreciate your time."



The goblin seemed caught off guard by the courtesy. He gave a small nod before returning to his ledger.



After their hair-raising cart ride and the visit to Harry's vault—where he was astonished to see mounds of gold, silver, and bronze coins—Hagrid handed Harry his small golden key.



"Keep that safe, that's yours now," he said.



Harry examined the tiny key with interest. "No one else has a copy?"



"Just the goblins, I reckon. They're the only ones who can make 'em."



So my access to wealth is dependent on this one small object, Harry thought, pocketing the key carefully. I'll need to find a safer place for this than my pocket.



Following the even more nauseating ride to vault seven hundred and thirteen, where Hagrid collected a small, grubby package that Harry pretended not to notice, they emerged back into the sunlight.



"Might as well get yer uniform," Hagrid said, nodding toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts."



Harry, who had been waiting for a chance to explore independently, nodded immediately. "Of course, go ahead. I'll be fine."



As Hagrid headed for the pub, Harry looked down at his oversized, tattered clothes—Dudley's hand-me-downs that hung off his thin frame like sails on a becalmed ship.



"Hagrid," he called after the retreating giant. "Does this shop sell regular clothes too? Not just uniforms?"



Hagrid turned back, looking Harry up and down. "Yeah, they do. But yeh look fine as yeh are."



Harry almost rolled his eyes but managed to keep his expression neutral. "Just thought I might need some clothes that... fit better."



"Suppose so," Hagrid conceded. "Got enough money for extra bits?"



Harry nodded, thinking of the vault full of coins. "I think I can manage."



Madam Malkin's shop was warm and filled with the hushed sounds of measuring tapes whizzing through the air. The witch herself was squat, smiling, and dressed in mauve.



"Hogwarts, dear?" she asked before Harry could speak. "Got the lot here—another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."



In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes.



Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.



"Hello," said the boy. "Hogwarts, too?"



"Yes," said Harry.



"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy in a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."



Harry was reminded forcibly of Dudley.



"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.



"Not yet," said Harry, watching the boy's reactions carefully.



"Play Quidditch at all?"



"Not yet," Harry repeated, making a mental note to find out what Quidditch was.



"I do—Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my House, and I must say, I agree. Know what House you'll be in yet?"



"I know there are four," Harry said carefully,



"I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"



"I think any House that helps me learn magic properly would be worthwhile," Harry replied with a small smile, enjoying the confusion that flashed across the boy's face.



"I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.



"That's Hagrid," said Harry. "He works at Hogwarts."



"Oh," said the boy, curling his lip. "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"



"He's the Keeper of Keys and Grounds," Harry corrected smoothly, "and a friend of Dumbledore's."



"I've heard he's a sort of savage—lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."



Harry gave a small, conspiratorial laugh. "You know how stories get exaggerated. Have you met him yourself?"



"Well, no, but—"



"I've only just met him myself," Harry confided, leaning slightly closer, "but he seems to know everyone important at Hogwarts. Talks about Professor Dumbledore like they're close friends." He shrugged casually. "Might be useful to have someone like that think well of you, especially when we're just starting out."



"Hmm, I hadn't thought of it that way," he said, his tone becoming more measured. "You've got a point. I'm Malfoy, by the way. Draco Malfoy."



"Harry," he replied, deliberately omitting his surname. "Pleasure to meet you."



Before Draco could respond, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry stepped down from the footstool.



"I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said Draco, a curious expression on his face.



"Looking forward to it," Harry replied with a pleasant nod. As he turned to Madam Malkin, he added, "I was hoping to get some regular clothes as well. Everything I own is rather... oversized."



Madam Malkin took in his baggy clothing with a professional eye. "Of course, dear. Let's get you properly fitted."



An hour later, Harry emerged from the shop with his school uniforms and several sets of properly fitting casual clothes shrunk and packaged in a single bag.



Finally, I have my own clothes, suck it Dudley, Harry thought with a smile.



Hagrid was waiting, holding two melting ice creams.



"Thanks," said Harry, taking one. "Where to next?"



Flourish and Blotts was unlike any bookshop Harry had ever seen. Books fluttered from shelf to shelf like birds, some chained down as though they might escape, others whispering enticingly as customers passed.



"Yer school books are over here," Hagrid said, guiding Harry toward a section labeled 'Hogwarts First Years.'



Harry scanned his supply list: The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), A History of Magic, Magical Theory, and several others. As a shop assistant bundled these into a stack, Harry's gaze wandered to the neighboring shelves.



"Hagrid," he asked casually, "there's so much I don't know about the wizarding world. Are there any books that might help me understand the basics? You know, so I'm not completely lost when I start the first year?"



Hagrid scratched his beard. "Never much of a reader meself," he admitted. "But I s'pose there's some beginner books around here somewhere."



"I can help with that," offered the assistant, a young witch with spectacles perched on her nose. "We have several introductory texts for Muggle-raised students." She gave Harry a kind smile. "You're not the first to come in looking a bit overwhelmed."



"Thank you," Harry said, returning her smile with a grateful one of his own. "That would be very helpful."



She led him to a smaller section near the back. "These are our recommendations. Wizarding Ways for the Newly Magical, Hogwarts A History, From Muggle to Mage: A Beginner's Guide, and The Essential Wizard's Primer."



Harry examined the books, flipping through pages that described everything from magical etiquette to the structure of wizarding government. "These look perfect," he said, adding them to his growing pile.



While the assistant was distracted helping another customer, Harry slipped away to explore on his own. The shop seemed to go on forever, with sections dedicated to subjects he'd never imagined: Divination, Arithmancy, Magical Creatures, Runes, and more.



A leather-bound volume with silver embossing caught his eye in the 'Wizarding Society' section. The Pillars of Wizarding Community: Pure Houses. Harry pulled it from the shelf and opened it carefully. The introduction spoke of ancient magical lineages and their contributions to wizarding culture. Flipping further, he found detailed family trees of names he'd never heard: Black, Malfoy, Greengrass, Nott, Weasley, and a few others.



"Didn't figure yeh for interested in that sort of thing," Hagrid's voice came from behind him, making Harry jump slightly.



"I'm interested in everything," Harry replied smoothly. "If these families are important in the wizarding world, I should probably know about them, shouldn't I?"



Hagrid frowned slightly. "Some of them families think they're better'n everyone else just 'cause their blood's 'pure' magic for generations. Load of nonsense, if yeh ask me. Yer mum was Muggle-born and she was the best witch in her year."



Harry absorbed this information, his expression thoughtful. "All the more reason to understand how this society works," he said. "Knowledge is power, right?"



He added the book to his stack, noting Hagrid's discomfort but choosing not to address it directly. Instead, he diverted attention by pointing to another section. "What about those? Basic magical theory looks interesting."



As they moved away, Harry spotted a small volume tucked between larger books: Silent Influence: The Art of Magical Persuasion. With a quick glance to ensure Hagrid was occupied examining a book on dragons, Harry slipped this into his pile as well.



At the counter, the clerk tallied his purchases. "Quite the scholarly selection," she commented. "Most first years just get the required texts."



Harry gave her his most disarming smile. "I've got a lot of catching up to do."



"Well, these should give you a solid foundation," she said, glancing at his titles. Her eyebrow raised slightly at Pure Houses, but she made no comment.



As they left the shop, Harry's new books shrunk and packaged alongside his school texts, he felt a satisfaction that went beyond mere shopping. Each book represented knowledge that had been kept from him, secrets about this new world and his place in it.



"Where to next?" he asked Hagrid.



Knowledge is indeed power, he thought, feeling the comforting weight of the book bag in his hand. And I won't be powerless again.



They headed for what Harry had been most looking forward to: a wand.



Ollivander's was narrow and shabby, with a sign reading Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. As they entered, a tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop.



"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry startled slightly—he hadn't noticed the old man standing in the shadows. Mr. Ollivander moved closer, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.



"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's hair. And her eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."



Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry, who forced himself not to step back.



"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."



The strange man had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.



"And that's where..."



Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger.



"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands... well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do..."



He shook his head, then spotted Hagrid.



"Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"



"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.



"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.



"Er—yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he added brightly.



"But you don't use them?" said Mr. Ollivander sharply.



"Oh, no, sir," said Hagrid quickly. Harry noted that he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.



Interesting, Harry thought. Hagrid's hiding something in that umbrella.



After a strange process of trying dozens of wands, creating various levels of destruction around the shop, Ollivander finally handed Harry a wand of holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. The moment Harry took it, he felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework.



Hagrid whooped and clapped, but Ollivander cried, "Curious... curious..."



"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"



Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.



"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar."



Harry swallowed.



"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."



Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. Yet the information was valuable—he and Voldemort shared a connection beyond just the scar, a magical connection. This could be important.



Their final stop was Eeylops Owl Emporium, where Hagrid insisted on buying Harry a birthday present. The shop was dark and rustling with the soft hooting of dozens of owls.



"Don't need ter look long fer a good one," Hagrid said, but Harry was already moving toward a cage where a beautiful snowy owl sat watching him with intelligent amber eyes.



"That one," Harry said immediately, somehow knowing this was the right choice.



Hagrid beamed. "She's a beauty, no mistake! Perfect familiar for a wizard."



As they left the shop, the owl hooting softly in her cage, Harry asked, "What's a familiar?"



"A wizard's animal companion," Hagrid explained. "Creates a special bond, they do. What're you going to name her?"



Harry considered for a moment. "Hedwig," he decided, remembering a name from one of his history books. "I read it in A History of London."



My first real birthday present, Harry thought, watching the snowy owl nip his finger affectionately. And my first friend in the magical world.



"Now we are done. I will drop you back to your relatives," said Hagrid, checking Harry's list.



"Oh, wait," Harry suddenly remembered. "How do I actually get to Hogwarts? The letter didn't say."



"Blimey, almost forgot ter tell yeh!" Hagrid exclaimed. "First of September, King's Cross Station—it's all on yer ticket." He pulled out a ticket from his pocket and handed it to Harry. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, eleven o'clock."



Harry examined the ticket. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters? That doesn't sound like a real platform."



"It is fer wizards," Hagrid assured him. "Yeh get to it through the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Just walk straight at it—don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash, that's important. Best do it at a bit of a run if yer nervous."



Harry nodded, committing the instructions to memory. One more piece of the puzzle that was his new life. As they headed back toward the Leaky Cauldron, Harry's mind was already organizing everything he'd learned, planning his next steps for entering this new world—a world where he was famous, where he had enemies and potential allies, and where the truth about his parents and his own survival remained shrouded in mystery.



It was all far more complex than he'd imagined that morning when he'd hidden a mysterious letter under his shirt. But complexity meant opportunity, and Harry Potter was nothing if not adaptable.



First September



King's Cross Station bustled with the typical Sunday morning crowd as Harry pushed his trolley through the concourse, Hedwig's cage balanced precariously atop his trunk. He had insisted on coming alone, politely declining Uncle Vernon's transparently insincere offer to "drop him off." The less time spent with the Dursleys, the better.



He navigated between platforms nine and ten, mentally rehearsing Hagrid's instructions. Walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash.



Harry paused, studying the brick barrier with narrowed eyes. It looked perfectly solid. What kind of magic could make a wall permeable? Was it an illusion, a doorway disguised as a wall, or did the bricks actually rearrange themselves like the entrance to Diagon Alley?



He leaned casually against a pillar, watching the barrier from the corner of his eye. Most people streamed past without a glance, but occasionally someone with a trolley would approach the wall—and simply disappear when no one was looking. Fascinating. The spell must include some sort of notice-me-not enchantment, making Muggles' eyes slide right past the impossible sight of people vanishing into solid brick.



Clever, Harry thought.



After confirming his theory by watching a harried-looking woman with two small children disappear through the barrier, Harry decided it was time. He positioned his trolley, checked that no security guards were watching, and walked purposefully toward the wall.



He resisted the instinct to close his eyes as the barrier approached. For a moment, he felt a strange tingling sensation, like walking through a curtain of static electricity, and then he was through.



A scarlet steam engine waited next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, Eleven O'Clock. Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound between legs. Owls hooted to one another from their cages.



Harry pushed his trolley forward, taking in the controlled chaos. First-year students were saying teary goodbyes to parents, older students were reuniting with friends, and everyone seemed to know what they were doing.



As he navigated through the crowd, his attention was caught by a large family with vibrant red hair similar to his own. Two identical twins were teasing a younger boy while their mother fussed over him. A pompous-looking older boy wearing a badge stood nearby, and a small girl clutched her mother's hand, looking envious of her brothers.



The Weasleys, Harry realized, recalling the family tree he'd studied in The Pillars of Wizarding Community: Pure Houses. One of the Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood families, though noted as "blood traitors" for their Muggle sympathies. The book had described them as "numerous, red-haired, and perpetually lacking in fortune but not in magical power."



Harry observed them with interest from a distance, noting the well-worn but carefully maintained quality of their clothes, the easy affection between them despite the teasing. A real wizarding family, in the flesh.



Turning away, he approached the train, managing to lift his trunk onto the steps with some effort. He dragged it down the corridor, looking for an empty compartment. Most were already filling up, students hanging out windows to say last goodbyes or claiming territory with friends.



Harry made a strategic choice, selecting a compartment toward the middle of the train. Not at the front with the prefects and rule-followers, not at the back with the latecomers, but in the middle where he could observe the flow of traffic in both directions.



He heaved his trunk onto the luggage rack, settled Hedwig's cage by the window, and took a seat with a clear view of the platform. From this vantage point, he could observe without being immediately visible to those outside.



The train whistle sounded, and students made final dashes to board. Harry settled more comfortably into his seat as the train began to move.



Just as the platform was disappearing from view, the compartment door slid open. A girl around his age stood in the doorway, already dressed in her Hogwarts robes. She had long, pale blonde hair, ice-blue eyes, and a composed expression that bordered on haughty.



"Is anyone sitting here?" she asked, gesturing to the seats opposite Harry. Her voice was cool and measured.



"Just me so far," Harry replied with an easy smile. "Please, join me."



The girl assessed him briefly before entering and taking a seat in a lady like way. She arranged her robes meticulously, then finally looked up at him.



"Daphne Greengrass," she said, offering no handshake but giving a slight nod of acknowledgment.



Greengrass. Harry's mind immediately recalled the family tree he'd seen in The Pillars of Wizarding Community. One of the oldest pureblood houses in Britain, predating even the Blacks. Known for neutrality in wizarding conflicts and a long-standing presence in magical commerce.



"Harry Potter," he replied, watching with mild amusement as her carefully controlled expression flickered momentarily with surprise.



"Are you really?" Her eyes moved to his forehead, but unlike others, she didn't gawk or gasp. Her composure returned almost instantly.



"Last time I checked," Harry said with a slight shrug. "Though I'm beginning to think my name means more to everyone else than it does to me."



Something shifted in Daphne's expression—a flicker of interest, perhaps. "I imagine it would be strange," she said carefully, "being famous for something you don't even remember."



"Precisely," Harry agreed, relieved that someone understood. "It's like being famous for winning a lottery you didn't know you'd entered."



The ghost of a smile touched Daphne's lips. "An interesting perspective."



The compartment fell into silence, but Harry was content to let it linger. Daphne took out a slim book, and Harry retrieved one of his own—Wizarding Ways for the Newly Magical. He noticed Daphne's quick, assessing glance at his choice of reading but said nothing.



After a few minutes, Harry broke the silence. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but I've been trying to understand more about Hogwarts. The houses seem particularly important—do you know which one you'll be in?"



Daphne marked her page. "Slytherin, almost certainly. Greengrasses have been in Slytherin for generations." There was quiet pride in her voice. "Though I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be terrible."



"What makes Slytherin special?" Harry asked, genuinely curious.



Daphne seemed to consider her words carefully. "Slytherin values ambition, cunning, and self-preservation. We understand that sometimes the direct path isn't the most effective one."



We, Harry noted. She already identified with the house.



"And the other houses?" he prompted.



"Gryffindors rush in without thinking, Hufflepuffs work hard but lack vision, and Ravenclaws get lost in theory rather than application." She paused, then added with unexpected candor, "At least, that's what my father says."



"And what do you think?" Harry asked.



"I think..." she began slowly, "that people are more complex than house traits suggest. But houses shape expectations, and expectations often shape reality."



Harry nodded thoughtfully. "A self-fulfilling prophecy."



Daphne looked at him with newfound interest. "Exactly."



Harry noticed Daphne looking at his book again.



"First contact with our world, then?" she asked, her tone neutral but curious.



Harry nodded. "Everything's new to me. I was raised by Muggles who..." he paused, considering how to phrase it, "...weren't particularly fond of magic."



"That explains the clothes," she observed, glancing at his new but plainly Muggle attire. There was no malice in her comment, just a statement of fact.



"Not all of us can pull off formal robes for a train journey," Harry replied with a small grin, nodding to her immaculate appearance.



To his surprise, Daphne's expression softened fractionally. "Mother insists on proper presentation at all times. 'First impressions form lasting alliances.'"



"Smart woman," Harry commented. "Though I hope people look beyond first appearances." He tugged self-consciously at a lock of his red hair.



"Your hair is... distinctive," Daphne acknowledged, studying him. "I've read your mother was a redhead."



"So I've been told. I never knew her." Harry carefully turned the page of his book, keeping his tone light despite the subject matter. "Did you grow up around magic, then?"



Daphne nodded. "Greengrass Manor has been magical for sixteen generations." There was no boasting in her tone, just simple fact. "Father maintains extensive gardens with magical plants from around the world."



"That sounds amazing," Harry said genuinely. "Better than watching Muggles mow lawns, certainly."



"Mow lawns?" Daphne repeated, brows furrowing slightly.



"Cut grass with machines," Harry explained. "Muggles do it all the time in suburbia."



"How tedious," she said. "Do they not have groundskeeping charms?"



"No magic, remember?" Harry smiled. "They have all sorts of ingenious alternatives, though. Electricity, machines, computers."



"My father says Muggle technology is primitive," Daphne said, though her tone suggested she was repeating rather than asserting.



"Some is," Harry acknowledged, "but some is quite clever. They've been to the moon, you know."



Daphne's eyes widened slightly. "Truly? Without magic?"



"With rockets and science," Harry confirmed. "Maybe wizards have done it too, but Muggles definitely have."



A contemplative silence fell between them. Harry returned to his book, but noticed Daphne watching the scenery with a thoughtful expression. The English countryside rolled by, towns becoming sparser as they headed north.



"Are you nervous?" Daphne asked suddenly. It was the most personal question she'd ventured.



Harry considered the question. "Curious more than nervous," he said finally. "Everything's new, but that makes it interesting rather than frightening." He glanced at her. "What about you?"



"Greengrasses don't get nervous," she replied automatically, then her expression shifted slightly. "Though I suppose... anticipation isn't quite the same as nervousness."



Harry smiled at the careful distinction. "Very diplomatic."



"A necessary skill," she said, a hint of humor in her eyes.



"For Slytherin especially?" Harry asked.



"For life," Daphne corrected. "But yes, particularly in Slytherin."



Their conversation was interrupted as the compartment door slid open again. A familiar pointed face appeared.



"They're saying all down the train that Harry Potter's in this compartment," Draco Malfoy said, flanked by two large boys who looked more like bodyguards than students. "So it's you, is it?"



"Hello again," Harry said pleasantly. "From Madam Malkin's."



Draco's eyes widened slightly in recognition. "You didn't say who you were."



"You didn't ask," Harry pointed out with a small smile.



Draco's gaze shifted to Daphne. "Greengrass," he acknowledged with a nod, which she returned with cool politeness.



"This is Crabbe and Goyle," Draco said, gesturing to his companions. Then, turning back to Harry: "I see you are making friends with Greengrass. If you want to make more friends, Harry Potter. I can help you there."



He extended his hand, and Harry could feel Daphne watching the interaction closely.



Harry considered the pale hand for a moment, then smiled and shook it briefly. "I appreciate the offer, Malfoy. Though I suspect learning about the nuances for myself will be half the fun."



Draco seemed both pleased and slightly confused by this response, clearly having expected either immediate deference or outright rejection.



"Room for a few more?" he asked, gesturing to the empty seats.



Harry glanced at Daphne, including her in the decision. Her expression remained neutral, but there was the slightest nod.



"Of course," Harry said. "We were just discussing the house system."



As Draco and his companions settled in, launching into a detailed explanation of why Slytherin was objectively the best house, Harry caught Daphne's eye. There was something like approval in her gaze, or perhaps merely reassessment.

Knowledge is power, he reminded himself, watching the English countryside flash by outside the window. And connections are currency.