A Visitor in Tartan
Harry was just finishing with the floor—again—when the doorbell rang.
Uncle Vernon startled so hard he knocked over his tea. “I told them no more interruptions!” he barked, already storming toward the door like it owed him money.
Harry didn’t move from his spot in the hallway, hand still gripping the mop. The Dursleys had been on edge ever since the first letter. He’d watched them spiral: Vernon boarding up windows, Petunia muttering about “unnatural influences,” Dudley whining about everything under the sun.
It was… fascinating.
When Vernon opened the door, his usual bluster stopped short.
Standing on the doorstep was a woman.
Older. Severe. Dressed in emerald green robes with a tartan cloak draped smartly over her shoulders. Her hair was drawn back into a tight bun, and her eyes were sharp behind square spectacles.
She looked like the kind of woman who could silence an entire room with a raised eyebrow.
“Good afternoon,” she said crisply. “I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I’m here to speak with Mr. Harry Potter.”
Vernon opened his mouth. Closed it.
Harry leaned into the hall just enough for her to see him.
Her eyes flicked to his. A spark of recognition. A pause.
“Ah,” she said, her voice softening slightly. “There you are.”
Vernon attempted to regain control. “Now see here—Harry is not going to your little—whatever-it-is. We’ve had quite enough of these letters and freakish nonsense.”
McGonagall did not so much as blink. “Mr. Dursley, you are not the person I asked to speak with.”
That was all it took. Vernon stepped back—actually backed away—and McGonagall entered the house as though it were an old classroom in need of discipline.
She turned to Harry.
“You must be quite confused,” she said kindly. “May we sit down?”
Harry blinked at her. “You’re real?”
McGonagall tilted her head. “I certainly hope so.”
“You’re from the school in the letters,” he said slowly. “The… wizard one.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not here to sell me anything? Or convert me to a cult?”
Her lips twitched. “No. Though you might find our herbology professor suspiciously fond of mandrakes.”
Harry snorted before he could stop himself. “Okay, sure.”
She gestured to the couch. Harry sat down, keeping his eyes on her. Still cautious. Still quiet.
McGonagall sat across from him, back straight, hands folded in her lap.
“Mr. Potter, I imagine you have many questions,” she said gently.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Like how you know my name. Or why someone mailed a letter to the cupboard under the stairs. That’s a pretty impressive level of stalking.”
McGonagall’s smile vanished.
She looked over at the cupboard door.
Then at Petunia, who was hovering in the hallway, pale and tight-lipped.
“May I ask,” McGonagall said, voice like silk over steel, “how long Mr. Potter has been residing in… there?”
Petunia stammered, “W-well, it’s not like—it’s just where we kept his—when he was—”
“Since I was four,” Harry said flatly. “After I asked too many questions.”
McGonagall closed her eyes for the briefest of moments.
Then she turned back to Harry, something unreadable in her expression. “That will not happen again.”
Harry narrowed his eyes. “You’re not like them.”
“No,” she said. “I am not.”
He looked at her, weighing his options. “You’re really here to offer me a place at a magic school?”
“Yes."
“And magic is… real.”
She pulled a slim wand from her sleeve and, with a flick, transformed the Dursleys’ hideous floral lamp into a sleek silver cat that began licking its paw.
Harry’s jaw dropped.
He stood. Walked around the cat. Stared at it.
“That’s impossible,” he muttered. “That breaks every known law of—”
He looked up at her.
“Okay,” he said. “Magic’s real. Guess I have to reorganize my entire worldview now.”
McGonagall chuckled softly. “You’re taking this better than some.”
“I’m still convinced I’m asleep in the cupboard having a very elaborate breakdown,” he said cheerfully. “But sure, let’s go with magic.”
She gave him a long, thoughtful look. “You’re very observant.”
“Comes with the environment.”
McGonagall’s jaw tightened slightly.
“I’ve been assigned to help you prepare,” she said. “Muggle-born or Muggle-raised students receive orientation before the term begins. That includes assistance purchasing your supplies and an introduction to basic magical principles.”
“You’re my teacher?” he asked.
“I will be,” she said. “I teach Transfiguration, one of the core magical disciplines. But for now, I am your guide.”
Harry looked at her—this sharp, severe woman with a voice like thunder wrapped in velvet—and for the first time, believed someone was actually on his side.
“I don’t know anything,” he said quietly.
“I will teach you,” she said firmly.
Behind them, Vernon tried to speak again. “He doesn’t need any of that nonsense—”
McGonagall turned her head sharply.
The lamp-cat hissed.
Vernon went silent.
McGonagall turned away from the silenced Vernon and refocused on Harry like they were the only two people in the house. Harry appreciated that.
“So,” he said, easing back onto the couch, eyes still flicking to the silver cat on the end table, “you said something about orientation. Am I getting a pamphlet or a dramatic slideshow or…?”
Her lips quirked. “Something rather more hands-on, I think.”
She reached into her robes again—how deep were those pockets?—and pulled out a small, bound booklet. She handed it to him, and he took it carefully.
On the cover: Welcome to the Wizarding World: A Muggle-born Guide to Hogwarts.
Underneath, in smaller text: What to Expect When You’re Expecting Magic.
“…This looks suspiciously like homework,” Harry said.
“It is,” McGonagall replied, eyes twinkling.
Harry flipped through the pages. Glossary of magical terms. Overview of wizarding currency. House system (four, with animals—of course). Subjects. Teachers. Safety notes—those were starred and underlined.
“Do people… die at this school?” he asked without looking up.
McGonagall didn’t flinch. “There have been accidents, as with any institution that teaches powerful magic. But Hogwarts is protected by enchantments older than most nations. You will be safe there.”
Harry nodded slowly. “And the Dursleys can’t stop me from going?”
She glanced over at the trembling trio.
“No,” she said, very clearly. “They cannot.”
Petunia’s lips pressed into a line so thin it nearly vanished.
“They’re my legal guardians,” Harry said. “Kind of.”
“Only in the eyes of the Muggle world,” McGonagall said, voice smooth as polished wood. “And Hogwarts has long-standing legal provisions to ensure magical children receive the education they are entitled to. The school overrides guardianship in such cases.”
Harry raised his eyebrows. “So you’re saying… you can just take me.”
“I’m saying,” she said gently, “that you do not need their permission to become who you were born to be.”
Harry blinked at her.
That… was new.
Petunia gave a weak cry. “You can’t take him! He—he belongs here! With us!”
Harry looked at her then. Really looked.
Her eyes weren’t scared. They were cornered. Tight. Terrified of what he might become—what he already was.
And he understood, suddenly. It had never been about keeping him safe. It had been about keeping him small.
McGonagall rose to her feet. “Professor Dumbledore will be informed of your treatment of Mr. Potter. I imagine you will receive a visit from the Ministry of Magic shortly thereafter.”
Vernon tried to bluster. “We were only—he was never—he’s always been—”
McGonagall flicked her wand.
The lamp-cat arched its back and hissed again, louder this time. Vernon flinched.
“I think that’s enough,” she said sharply.
She turned back to Harry, her expression softening. “Would you like to come with me now?”
Harry hesitated.
It wasn’t doubt. Not really. Just the quiet, deeply ingrained instinct of someone who never trusted kindness without reading the fine print.
He looked around the living room. The peeling wallpaper. The scratched floor. The people who would rather scream at magic than let him have a single good thing.
Then he looked back at McGonagall.
She was still standing. Still waiting. No pressure in her voice. Just the kind of stillness that meant she wouldn’t leave unless he said no.
“…Yeah,” he said. “Let’s go.”
Her shoulders loosened just a touch. “We’ll begin with your school shopping. There’s much to do, and I suspect you’ll have questions.”
“Only about six thousand.”
“Excellent. I was hoping for a quiet afternoon.”
Harry snorted.
She led him to the door, and for a brief moment—just as she opened it—he glanced over his shoulder.
Petunia was watching him. Not angry. Not sad.
Just… empty.
He looked away.
McGonagall placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
And together, they stepped into a world he had never dreamed was real.