Welcome to Canaryville
The first thing Harry registered was pain. A sharp, full-body ache, like he'd just been tackled by a Bludger—twice. The second thing was Draco Malfoy’s voice, too loud, too irritated, and far too close.
“What the fuck just happened?”
Harry groaned and pushed himself up, palms scraping against rough pavement. His muscles protested the movement, throbbing with the impact of their landing. The world swam for a second before his vision settled, and he got his first real look at their surroundings.
The alley was narrow and filthy, the pavement cracked and uneven beneath him. Dented dumpsters lined the brick walls, overflowing with trash. The air reeked of grease, cigarettes, and something awful fermenting in the summer heat—like spilled beer and rotting food left to bake in the sun.
It was definitely not Scotland.
Beside him, Draco was sprawled on his back, still blinking dazedly at the sky. His white button-down was smeared with dirt, and his normally pristine blond hair stuck up at odd angles. A fresh tear ran through his sleeve. He looked like he’d lost a duel—which, to be fair, was kind of what had happened.
Harry pressed a hand to his temple, willing his headache to subside. The Portkey. That cursed artifact they were supposed to be cataloging in detention. Malfoy, being Malfoy, had grabbed it before they could analyze it properly.
And now… they were here.
Wherever the hell ‘here’ was.
Harry glanced around, stomach sinking. The walls of the alley were covered in graffiti, some of it elaborate street art, some of it just hastily scrawled obscenities. A crushed cigarette carton lay near Draco’s boot. Somewhere beyond the buildings, faint music played, the heavy bass thumping like a heartbeat through the humid air.
He turned his head—and immediately felt a fresh wave of dread.
Just beyond the mouth of the alley, a chain-link fence separated them from a massive brick building.
Then—
A bell rang.
Dozens of voices exploded into the air.
Teenagers.
Harry’s stomach dropped.
They were right next to a Muggle high school.
Shit.
Draco let out a long, suffering groan as he pulled himself up, brushing dirt off his ridiculously expensive trousers. His expression curdled when he caught sight of their surroundings.
“…Kill me.”
Harry huffed. “It’s not that bad.”
Draco turned, taking in the graffiti-covered walls, the crumpled beer cans in the gutter, the smog-stained skyline beyond the alley. His lips curled in pure, unfiltered disgust.
“Potter,” he said slowly, like he was speaking to a particularly stupid House-Elf, “where the fuck are we?”
Harry dusted himself off and peered toward the alley’s exit. A yellow school bus rumbled past, belching black smoke. Beyond the fence, a cluster of teenagers loitered near the entrance, smoking and halfheartedly watching the chaos spilling out of the school doors.
The buildings across the street were old and worn, bricks darkened from decades of weathering. A laundromat with flickering neon letters sat between a liquor store and a corner shop advertising EBT. A train rumbled in the distance, the steel tracks screaming as it sped by.
Definitely America.
Harry sighed. “Somewhere in a Muggle city. Probably Chicago.”
Draco’s head snapped toward him. “You know this how?”
Harry gestured toward the teenagers. Plaid skirts. Hoodies. Nikes. “They look American.”
Draco exhaled through his nose, slow and controlled, like he was resisting the urge to murder someone. “Brilliant. Absolutely fucking brilliant.”
Then—
The school doors burst open.
A wave of teenagers flooded out, shoving and shouting as they spilled into the hot Chicago afternoon.
Harry barely had time to register the sheer chaos of it—the backpacks slung over one shoulder, the cigarette smoke curling into the air, the way some students ran immediately while others lingered, waiting for fights, drama, or rides.
Then—
Draco’s posture snapped upright like a cat spotting a dog.
Harry grabbed his arm. “Don’t panic.”
Draco’s voice was strangled. “I am not panicking.”
“Then stop looking like you just got dumped into Azkaban.”
Draco scowled.
A few students shot them curious glances as they passed, but no one immediately called them out. That was good. Maybe, if they played it cool, they could slip away unnoticed—
“Ian. Stop. Look.”
Harry’s stomach clenched.
Two students had stopped near the alley entrance.
A dark-haired girl in tight jeans and a cropped leather jacket. A tall redhead with sharp blue eyes and a bemused expression.
The girl was staring at them. Hard.
Harry elbowed Draco subtly. “We have a problem.”
Draco was already watching them, expression tense but composed.
“Play it cool,” Harry muttered.
Draco scoffed. “Play it cool? Potter, we just fell out of the fucking sky.”
Harry gritted his teeth. “Well, they didn’t see that, so just—”
The girl narrowed her eyes.
“Those two weren’t there before.”
The redhead—Ian, apparently—shrugged. “Yeah, well. People exist, Mandy.”
Mandy elbowed him. “Shut up, Ian. I know what I saw.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “Maybe they’re exchange students.”
Mandy scoffed. “Or maybe they’re fucking aliens.”
Harry resisted the urge to swear violently. This was bad.
They needed a plan. Fast.
Then—
CRACK.
Draco stepped directly onto a shattered beer bottle.
He stumbled. Harry grabbed his arm instinctively.
It would have been fine. They would have recovered, played it off.
Except—
Draco yanked his arm back and shoved Harry.
Harry shoved him back.
Then Draco, being Draco, swung at him.
And Harry, being Harry, reacted immediately.
The moment Draco swung, it was over.
Harry caught the movement from the corner of his eye—Draco’s sharp, aristocratic fist flying toward him. Instinct took over.
Harry ducked. Draco’s punch barely grazed his jaw.
Harry retaliated without thinking.
His shoulder slammed into Draco’s chest, sending him stumbling back. Draco, predictably, didn’t take it well—his grip latched onto Harry’s shirt, yanking him forward hard.
Harry twisted, knocking them both sideways.
They crashed into the side of a dumpster with a loud metallic clang.
Voices shouted nearby.
“Oh shit—are they fighting?”
“Damn, somebody get a video!”
“Worldstar!”
Draco recovered first, shoving Harry off him. “Are you fucking serious?!”
Harry clenched his jaw. “You started it.”
Draco looked livid. His hair was a mess, his expensive button-down rumpled and stained.
“You grabbed me!”
“You tripped!”
“I don’t trip.”
“Oh my God, Malfoy—”
Before he could finish the sentence, a voice cut through the noise.
“HEY! BREAK IT UP!”
Harry froze.
Draco visibly stiffened.
A woman’s voice. Sharp. Commanding.
A teacher.
A very pissed-off teacher.
The crowd of students scattered immediately, most of them laughing or pulling out their phones to text about it.
The woman was already marching toward them, fast.
She was early fifties, broad-shouldered, wearing a red cardigan and a ‘I Have Had Enough Of This Shit’ expression.
Draco muttered under his breath, “Kill me now.”
The woman stormed right up to them, stopping just short of their personal space.
“Inside. Now.”
Harry felt his stomach sink.
Draco’s mouth tightened, but he wisely said nothing.
Harry glanced at the alley’s exit—tempted, for half a second, to make a run for it.
But the teacher noticed.
“Don’t even think about it,” she snapped.
Harry sighed. Fuck.
No escape.
With a shared look of grim resignation, he and Draco followed her toward the school entrance.
Draco leaned in as they walked.
“Do something!” he hissed.
Harry’s brain scrambled for a plan. If they got sent to a Muggle principal’s office, things could get dangerous fast. MACUSA—the American magical government—was notoriously strict about illegal magical presences.
If someone checked their IDs?
If someone called the police?
This wouldn’t be a detention situation.
It’d be a fucking nightmare.
Harry panicked.
“Uh—sorry, ma’am, we’re exchange students?”
Draco turned to him in silent horror.
The teacher slowed slightly. “Exchange students?”
Harry forced himself to look confident. “Yeah. From, uh—”
He hesitated half a second too long.
Draco, surprisingly, picked up the cue.
“Durmstrang.”
Harry blinked. What.
Draco shot him a look that very clearly said: Follow my lead, you idiot.
The teacher narrowed her eyes. “Durmstrang?”
“Yeah,” Harry blurted. “Fancy school in Norway. Very prestigious. Lots of snow.”
Draco visibly winced.
The teacher didn’t look convinced. “I thought Durmstrang was German.”
Draco regained his composure instantly. “Ah, a common mistake.” He sniffed, tilting his chin up like he was some high-class diplomat.
“It’s actually located in the Scandinavian region, though it accepts students from various parts of Eastern and Northern Europe. It has a highly selective program, which is why you’ve probably never heard much about it.”
He smirked slightly. “They like to remain… exclusive.”
Harry fought the urge to kick him.
The teacher’s frown deepened.
“And you two were sent here why, exactly?”
Shit.
Draco opened his mouth, probably about to say something stupid.
Harry cut him off.
“Student exchange program.” He forced an easy grin. “Some, uh, cultural immersion thing.”
Draco shot him a venomous look.
The teacher still looked skeptical.
Harry doubled down. “They’re expanding the program this year. We’re supposed to, um, experience different lifestyles.”
Draco bristled visibly, but wisely kept his mouth shut.
The teacher folded her arms, looking them over with a practiced eye.
Harry knew they looked like foreign rich kids. Their button-downs and slacks were a little too crisp, their accents a little too polished.
But something was off, and she knew it.
Still, exchange students were annoying—but not a police issue.
She sighed, rubbing her temples.
“Great. More North Side brats.”
She gestured toward the entrance. “Let’s go.”
Harry let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
As they followed her inside, Draco leaned toward him.
“This is your plan? A fucking exchange program?”
Harry kept his voice low. “Do you have a better one?”
Draco sniffed. “I always have better ones.”
Harry ignored him.
As they passed by, Mandy and Ian were still watching.
Mandy narrowed her eyes.
She did not believe them for one second.
The school smelled weird.
Not bad, exactly. Just… different.
Like cheap cleaning supplies, old books, and something vaguely fried from the cafeteria down the hall.
Draco wrinkled his nose immediately.
Harry, on the other hand, felt uncomfortably familiar with it.
The linoleum floors, the overhead fluorescent lighting, the low hum of students loitering near lockers—it all reminded him of primary school.
Of Dudley’s school.
Of being forced into baggy secondhand uniforms, expected to be invisible.
A public school.
Draco, meanwhile, looked like he’d been thrown into a sewer.
The teacher led them through the main hallway, past a rickety trophy case filled with dust-covered plaques and old photos of football teams.
Draco muttered under his breath, “This place is a crime against architecture.”
Harry muttered back, “It’s a high school, Malfoy, not the bloody Louvre.”
Draco halted in place, looking personally affronted. He took a sharp inhale, muttering under his breath in horrified, clipped French:
“Louvre. Looouuuvvrre. Comme si ces conditions n’étaient pas assez horribles, je dois maintenant aussi endurer que vous massacriez absolument la langue française.”
Harry snorted. “Didn’t know you cared so much about pronunciation.”
Draco scoffed, pushing forward again. “Of course I do, Potter. Some of us weren’t raised in a broom cupboard.”
Harry rolled his eyes but said nothing.
A couple of girls in plaid skirts side-eyed Draco’s expensive clothes, whispering behind their hands.
Draco scowled.
“Why are they looking at me like that?”
Harry bit back a grin. “Maybe they think you’re cute.”
Draco made a noise of pure disgust. “I would rather die.”
Harry snorted. “Relax, they probably just think you’re some weird rich kid.”
Draco paused. Considered. Then sighed. “Well, they’re not wrong.”
They turned a corner, and the teacher led them through a set of office doors.
The school office was small, cluttered, and depressingly beige.
A tired-looking receptionist sat behind a desk, flipping through paperwork. A rickety filing cabinet leaned against the wall, next to an ancient-looking printer.
She barely looked up. “Ms. Perkins, who—?”
“New exchange students,” the teacher muttered. “Sort them out.”
The receptionist squinted at them. “Paperwork?”
Harry and Draco froze.
Shit.
Harry’s brain scrambled.
Draco, miraculously, delivered.
“Our paperwork is being processed,” he said smoothly. “International delays. You know how it is.”
The receptionist raised an eyebrow. “You two got here without paperwork?”
Draco sighed dramatically, as if the very idea personally offended him.
“Bureaucracy is dreadful in England.”
Harry had never wanted to punch him more.
The receptionist’s frown deepened. “And who exactly are you staying with?”
Harry opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Draco didn’t have an answer either.
The receptionist stared at them. Hard.
Then sighed.
“Fine. We’ll deal with it later.”
She flipped through a file on her desk, clearly searching for a solution.
Then her eyes landed on something—
And her expression shifted.
She looked up. Smirked.
“Well,” she said. “Looks like you’ll need housing.”
Harry’s stomach dropped.
This was not going to end well.
The receptionist turned in her chair.
“Gallagher!”
A voice behind them.
Harry turned—
And met the flat, unimpressed stare of Lip Gallagher.
He looked them up and down.
Expression completely unreadable.
“…Who the fuck are you?”
Draco grimaced.
Harry forced a smile.
"Hi. We’re your new roommates."
Silence.
Lip sighed.
“God fucking dammit.”