Witchy Customs of the Wizarding World
Harry waited, wind whipping at his cheeks, already red and stinging. He didn’t care though, the pain was nothing, he just needed to see that girl again. To know she was real, and not just a figment of his imagination conjured to aid in his torment.
Harry was a lonely lonely boy, and he feared it would drive him to madness. The idea he one day might seek asylum within the depths of his mind scared him, he didn’t want to lose himself to imagination.
Had she been real? Perhaps it was too good to be true, she may as well be a specter, a ghost of his lonely mind creating a perfect playmate. But Harry kept to his belief. She was real, and she would show again.
It has been three days, three days spent waiting out in the cold, three days spent braving the harsh wisps of wind that came seeking to drive him towards home, not that he considered 4 Privet Drive his home. It was just a house he lived in, a required structure, a derelict dungeon of his torment at the hands of his relatives. No, Harry could not consider it home; for home is where the heart is and all his heart yearned for was escape.
The garish finery and picturesque nature was lost on Harry, for all he cared it was a prison, one designed to torture him and drive him mad. It was the cupboard, filled with spiders and filth, it was the backyard shed musty and cold, it was the roses in the yard, their vitality and lush bloom paid for with the sweat of his brow and the blood from his fingers. It was the clean floors, the product of far too many afternoons spent scrubbing in sopping wet rags knees sore and aching.
Harry was drawn from his angst filled reverie however by a tapping on his shoulder. Unexpectedly however it was the Crow, Cygnus, and not Griselda. It squawked and took off to fly around his head circling him with its beady black eyes.
“What?” Harry asked, annoyed that after all his waiting she hadn’t come to meet him herself and instead her pet came.
“What?” The bird mocked, voice gravely and reedy in that bird-like manner but undeniably replicating his.
“Rude.” Harry Eyed it. “Where is Griselda?”
“Follow me! Follow me!” The bird all but shrieked. It then flew off towards Abbey Road, a punishing pace that forced Harry to run after it. Nearly tripping twice and losing his breath Harry did make it to Abbey road, and onwards to a quaint looking redbrick house with a rather homey appeal to it. Harry only had to knock twice before the door swung open for him. Surprisingly to Harry However, not only was he greeted by nothing, but the house was much much bigger on the inside as it was out.
Almost twice as vast as one would imagine, the ceiling spanned twice the height of those back at 4 Privet and the mudroom, as Harry supposed it was called, was nearly the same size as Aunt Petunia's living room. Though in this case, that was the only similarity the two rooms shared for this one was absent the garish decor and detailing of 4 Privet Drive's largest room.
“Hello! Anyone home?” Harry called out, only to meet silence and the quiet preening of the crow having taken up roost upon one of the many coat hooks. Harry took a moment to examine those, finding them stuffed with an array of oddly coloured robes and cloaks as well as a few wool coats he assumed were Griseldas, aged and rather outdated wool frocks.
Then just as Harry was going to turn and go, clearly no one was home there came a shriek and a smattering of small footsteps crashing into hardwood as someone hurried down hallways and flights of stairs rather quickly.
In a matter of seconds a rather red faced Griselda appeared before him. She was a picture of disarray, cheeks flush with exertion, hair wild and uncollected falling across her shoulders and chest. It was rather long, Harry noted, much longer than one would expect considering the size of the braid, she must have been braiding it rather thick and tight. She was also seemingly in a state of undress, a long cotton nightgown pulled almost hastily over her head judging by the undone ties at the neckline.
Realizing the state of herself the girl shrieked and sprang backwards into another room. “HIYA HARRY~! She shouted rather Happily, though clearly surprised to have seen him here. “Can you give me a few minutes to get myself in order?”
Harry nodded in affirmative to her, not fully understanding why she seemed utterly embarrassed to have run down in her nightgown. It wasn't short or inappropriately sheer, rather old fashioned and modest to Harry's eyes.
“Thanks Harry!” Griselda sprang back from where she had come from, her bare feet pitter pattering on old wood stairs. Not ten minutes later she appeared again, this time clad in what appeared to Harry to be a rather old fashioned skirt and blouse, the sleeves billowing into a bell shaped and the skirt flaring at her hips. This time as well, her hair was done in the usual braid. “Sorry about that, I didn't realize it was you, I thought it was Mama. How utterly embarrassing~!” She was blushing, and pointedly looking anywhere but at harry.
“How so? It's not like you were naked?”
Griselda giggled, "Oh Harry, you have so much to learn…” She smiled, and after a pause continued, almost as if reciting from a book or quoting a particularly old person's speech. “In proper wizarding society it is the highest level of impropriety for a witch to show her bare hair to a wizard that is not her husband." And then almost as an afterthought she added. "I wear mine in a braid, but of course once I turn eleven It will have to be put up."
“That sounds very outdated.” In Harry's opinion, everything he'd seen of wizarding culture sounded bizarre so he supposed this fit right in.
“I know” Griselda sighed, because of magic, we didn't need to advance as much culturally. So things are a bit outdated compared to muggle culture. Clothes, infrastructure, traditions. Not that I mind, mama says I'm a bit of an old soul, I saw some muggle girls down the road going to school, their skirts were utterly indecent!”
“Why eleven, what's so special about eleven?” Harry asked, remembering the odd number Griselda had attributed to the age witches were meant to put up their hair.
“Well Harry, that's when we go to Hogwarts!”
“What's a Hog Wart? Sounds gross!”
“Noooo!” Giggled Griselda, "not A Hog Wart, Hogwarts!. It's the wizarding school here. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A most ancient and respected institution, no one knows why it's called that though, lost to time as they say."
“Will I be going to Hogwarts?”
“Why yes of course Harry!” Griselda smiled almost in a patronizing manner, as if not going was a rather humorous idea. “ Your name has been down since the minute you were born I imagine. Your parents went.”
“Really?” Harry struggled to contain the awe thrumming in his voice. Had his parents really been more than what the Dursleys had said they were?
"I'm sure of that, Potter is a fine wizarding name.”