When Patterns Are Broken

Harry woke up with a snake hissing in his ear and an owl knocking over a pile of books. 

“You said you would free me,” the snake said, coiling as if to strike. 

Harry reached around for his glasses. Hedwig hooted. 

“Should I just leave you on the sidewalk then?” he asked, shuffling toward his trunk for something to wear, ignoring the small snake following him and the very frog-shaped lump he had. Hedwig hooted again. “Hang on,” he said to her, pulling on a robe. The snake started climbing his leg. Hedwig landed pointedly on two books, a note clutched in her claw. Harry took the note and gathered up the fallen books after she flapped away.

“Runes and arithmancy?” Harry read the letter in his hand, which turned out to be his list of books for third year. “You think I should owl McGonagall and change my electives? Arithmancy and Care happen at the same time for Gryffindor, so I’d have to take one or the other with another house. Think she’d allow that?” 

He rearranged the books, picked up Unfogging the Future and skimmed the introduction. “It says here someone is either born with the Sight or they aren’t. Tasseomancy—that’s tea leaf reading? Palmistry, crystal balls…” Harry flipped through, finding long lists of symbols and their different meanings, then closed it decisively. “If I ever drink loose leaf tea I suppose I could just look it up. May as well try it first, see if there's something to it?” 

Pushing aside the books, Harry penned a quick letter to Professor McGonagall and handed it to Hedwig, who immediately took off. The snake hissed in irritation and slid into one of Harry’s pockets. Harry yawned, head buzzing with exhaustion from staying up too late and waking too early out of habit. He pulled over the two letters he had started writing. It had taken hours the night before, but he had finally found two names in his giant book of Ministry-registered businesses, lit up from the word search incantation. 

It was one of the things Harry thought muggles did better, looking up things. Like the card catalog in Little Whinging's library, or the new Macintosh Dudley had been banging away at all summer. The Short List could have at least been alphabetical. 

"A lot of the greatest wizards haven't got an ounce of logic," Hermione had said. Harry wondered if that was because they had magic instead.

One letter he sealed was for Madam Gosling, a healer in Godric's Hollow who Harry hoped was a sort of family physician. The last transaction from her was in 1980. The second was for Lappin and Rosefield, a law firm that received quarterly payments from the main Black vault, located somewhere in Diagon Alley. He had asked both recipients for appointments. 

Tucking the letters into a snake-free pocket, Harry went downstairs for breakfast, then braved the streets to hire a few post owls. He went back to his room to finish up his essay on Wendelin the Weird and medieval witch burnings, and got started on the rest of his summer assignments.

Around noon, hand cramping from hours of writing, Harry paged through Compendium Magicae: Abjuration to Zymurgy. The book listed different branches of magic, and claimed to be comprehensive. It was one of the more expensive books he had purchased; there was an extensive glossary, and when he pressed a topic a short summary appeared. He learned arithmancy was an older term for numerology—hence Numerology and Grammatica—which was an umbrella term for magic done with numbers, or by numbers, or the magic of numbers themselves, which was less clear. From there he was dragged into a warren of gematria, onomancy, uranography. Arithmancy was also used in spellcrafting, and potions brewing. Harry even saw what he thought of as muggle things, like geometry and statistics, and something called number theory. After looking at onomancy—some kind of name-based divination which Harry felt had little use given he only had the one—he glanced over the other Os: obeism, occlumency, omens, oneiromancy, and so on. Harry was interested by the types of magic common outside of Britain, and unnerved to learn his mind was something else he’d have to protect. 

There was nothing under ancient runes, but he did find runic magics: rune stones, warding, enchantment, rune circles, ritual circles, which spiraled into rituals in general, blood magics, and the nature of sacrifice. He eyed the pile of ratty Dudley hand-me-downs and wondered if he’d get anything out of burning it all in effigy. 

A sacrifice, the book said, is a willing or unwilling offering, made in exchange for benefit or retribution. The offering may be as simple as a favored food, or as significant as a life. 

Harry shut the book, not entirely sure how he felt about that. He’d read fairy tales in primary school where people left out milk and honey for fairies (whether that worked on actual fairies he didn’t know), and knew that in some cultures people made offerings of food to their gods, or to their ancestors. He found the concept of human sacrifice, of killing someone, abhorrent. Was that the kind of dark art he was meant to defend against? He tried not to think about how he had killed someone. It didn't work.

His mother died to save him, an act so powerful he was able to burn a man alive with his bare hands. He could still smell it, Quirrell’s charred flesh. Could still hear his terrible screams in his nightmares. Despite that, Harry couldn’t help but feel that his mother gave her life for something good, to save his life and to keep protecting him from her murderer. How could something like that be dark?

Harry rubbed his temples, feeling overwhelmed by the amount he didn’t know. He grabbed a piece of parchment and began a list, starting with godfather. As far as Harry knew it was some kind of religious thing, and he didn’t even know if witches and wizards had any religions. He had seen those ghost nuns at Sir Nicholas’ Deathday party, and there was Christmas at Hogwarts, but the Dursleys did Christmas too and he knew none of them went to church. Dudley would have pitched a fit. 

Harry narrowed his eyes at the 48 volume set of Encyclopaedia Magicae Britannica, which promised to be more comprehensive than the Compendium. Harry didn’t think it was the kind of thing you would read straight through, but maybe it would be good if he did. Hermione definitely would, but she had parents who encouraged that sort of thing. She wasn’t hidden away in cupboards, or locked in a spare room, making no noise and pretending to not exist. She didn’t have to break into her own things and huddle under a thin blanket with a stolen flashlight powered by stolen batteries, scratching out essays in the middle of the night. 

Harry stood up, deciding he needed a walk to clear his head, grabbing his bag on the way out.

If McGonagall approved his new subjects, he'd be taking ten classes. If he was going to add more studying to that, he needed to plan, like Hermione did with her study schedules and color-coded notes. 

He definitely didn’t stomp down the stairs as he left the Leaky Cauldron. After some searching, he found a small cafe. Not feeling up for banshee bannocks or diverting danishes, or any other duplicitous food, Harry ordered a plain croissant and plain coffee, and sat outside under one of the colorful umbrellas. He winced a little at the bitter taste; coffee was one of the things he made at the Dursleys but wasn’t allowed to consume. When he was finished, he felt jittery and no more awake than he had been before. 

He made his way to Flourish and Blotts, ignoring the gawks and stares and the sound of his name repeated through the crowds. It was worse now that it was the weekend, but Harry figured that even with his new, still unnamed disguise, he'd have to let himself be seen lest someone came battering down his door. He was wary of being grabbed, which people sometimes did as if they were entitled to his body, as if he were a public commodity. Lockhart had been the worst of that lot, positioning Harry like a doll, or a prop. At least that man was safely tucked away in the Janus Thickey ward, but there were still many people who got much too close for comfort.

In the bookstore there was some modicum of peace, if one ignored the cage fighting copies of the Monster Book of Monsters. He overheard the shop assistant interrogating the manager on what to feed the books. 

"They're peckish, they've been snapping at each other all day!"

"They're just violent, now ring this gentleman up."

"Ah, my apologies sir."

Harry shook his head and disappeared into the stacks. 

After about an hour he gave up. He had found references to things like spellcrafting, warding, and a little on curse-breaking. Knowing that Bill worked for Gringotts, Harry imagined he had been trained by goblins, at least in part. He saw nothing on rituals, or blood magic (which Harry suspected was a kind of sacrificial magic), nor any books that explained what dark magic was, even from purely historical or theoretical perspectives. He was wary of asking the manager about it, as the absence of such texts suggested the store didn't want to sell them, or wasn't allowed to sell them. Harry knew from his muggle history classes that governments sometimes censored things, or banned things like weapons and drugs. It made sense that the Ministry of Magic would too. He also didn't know how heavily he was being monitored, and didn't want it getting around that Harry Potter was looking into magics not taught at Hogwarts. 

Instead Harry found some helpful maps of Diagon Alley and the rest of magical Britain. On his way to the counter he spotted a book newly on display, next to the divination textbooks.The cover had a large, black dog with eyes that actually glowed with menace. Death Omens: What to Do When You Know the Worst is Coming. Harry picked it up. It was the sort of thing that in the muggle world he would have dismissed as superstitious, like seven years of bad luck for breaking a mirror, or not opening an umbrella indoors. 

“You’ll start seeing death omens everywhere if you read that,” the manager said, looking over Harry’s shoulder. 

“Are omens a real thing?” Harry asked. It would be nice to know if impending death was around the corner. 

“Some of them, I’m sure,” the manager said. “But even wizards have myths. Did you need help finding anything?”

Harry thought for a moment. “Do you have any books written by goblins? Or other…” Harry didn’t want to say human-like; based on how goblins and centaurs had interacted with him, he doubted either would appreciate it. “Other sentient people?”

The manager looked scandalized. “I can check our inventory, but I don’t believe so. And as far as I know, centaurs, veela, and the like, don’t create literature. If they can read and write at all! I suppose a werewolf or a vampire might have written something, but I doubt they’d advertise their…affliction.”

“I’ll just get this then,” Harry said, placing the folded maps and Death Omens on the counter. “Do you know anywhere I can buy tea?”

A short while later Harry left a rather dizzying tea shop. The tea he knew came in boxes, and in fewer varieties. The number of choices and smells was overwhelming to him, but the shop assistant had been helpful in selecting a few different blends. Black tea was recommended for beginners, she had said, but other types of tea were used in more complex readings. Harry took her at her word, and stuffed the collection of canisters and his new owl-shaped teapot and cups into his bag. He thought Hedwig would get a kick out of it. 

Harry walked down the street, a prickling on his neck like he was being watched. He saw in the distance the narrow alley Hagrid had taken him through, when he’d been dragged out of Knockturn Alley. Maybe there was a bookstore down there, but Harry daren’t risk being seen gallivanting about the wrong side of town. He knew the Weasleys had second hand books, so Harry thought there must be a used book store somewhere. Maybe a place that was less…polished than Flourish and Blotts. He jerked to a stop when he found himself confronted by a black door instead of the street he had been walking on. 

Frowning, he looked up. A scratched wooden sign swung back and forth, even though there was no wind. All it said was Obscure Outlet, the Os solid black circles. The door had an insistence about it, and his hand was twisting the doorknob before he could think. 

Inside was dim, crammed with bookshelves and coated in dust. A small front counter was packed into a corner, and abandoned. Harry eyed the tarnished bell warily. Who knew what he would summon if he rang it. Still, it was a bookstore, and it had a rather used look about it. He held his bag close, made sure his wand holster was still strapped on, and took a step forward. 

“Think about what you need,” a creaky voice said behind him. Harry jumped, wand immediately in his hand though he had no idea what to do with it, and turned around to find an old, wild-haired woman with dark, wrinkly skin. Her smile was almost predatory, but she was behind the previously empty counter at a safe distance. He hoped. 

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. “If I think about a book I need, it’ll just show up? What if you don’t have it in stock?”

The old woman tsked at him, like he had said something she didn’t understand. “There’s a difference between what you need and what you think you need.”

Harry paused, then said, “Can’t those be the same thing sometimes?”

“Oh, often,” the woman said, smiling. “But this bookshop doesn’t show up for just anyone.”

“Right then,” Harry said. “I’ll look around?”

The woman didn’t say anything more, just kept staring. Harry hoped she would stay where she was. 

Harry chose an aisle at random, having to walk almost sideways to get through the shelves. They extended so high he couldn’t see the tops of them, nor the ceiling, and there weren’t any ladders to reach the higher up books. Not that a ladder would fit. The books he looked at didn’t have titles, or if they did time had rendered them illegible. He reached for one but flinched back when he felt something sting his fingers. He wasn’t a stranger to hostile books, and not knowing what the books were or what they were capable of made him cautious. 

Time seemed more of a suggestion than an integral part of existence as he wandered, but Harry didn’t mind much. He was somewhere new, if a bit dismal, and if there was any danger it had yet to present itself. The shop was magical in a quiet, almost protective way, and it was a relief to walk around a while in peace. Even with all the dust. 

A flash of red caught his eye, and he hurried forward to where the spine of a book was sticking out a little past the rest. Harry reached out carefully, and when the book didn’t react he pulled it the rest of the way out. The leather was a bright red, hot to the touch, and in gold script the cover said On Fire. He looked the book over and, seeing it wasn’t actually on fire, opened the front cover. It didn’t burst into flames, which he took as a positive sign. 

At a glance, it was a text on the different uses of fire in magic. Harry thought back to the clothes he wanted to burn and smiled. He cradled the book against his chest, where it continued to exude warmth, and kept walking, turning down another aisle. 

The next books were easier to find, or they had an easier time finding him. Controlling the Mind had an invasive aura about it, and it wasn’t clear to Harry whose mind was meant to be controlled. He hoped it wouldn’t be the same kind of thing as Tom Riddle’s diary. Maybe it would explain how the diary was made in the first place. The next book was more obscure in its contents. It said simply The Seasons, and had a spoked wheel on the cover wreathed with plants and animals in various stages of growth and decay. Then there was a thick tome with coarse gray cover and a heavy, tarnished lock, titled Your Home, Your Castle, Your Keep. He tried a discreet alohomora but the lock stayed locked. 

After not seeing anything else standing out, Harry decided to head back to the counter, but was confronted by one more book. It had a cracked paper spine vastly different from the other books and obviously muggle. The spine read The Elements. Thinking it had to do with elemental magic—earth, water, air, fire, that sort of thing—Harry excitedly pulled it out. He ignored the drawing of squares and circles on the cover and opened it up to the first chapter. It was titled Compass and Straightedge, and Harry’s excitement fell. But the old woman had said it was something he needed, and Harry doubted there was any danger in what looked like a muggle geometry book, so he added it to his small pile and returned to the counter. 

“Find everything you need?” The old woman asked with a grin..

“I found some things,” Harry said, frowning. “I don’t know if I’ll need them or not, but it all looks interesting.”

Back outside, he turned to make note of the shop’s address, only to find it had vanished. A few passersby gave him startled looks, but Harry ignored them. Their attention only increased when a regal horned owl dived at him. Harry threw an arm out just in time, and the owl’s claws sunk in. It imperiously stretched out a leg, from which Harry untied a scroll, and launched itself back into the air. He tucked the scroll into a pocket, grimaced at the annoyed hiss from the snake, and went to find somewhere private to read it. 

Harry looked up from his map of Diagon Alley, apparently both the name of the main street and for the whole neighborhood—how it all fit in London Harry didn’t know, it was large enough to be a town—and saw the sign for Leg Alley. Harry appreciated the theme, but it was a confusing name. 

The secretary from Lappin and Rosefield, a tax law firm, had sent a request for a meeting at his earliest convenience, which just so happened to be immediately. It didn’t seem to matter that it was the weekend. 

It was a nice street, lined with benches and flowering trees, and a few families out for the day. It had fewer legal services than the name implied, and the austere sign for Lappin and Rosefield was easy to spot. The name was repeated in golden decal on the front bay window. The office looked like it had been converted from a house, which was very different from the image Harry had of lawyers. A bell rang as he opened the door

“Mr. Potter?” A young man sat behind a neat desk, taking off his reading glasses to look at Harry. 

“Hello,” Harry said. “You said to come as soon as possible?”

The young man picked up a slim book and flipped through. “Mr. Lappin should be free for the next few hours, I’ll see if he’s available now. Have a seat in the lobby.”

Not knowing where to sit, having seen no lobby, Harry stood around awkwardly until the secretary returned with a smiling, middle aged man wearing pristine black robes over a tailored suit. 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Potter,” the man said, reaching out a hand. Harry shook it. “I’m Jack Lappin, a partner here at the firm. My associate, Georgiana Rosefield, is out of the office today, but I can introduce you later. We have a few things to discuss, if you’d follow me to my office?” 

The secretary had already gone back to his desk and was focused on his work. Harry followed Lappin into an opulently decorated office. The walls were painted in light cream, which Harry recalled from his aunt’s ranting was ecru. There wasn’t much of the paint to see though, as the walls were packed with dark wooden shelves that gleamed under the sconce lighting. The floors were polished hardwood, protected by a rug woven in a complex design. The room exuded the kind of wealth Petunia aspired to, and failed to emulate, but that Harry imagined a family as rich as the Blacks came by honestly.

“Have a seat please, we have quite a lot to get through.”

“Okay,” Harry said, sitting down carefully on the offered plush chair.

Lappin leaned forward over his desk. “We’ve been attempting to contact you for some time, Mr. Potter. I take it you haven’t received our owls?”

Harry shook his head. “No, I only get owls from school, or my friends. Or the Ministry,” he added. 

Lappin frowned. “That’s odd, but not something our firm handles. Perhaps you can look into a post box?”

“Maybe,” Harry said. He had seen them at the owl post office that morning. He’d probably have to get one under an assumed name. 

“Now, we work in tax law, both muggle and magical. Normally it isn’t something that a child like you would need to worry about—” Harry bristled at being called a child “—but as the only adult next-of-kin on file is unavailable, we’re obliged to do business with you directly.”

“You mean my legal guardian?” Harry asked. He thought Petunia was his guardian, but now he wasn’t so sure. 

“Sirius Orion Black III amended his will on August 1st, 1980. He included you as a beneficiary. From what I have been able to find, he was meant to have guardianship of you should your parents become unable to care for you.”

“But he’s in prison, I mean, was in prison. So who else is there?”

Lappin smiled sadly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Potter. That would be a matter of your parents’ wills, and they are not a client of ours. It’s possible neither had a will. They were very young, after all.” Lappin cleared his throat. “As I said earlier, we work with taxes. We also handle other financial matters, such as trusts and inheritances. Ms. Rosefield is the executrix for Arcturus Phineas Black III’s will, which means it is her duty to make sure everything he wanted done in the will actually happens.”

“All right,” Harry said. “And that involves me?”

“It does,” Lappin said. “Typically any assets willed to you would be held by your guardian, at least until you turn 17. When someone passes away, we authenticate the will and reach out to the people named in it. Mr. Arcturus Black only named you, and Sirius Black. Mr. Black’s incarceration makes it impossible to get a copy of the will to him. It’s possible that he doesn’t know his grandfather died. Or that his mother died.”

“His mother?”

“Mrs. Walburga Black. She passed away in 1985, I believe.”

“Is there…” Harry started nervously. “Are there other family members?”

“None that are legally relevant, I’m afraid,” Lappin said. “As Mr. Black is indisposed, as I've said, we’re able to deal with you directly. You should have received a letter two years ago, which you didn’t?”

Harry shook his head. The first letter he had ever got was from Hogwarts, and even that had taken a lot of effort. 

“Arcturus amended his will to entail you, which means in terms of inheritance he made you part of his immediate family.” Lappin shuffled some papers around, picking one out. “There doesn’t have to be any blood relation for something like this, but he did note that you are the great-grandson of Mrs. Dorea Potter, who was born Dorea Black.” 

“So…I’m related to Sirius Black somehow?”

Lappin nodded. “We’re a small community, compared to muggles. It’s not unusual to be related to a few so-called pureblood families.” Lappin set a thick binder of paper on the table. “This is a copy of the Black family assets, at least those our firm is aware of. Do you understand how taxes work?”

“Kind of,” Harry said. “The government makes you pay extra for some things?”

Lappin smiled wryly. “Essentially. Services, and assets such as physical property, or something less tangible like stocks, are taxed and the government takes that money to support itself. Our job is to calculate those taxes and file them with the Ministry. Some of the Black family assets are also taxed by the muggle government, here in England as well as overseas.” Lappin checked his wrist watch, then moved around the desk to join Harry’s side. “It would take a rather long time to explain everything to you in detail, but we can do an overview for today.”

It was close to dark when Harry left the law office, head reeling with information. No wonder they had to hire people to take care of this sort of thing. Lappin had explained it to him, but Harry still wasn’t clear on what the different types of assets were. Business property, the business itself as an entity, stocks, bonds, securities, dividends, real estate... The latter answered the question of whether he had a house. Apparently he had a lot of them. Or, Sirius Black did, and as a consequence so did Harry. He was particularly excited about the one in London, but when he asked Lappin whether there was a key, the man had only said Harry had to ask the house. Well, Harry had to break into Privet Drive a few times in the past. He wasn’t above doing it again. 

So far, all he (sort of) knew about was the Black estate, and nothing about the Potters. He was glad there were adults whose job it was to take care of it, but it made him increasingly concerned with whatever his parents had left for him. Griphook had mentioned they had lived in Godric’s Hollow. Who had been paying the property tax on that house?

He was startled from his thoughts when a barn owl swooped at him. There was something so ethereal about its moon-shaped face, especially in the dying light. He took the note it offered and watched it fly away. The wax seal was stamped with a goose. Harry tucked it away to be read in his room later. 

Harry pointed at the open teapot and said, “Aguamenti.”

The kitchen spells book promised the spell would conjure drinkable water. Conjuration, according to the Compendium, was an advanced branch of transfiguration which brought things into existence. Harry wasn’t satisfied with this explanation. His knowledge of muggle science told him that things couldn’t be made out of nothing. As he watched water trickle weakly out of his wand, not exactly the flood he expected based on the book’s illustration, he wondered where the water was actually coming from. Was it a kind of alchemy, changing the air in the room to water? Was he summoning it from a nearby water source? 

Sighing, he added it to his list of things he didn’t know. The snake had come out again, demanding frogs, despite the still undigested frog Harry could see the outline of, and was now flicking his tongue at the water. Harry furrowed his brow and tried to push a little more magic into the spell, watching the teapot fill up. 

Hedwig had returned the night before with his approved schedule change, and a note to see Professor McGonagall before the welcoming feast. 

Harry ended the spell, wiped sweat from his forehead, and tried, “Aqua ferventis.” The book had warned that, unless he had a high mastery of the spell, he had to specify which liquid he wanted to boil. If it backfired, he could end up boiling his own blood. Or the liquid in his eyes. After a few minutes of concentration, the water in the kettle began steaming. 

“Where did I put the tea?”

Harry searched around for the tea canister, jaw cracking as he yawned. The letter from Madam Gosling was enthusiastic, demanding, and a little intimidating. She had admonished him for neglecting what was supposed to be yearly check ups—Harry couldn’t remember having a check up in his life—and scheduled him for her earliest appointment. As he was routinely up early, it wasn’t a hardship, and he took the opportunity to try some basic kitchen spells, and to see if there was anything to reading tea leaves. He looked into the pot, hoping it wouldn’t be too weak, and put the lid on.

“I’ll be able to drop you off in a park today,” Harry said conversationally, sitting down. The snake’s expression was hard to read, especially since he didn’t have eyelids, but Harry figured he was being glared at. “I’ll try to find a pond or a lake. Or do you like toads as well as frogs?”

“A pond is adequate,” the snake hissed primly. 

His room had an ancient grandfather clock against one wall. Sometimes it rattled. He had read in Everyday Charms that there was a time-telling spell, but it sounded exceedingly complicated, particularly since you needed to know what sort of time you wanted to tell. Magic didn’t care about things like time zones, minutes, or hours. The book recommended a watch instead. 

“Think it’s ready?” he asked the snake.

“How should I know?”

The teapot gave an echoey hoot, and Harry poured himself a cup. He watched leaves swirl in the dark liquid, then settle at the bottom. 

“'Whoever’s fortune is to be told must drink the tea while ruminating on the truth they seek,'” Harry read, sipping at his tea. 

“‘With the left hand’…why does it matter if it’s the left hand?” The book didn’t say. Harry sighed. “‘With the left hand, take hold of the handle and slowly move the cup around from left to right.’ Do they mean counterclockwise, or to shake it left and right?” The snake ignored him, so Harry finished his tea, swirled the cup around three times, and turned it upside down to drain. After a moment, he picked it up again and peered inside. 

“It just looks like blobs to me,” Harry said, squinting. “I guess that kind of looks like a wing, near the rim? And a beak?”

“I could eat a bird,” the snake said.

“No you couldn’t.” Harry turned the cup around a few times, but couldn’t make any more sense of it, so he opened up his divination book. The entry for bird was extensive, broken down into different types of birds. Harry looked at his cup again. “It doesn’t look like an eagle,” he mused. “More of a pigeon, I think. Or a dove?” He flipped through pages. “I think doves are pigeons, or the other way around. But a dove represents…peace, good fortune. Pigeons are…messages, safe travels, fidelity? I’ll need to look that word up,” he said in a mumble. “Maybe it means all of those things? Or none of them?” 

He rinsed out the cup in the small attached bathroom, then sat down and poured himself another cup. 

A short time later, he snuck out under his invisibility cloak with the glamor over his face. The Leaky Cauldron was on a narrow side street, and no one was about early in the morning. Harry wasn’t sure how well muggles “never noticing nuffink,” according to Stan, held up in the daytime. 

Checking around one last time, Harry put his cloak away and stuck out his wand. 

The Knight Bus exploded onto the street, a triple-decker menace in purple. 

“Welcome to the Knight Bus—” Stan started.

“Godric’s Hollow,” Harry said, cutting him off. 

“Good morning to you too,” Stan said tartly. “11 sickles, 13 if you want hot chocolate.”

Harry handed the coins over and made for the back. 

“What’s your name then?”

Better prepared, Harry used a name from one of Dudley’s video games. “Bobbin Threadbare.” He settled on one of the beds.

“Hang on, Bobbin,” Stan said as the driver hit the accelerator. The beds swung around, crashing into each other. 

“Have you heard of seatbelts?” Harry shouted at Stan, over the road of the engine. What was the engine even running on? Hopes and dreams? He couldn’t imagine the Knight Bus pulling up to a petrol station. 

“What’s that?” Stan shouted back.

“Muggles use them in their cars, to strap people to the seats so they don’t get hurt.” His bed slammed against the side of the bus, almost dislodging him. “It’s a safety feature.”

“A safety feature, he says,” Stan said, laughing. “Most passengers just stick themselves to the beds!”

“I can’t use magic outside of school,” Harry said, to which Stan replied, “You should have said something!” whipped out his wand, and promptly charmed Harry to the bed. It was a profoundly uncomfortable experience, and Harry neither knew the charm Stan had used nor the counter to it. He was reminded of what Hermione had done to Neville in first year, using petrificus totalus just to get the other boy out of their way. And they had left him on the floor, magic binding him. Harry remembered the look of horror in Neville's eyes. 

Harry couldn’t say being stuck to a bed was as bad as that, but it made him feel anxious and out of control. The Knight Bus jolted to a halt, letting out an old man with a parrot on his head and several shopping bags floating behind. “How long do you think it will be?” He asked, trying to keep his voice steady. 

“We’ve got a few more stops,” Stan said, looking up to the other levels. 

“Could you teach me that charm you used?” Harry asked, grabbing onto a bed post as Ernie once again slammed on the accelerator. “And how to undo it?”

Stan narrowed his eyes. “I thought you said you weren’t supposed to do magic outside of school?”

“Everyone knows that,” Harry said, “but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn about magic then practice it at school. How else would I do the summer assignments?”

Stan thought about it for a moment, then nodded. “Alright, Bob. The incantation is…”

Harry stumbled off of the Knight Bus and into the cobbled street of a quaint village. A church bell rang in the distance, just once. Harry had no idea what that meant, so he ignored it and pulled out his map. 

“We’re finally off that thing?” The snake grumbled.

“Don’t worry, I’ll find a place to let you out soon.”

Harry found Godric’s Hollow marked with a dot, then tapped on it with his wand until it expanded to show individual streets. “Her letter said go to the town square, then six blocks west and two south.” Harry looked around, and found the Knight Bus had deposited him directly in the town square. There was an obelisk, like a war memorial, dominating the center, but as Harry moved around the image shifted. It was, instead, a statue of a man and woman, seated, with a smiling baby in the woman’s arms. 

Harry swore under his breath and took a step back. How had everyone neglected to tell him there was a memorial to his dead parents? Were their graves here too, or were they cremated? Harry tore his eyes away from the statue, from the happily smiling baby. He couldn’t imagine being that small. Or that happy. He started walking in what he hoped was a westerly direction. He’d have time to look around later. 

Madam Gosling’s home was an adorable cottage made of cob washed white, and a roof dripping with moss and ivy. The garden was an explosion of herbs and flowers, both mundane and magical, and Harry could hear the soft murmur of water somewhere in its depth. He reached a hand in his pocket and lifted the snake out. “Is here fine?” 

The snake flicked out his tongue, tasting the air. “It will do.” And with that, the snake slithered away. Harry watched him for a moment, then shrugged. He switched his glasses and walked to the front door. 

The door flew open, revealing a jovial elderly woman, her warm brown skin papery with age, looking down at him with bright eyes. She was wearing an apron and wiping floured hands off on it.

“Harry Potter, is that you? I haven’t seen you since you were a baby! Oh, you're the spitting image of James. Except for your eyes…”

“Good morning,” he was able to get out, before he was seized in a hug. "Nice to see you again?"

She tutted at him, then held him at arm's length, looking him over. "No need to pretend you remember. Now come in, let's have a look at you. When was the last time you saw a healer?"

Once he was installed at a kitchen table and plied with pasties, Harry explained that his aunt never took him to a doctor, he hadn't had any vaccinations he knew of, and the only medical history he knew of was the accidents he had at school.

"That school's a death trap," Madam Gosling exclaimed. "Literally, in your case. Shall I owl Poppy for your records?"

"Poppy?"

"Madam Pomfrey, dear."

Harry picked up his tea, considering. "I'd rather ask her myself and send it to you later, if that's okay?"

Madam Gosling gave him a penetrating look. "Does your family know you're here?"

Harry started. "You know about Aunt Petunia?" He shook his head. "It doesn't matter, they wouldn't care. I'm staying…elsewhere for the rest of summer."

Madam Gosling set down her own cup with a clatter and stood up, drawing Harry up with her. "Let's get started with your check up. I'm not sure about any muggle diseases you should be concerned about—there's precious little research on halfbloods and muggleborns—well, we'll work it out.”

When he left Madam Gosling’s home, he was laden with several pasties, packets of tea, sachets of herbs, and a variety of potions he was meant to take over the next few weeks. He paused at the door, hands wringing the strap of his bag. 

“Make sure to see Madam Pomfrey as soon as you can,” Madam Gosling said. “I’d like to see why she hasn’t done any check-ups.”

Harry looked up at her, setting his jaw. “I will. I was wondering if you knew where my parents’ house was? And if they…if they have graves? I’ve never been.”

He was suddenly in another hug. “I’m not sure where the house is,” Madam Gosling said. “I remember the evening I forgot. A week later, the Dark Mark was over the town.”

“Forgot?” He made a note to look up dark mark later. 

“They went under Fidelius Charm,” she said. “The bearer of the charm, the secret-keeper, conceals the secret in their very soul. Only they can share it. That I can’t recall means the secret-keeper is still alive, and hasn’t broken the charm.”

Harry felt himself go still. “But Vol…but he found us.”

Madam Gosling closed her eyes, then looked over his head. “These are things you should already know. It shouldn’t be up to an old woman you just met to tell you.” She turned him slightly, and pointed to the distant spire of the church. “They’re buried in the church’s graveyard. Ironic, isn’t it.”

“I did an essay on witch burnings this summer,” he said faintly. 

“It’s where your ancestors are buried too. The church was built up around it.” She smiled again, and gave him a brief hug. “If you don’t mind visiting an old woman, I’d be happy to see you again. Now, run along. Don’t forget your snake! I use mucus from the frogs in a salve.” 

Harry grimaced, waving goodbye.

“And pick a few flowers while you’re at it!”

Harry spent a few minutes poking around the garden for the snake. He found him choking down another frog. 

“Should you be eating that so soon after your last meal?” He asked, lifting the indignant snake. The snake, of course, couldn’t answer. 

Harry made his way back to the town square. A car rattled by, startling him from his thoughts. It seemed so out of place, but he recalled from his map that Godric’s Hollow was a mixed muggle-magical village. He avoided the memorial, looking up to keep the church spire in sight. After a few wrong turns, he spotted the gates of the cemetery. The sun was not yet overhead, and a gentle breeze rustled the grass that grew between the headstones. Some of the headstones were unusually well-preserved, likely due to magic. One was from over 800 years ago, with a strange symbol carved near the top. Harry looked at it for a moment, then moved on to find his parents. 

He stopped again in front of a granite stone with a familiar name. “Dumbledore?” he muttered. Harry knelt down to read the names. “Kendra…and her daughter Ariana?” They had died nearly 100 years prior. Harry knew Dumbledore was old, but he hadn’t realized he was that old. He stood up and kept walking. 

A few minutes later he found his parents’ grave. He sat down hard. The snake made an annoyed sound, but Harry ignored him, reaching out to trace their names. Their birthdays. They had been very young, only 21 when they were killed. Harry recalled the flowers in his hand, and set them gently on the ground. 

“Hi,” he said, not knowing what to do and feeling a little stupid. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited before. I didn’t know you were here.” He winced, looking down at his hands. It was hard to get the words out. “Is it weird to miss something you’ve never had?”

Remembering the food he had been given, he pulled a pasty out of his bag and added it to the flowers. “I don’t know anything about either of you, really. Your favorite foods, your favorite books. What classes you liked, what jobs you had. The first time I saw what you looked like was in this cursed mirror. You were crying, mum.” He cleared his throat. “It was stupid, and cruel. I think Dumbledore left it there for me to find. The classroom wasn’t even locked.”

Something moved at the edge of his vision, and he spun around. Harry held his breath, waiting. When nothing else happened, he turned back to his parents. He looked over the headstone again, narrowing his eyes at the inscription. 

“The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death? What does that even mean?”

The feeling of being alone to do this had left him, and Harry stood up, brushing off his clothes. “I’ll be back when I can,” he said. He took off his glasses and wiped his eyes, surprised to find tears there. He hadn’t cried in years. 

Harry walked the streets of Godric’s Hollow, lost in thought, looking for a house everyone had forgotten about. He smiled at an old woman leaving her house. She started smiling back, then her expression faltered.

“Are you alright?” He asked, taking a step forward. 

“Harry Potter,” the woman breathed. Harry slapped a hand to his forehead, annoyed with himself. He's forgotten the glamor. She continued down her steps and slowly made it to the gate. “I never thought I’d see you here again, after Dumbledore stole you away.”

Harry blinked at that, surprised at the venom in her voice. “Did you know my parents, Mrs..?”

“Bagshot, child. Bathilda Bagshot.”

“Mrs. Bagshot—”

“I prefer Professor.”

“Professor…you’re the author of my history textbook?”

She smiled and said, “Among others.”

“Hogwarts: A History, right? My friend Hermione loves that book.” Maybe he’d get her a signed copy for her birthday. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I never knew where my parents…where we lived before it all happened. I just learned a few days ago.”

“I was here that night, you know,” she said absently, tired blue eyes roaming his face. “I heard that awful motorcycle Sirius Black had. He used to fly it everywhere…”

“I had a dream about a flying motorcycle once,” Harry said, frowning. 

“Yes, well, he was in a state. Then Rubeus Hagrid showed up, shouting that he had orders to take you. Young Sirius didn’t want to let you go. Then Rubeus was gone, taking you and that motorcycle with him, and Sirius Black had run off somewhere.” She sighed. “And I thought my nephew was bad…”

“Did you see where the Dark Mark was?” Harry asked. 

She pointed a crooked finger down the block. “Just across the street, not that I can see the house, even to this day.” She looked around, confusion crossing her face. “I ought to get back inside.”

“Weren’t you just going somewhere?” Harry asked. 

Bagshot frowned at him. “Of course, dear. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

Harry watched her walk down the street, unsettled by the sudden change in her attitude, then walked to the area she had pointed out. The cottage had some distance between its neighbors, and a hedge around the front of the property. It looked normal from his perspective, but when he got closer he caught his breath. Nearly half of the roof was missing. He stared at it until his eyes went dry. It looked like the room had been obliterated. The front gate swung open at his touch, silent even after all these years. Magic, of course. Other than the missing roof, the cottage was in excellent condition. There wasn’t even debris in the yard. He heard a car coming and quickly shut the gate again. The driver slowed down, but instead of looking at Harry looked around with glazed eyes, before continuing down the road. 

“Weird,” he said, turning back to the house. He walked slowly up the path to the front door, looking around what used to be a garden. Weeds had taken it over, and Harry’s knowledge of herbology was too shaky to know if anything dangerous had begun to grow. He reached the front door and tried the handle. It was locked. 

“Of course,” Harry said, looking at the second floor. “I’ll just climb up, I suppose.”

Having climbed many walls and trees in his life, it wasn’t too difficult to get up to the second floor. He dragged himself over the broken wall and fell to the floor, looking at the destruction around him. The first thing he saw was a crib. It was the only piece of furniture left in the room. 

“So this is where it happened,” he said, eyes skipping over where the roof had been. 

“What are you talking about?” the snake hissed, clearly done with his frog. 

“A wizard named Voldemort…well, he was born as Tom Riddle. Whatever his name is, he came here when I was a baby and killed my parents, then tried to kill me. I think my mum died in this room.”

“It smells weird here,” the snake said. “Sharp and bloody.”

Harry sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.” He rubbed his nose. “It feels…strange. Like it’s somewhere I belong.”

“It was your home,” the snake said. 

Harry left the wrecked room, floating into the hallway. He was oddly detached. There should have been more to it, the site of his mother's death. More than a crib and a missing roof. Had he been taken to their funeral? Was there a funeral? He opened doors at random: a closet, a tidy bathroom, a bedroom…

Harry paused in the doorway, apprehensive. He'd never been allowed in the Dursleys' bedrooms, not even to clean. He had always been an unwelcome entity in their home, but the privacy of their bedrooms was sacrosanct. But here…

The people who lived here were dead. He was the only one left.

He stepped in.

The first thing Harry noticed was the bed was still made. It was a strange detail, this piece of domestic normalcy, and he found himself stuck on it for several moments. He walked towards a dresser with framed photos across the top. In one two girls were laughing. His mother, her long red hair flashing in the sun, had her arm around a dark skinned girl with an afro. 

His mother had friends.

He watched the two girls, both in Gryffindor robes somewhere on the grounds at Hogwarts. His mother wore a prefect's badge.

Lily Evans, he thought. She had been alive. She had friends. She was a prefect.

Harry carefully picked up the picture and turned it around. On the back was written, Lily and Dorcas, April 1975. He committed the name to memory so he could look her up later, then set the picture down.

There were some pictures of his parents, some he had seen before. He found a picture of himself wearing a ridiculous fawn onesie, complete with a twitching tail. The only one of his parents at Hogwarts showed them wearing Head Boy and Head Girl badges. There was another with his father and the quidditch team, his father wearing the captain's badge and holding the quidditch cup aloft, a smirking black haired boy next to him tapping a beater's bat against his shoulder. The back said, Quidditch Champions, 77-78. The black haired boy showed up again, this time with a brown haired boy with scars across his face, and a pudgy boy with mousy brown hair. They were sprawled on the grass next to some broomsticks, the blue sky bright behind them. It looked like summer. The back only said, MWPP. Harry set the picture back down, though his fingers itched to take them all with him.

He left the drawers and closets alone, the desire to know his parents battling with not wanting to pry. He could always come back.

Harry walked slowly downstairs, absently noting the runner in the hallway had been rucked up and not wanting to examine the implications. The stairs let out into a moderately sized living room. There was a couch with a blanket over the back. The coffee table had two teacups, the contents long since evaporated. There was a copy of the Daily Prophet. October 31st, 1981. He shied away from it, moving to a small bookshelf. It mostly had muggle novels by authors he didn't recognize. Doris Lessing, Joan Didion, Ursula K. Le Guin. There was a stack of comics with moving pictures. A potions text with worn pages. He opened it up and saw notations written in curling letters. His mother's?

Harry set the book down and backed away. It was too much. Too many questions were piling up. He could spend a lifetime picking through the things they had left behind, piecing together the lives they had.

The snake poked his head out. "Are you alright?"

"I'm…no, I'm not. I'm really not. I don't know what I'm even looking for."

He knew, remotely, there were some affairs he had to get in order. Finances. Possibly. Maybe he could hire Lappin to do it. He was barely thirteen years old. 

"I think I need to leave," he finally said. "I can come back. When I'm ready." Whatever it was, it had kept for over ten years. It could wait a little longer. 

On a whim, Harry picked up the potions book again, then tucked it into his bag. It was a reminder, a promise to come back if only to return it. 

"Did you want to stay here?" Harry asked the snake. "The garden's gone wild, I bet there are plenty of things to hunt."

"It smells weird," the snake said, once again coiling in Harry's pocket. Harry took another look around, seeing more doors and a kitchen to explore, shook himself, and walked to the front door. He grabbed the handle, eyes widening as he felt a rush of magic course through him, settling around him like a cloak. The lock clicked, and he pulled the door open. 

Harry froze midstep.

A giant, black dog sat on the porch, tongue lolling out of its mouth.

Harry slammed the door shut.