It's All Magic
If Harry was being honest, this was not at all how he figured his 11th birthday was going to go down. He’d been expecting… well nothing really. Never, over the last 11 years he’d been born, had he ever celebrated a birthday. However, instead of nothing, Harry stares up at the giant, hairy, thundering man, who has just broken down the front door of the small cabin and was dripping water over the small entrance rug, allowing the blustering wind and violent rain to come cascading in and wash Harry in an array of cold.
He’s shivering, and subconsciously inches backwards and closer to the fire, away from the large man. Often, bigger people equalled pain for Harry in the form of scalding words and sharp knocks so he instinctively tries to stay away. Behind him, Dudley whimpers and cries - although it’s not for very long. Uncle Vernon comes boudingin down the stairs from his bedroom, his footfalls so heavy that they ring out even over the sound of the awful storm brewing outside, and abruptly Dudley stops sobbing. In the dim moonlight, his face is just visible enough for Harry to make out that it's gone an unnatural puce; the same one he’s seen countless of time: the most particular moments being when Harry had accidentally let out that snake at the zoo, or even more so when the letter with Harry’s name upon it had come filing in through the letterbox of Privet Drive, and then a few days later through every available crevice the house had to offer.
Honestly, everything had started going wrong as soon as Harry had been forced to go along with Dudley to the zoo. He hadn’t meant to let that snake out, but the poor thing looked so sad and contracted. Harry could understand its pain and its need to be free; so he gave it what he himself couldn’t have. And in the process, he had managed to trap both his cousin Dudley and his friend Piers behind the glass (which Harry couldn’t find within himself to regret). He’d gone home that night, and it had not been pleasant. He could still feel the bruises, and hear the shouting.
And then, a few days ago, he’d gotten his first letter through the post - it had his name and address on it, clearly emblazoned on the front in fancy script
Harry James Potter
The Cupboard-Under-The-Stairs
14 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
There was absolutely no doubt that it was meant for anyone else; and oh, Harry was so excited. He’s never had a letter before you see, and it meant that someone out there knew him. Possibly a friend of his parents, someone who knew them before the tragic car accident had taken their lives and left him in the unfortunate care of the Dursley’s. But more importantly, it was his. Harry’s. Just for Harry.
Harry has never had a belonging before.
It made him want to leap out of joy.
But that of course didn’t last long; happiness never did in the Dursley household. Uncle Vernon had snatched the letter and ripped it to shreds, and yet more came, as if the recipient magically knew that Harry hadn’t received it. Whether it was through the postbox, or the chimney, or an oil through the windows. That was when Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had carted him and Dudley to wherever they were. It was nought more than a small little box upon a rock, and Harry had been frightened - it was a horrible place to spend the night. The only reassurance, funnily enough, was Dudley, who even though he was mean, had shared the blanket with him by the fire. And then, the knock came, leaving them here in this strange predicament.
The man steps further into the house, footsteps booming, unperturbed even as a trembling Uncle Vernon holds a shotgun right to his face, the barrel of it quivering while he shakes. His small eyes scan the miniscule cabin: the damp stone walls, the oaken floorboards which creak and do little to shelter them from water as it leaks in through the space between every available gap; the tiny fire which Dudley and Harry are coddled by. Ignoring his uncle, the man lets out a wide smile, one that carves its way into his ruddy and child-like face, obvious even through the mass of brunette hair upon his chin, cheeks red and eyes twinkling with unfiltered joy.
“ ‘Arry!” the man says, loud enough to hear over the roaring storm, and Harry jumps at the pitch of it, stumbling into Dudley, who whimpers but holds his sleeve which keeps him steady.
“How dare you enter my house! How dare you come here and-and-” Uncle Vernon’s rambling peterS off as the gruff man turnS to him with an impervious eye. He blinkS owlishly, once at his uncle, and then again at the shotgun which he apparently hadn’t even noticed. And then, the nutter laughs. Harry has the mild thought that he’s probably losing his mind.
“Oh Dursley, ya stupid twat. Ya think sum’n like tha’s gonna ‘urt me?”
Uncle Vernon trembles, but his finger doesn't release a single shot from the gun, even as the larger man reaches for him, and then yanks the gun right out of his hands and twists it into a neat little tie with little to no effort. Harry feels his mouth drop open, and his eyes bulge. Oh, he’s gone and got another fever again, hasn't he? There is no other explanation for whatever this is.
“This is insane,” he mumbles, and beside him Dudley makes another sound, digging his fingers into Harry’s wrist, tight enough to bruise. Harry winces, pulling back and glaring, but Dudley doesn’t even flinch, eyes fixated on the man.
Speaking of, the figure turns, and looks down at the two boys again, and then he speaks, this time directed to him. “ ‘Arry! I’ve been lookin’ for yer everywhere. What’d ya leave home for? It was ‘ard gettin’ ‘ere, I’ll tell ya tha’,” and he advances forward, Harry flinching back in return reflexively. When larger adults approach him, Harry knows that often something bad is going to happen. He’s going to leave with a black eye, or bruised ribs, or sometimes in the worst cases a cracked bone. It hurts.
The man frowns, eyebrows furrowing, but stops nonetheless. Then his face lets up. “Ah, I’ve scared ya. Sorry, lad, didn’t mean ta. I’m ‘Agrid. I’ve got ya sum’n, actually. Mighta sat on it at one point, but-” the man roots around in the giant pockets of his drenched overcoat, “Ah here we are,” he finishes, pulling out a small box. He opens the caved lid, revealing a cake with icing on the top, spelling out ‘Happy Birthday Harry!’in bright pink letters, malformed and misspelt, but definitely his name. Harry stares at it in surprise. It’s leaning on one side, and the green icing is drooping as if melted, but for some reason his eyes begin to sting. The man seems to take this the wrong way.
“Ah, no lad, ‘m sorry, I didn’ mean ta, but I think I sat on it by accident. It should still be eatable, though,” he rushes out, clearly flustered.
“No, that’s not it,” Harry replies, shaking his head at the way the man is getting all worked up at the sight of his tears and the way he says ‘eatable’ and makes it still sound so right. “I’ve just- I’ve never had a cake before.”
The man blinks at him, twice in succession, eyes round and owlish, before turning to the Dursley’s who are still hidden in the shadow of the staircase. “Never had a cake before! What d’ya mean, never had a cake before!” Uncle Vernon makes a funny noise, as if all of the air is being sucked out of him, like a deflating tyre.
“Who are you?” Harry mumbles, and instantly the man’s gaze switches. Like Harry matters more than anyone else in the cabin. Like Harry deserves his undivided attention. Harry’s never had that before, not unless it’s for punishment; it makes him instinctively gulp.
“Ah yeah, Rubeus Hagrid,” the man explains, approaching. “Keeper o’ Keys at Hogwarts. Ya can jus’ call me Hagrid.” Hagrid holds out an enormous hand, to shake Harry’s (really, it’s more like shaking Harry’s whole arm). “D’ya mind makin’ me a cup o’ tea? It’s been a long’ journey, I’ll tell ya, and the cold’s startin’ ta affect me a bit.”
His eyes fall on the empty grate with the shrivelled chip bags they’d shot in earlier to warm themselves up, and he snorts. He bends down over the fireplace, closer to Harry; he watches with interest at what he’s doing, pulling a big pink umbrella out of his clunky coat and shooting it right at the grate. A shot of light bursts out from the tip, and the fire grows larger, basking Harry in a warm glow that heats him from the bones up, as if he’s sunken into a warm bath of water. Hagrid draws back a second later, shooting Harry a quick and cheeky wink.
The giant moves back, and sits down upon the small rickety sofa in the centre of the tiny room, shuffling about as it creaks and sags under his big weight. Then, almost comically, he begins taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he takes a swig from before hiding it away again, before starting to make some tea. Soon the hut is full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage.
Nobody utters a thing while the giant is working, but as he slides the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, Dudley fidgets a little. Uncle Vernon says sharply, “Don’t touch anything he gives you, Dudley.”
The giant chuckles darkly. “I weren’t offerin’ him nothin’ from the start anyways. He don’t need fattenin’ up anymore. Anyone can tell he’s been well fed and well-looked after.” Hagrid’s eyes turns sharp as he focuses on Harry. “Harry, ‘owever…” He shakes his head as he trails off, biting his tongue from what he clearly wants to say, instead lifting up a sausage and handing it to Harry, who takes a small and tentative bite - it may just be the best thing Harry has ever tasted.
“I’m sorry,” Harry continues, “but I really don’t know who you are.”
“Right, well, like I said, ‘m Hagrid, Keeper of Keys at Hogwarts. Tha’s like the Groundskeeper.” His chest seems to inflate a little, as he puffed out proudly.
“Err- but- what is Hogwarts?”
Hagrid stares, looking at him startled.
“Hogwarts is Hogwarts.”
“Yes but- I don’t know what Hogwarts is.”
Everything goes silent for a split second, nothing but the sound of Dudley sniffling (still) from behind him. And then-
“WHAT IS HOGWARTS?” Hagrid jumps up, rounding on Uncle Vernon. “D’YA MEAN TO TELL ME,” he roars thunderously,” THA’ HARRY DON’T KNOW NOTHIN’?”
“I know some stuff,” Harry mutters petulantly. This guy was acting as if Harry was an idiot. “I did quite well in my end of year exams.”
“Not muggle stuff! Abou’ yer parents’ world! Abou’ yer world! Abou’ theWizarding World!”
Harry stares at Hagrid for quite a while. He’s quite sure the poor man has gone barmy. He has no idea what he’s really trying to say.
“Listen here-” Uncle Vernon splutters, but shrinks back again when Hagrid levels him with a very stern glare.
“Yer a wi-!”
“No!” Aunt Petunia bursts forth. “Enough! You can’t do this!”
“I can and I will! I knew ‘e weren’t getting his letters, but I thought ya would’ve told him abou’ ‘is Ma and Da!”
“My Mum and Dad are dead. They died in a car accident,” Harry mumbles.
“CAR ACCIDENT?”
“CAN YOU STOP REPEATING WHAT I SAID?” Harry shouts finally, his head throbbing and fed up with every single person. Hagrid quietens down, and has the mind to look sorry, but he’s still just looking at Harry, and Harry has the distinct impression that he wasn’t expecting him to raise his voice. But, well, Harry is tired. He’s tired, and fed up, and bruised and so so lost.
Harry always feels so lost. As if he doesn’t quite belong here, in this room, this place, even this earth. As if he’s floating outside of his body, sometimes a mere spectator to whatever is occurring around his physical body at that time.
“I have no idea what’s going on, so please can someone explain it to me properly? I think I deserve that, seeing as you’re all here for me.”
Hagrid gives him a once over, something appreciative lighting within his eyes, before he says; “Yer a wizard ‘Arry.”
And yeah, Harry had been expecting a lot of things. Maybe that he had other relatives. Maybe that he was going to a secret spy school in the Netherlands. Maybe that fucking Narnia existed. But not that. Anything really, but that.
So, it’s obvious enough that his first response is, “What?”
“Yer a wizard. And yer parents didn’t die in a car crash. They were murdered.”
Ah. Well. That, that really sends him into a spiral. Harry thinks he’s falling.
Sinking.
Drowning.
Because, really, none of what this person, what Hagrid is saying, is possible. Except, for some reason, it makes sense. So much sense.
For 11 years, Harry has known there’s something wrong with him. What with his disappearing acts, and the funny occurrences, and the odd people in funny clothes who used to look at him as if he was someone special. But, he’d thought that maybe he was just… funny. That maybe there was something wrong with him, something bad.
His parents were dead. True. He was a strange little orphan. True. His parents passed away in an accident. False. 11 years, and most of it had been- what? A lie? He should have known. He has known. He’s known something was wrong, ever since those dreams started when he was nothing but a toddling baby. The dreams of flying motorbikes, and soft people cooing at him. People with scars, and stars and watery noses; blonde hair, dark skin, bushy curls in a large swoop; always, always loving eyes. And then there were the nightmares. The nightmares of green lights, creaking gates, and cold voices. Cruel laughter, and a man that looks like Harry but isn’t, shouting and ushering him away. A woman with red hair and blazing green eyes, standing tall in front of a cloaked man. The screaming and begging, and pleading. “Not Harry! Please, I’ll give you anything! But please, not my baby!”
A small twinge in the top corner of his skull, right where his scar begins, makes him fall, forehead knocking to the cold floor in an attempt to ease the pain. Stop, he thinks. Please, make it stop. I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I’m sorry.
“Harry?” a tentative voice whispers, innocent and child-like. And then, “‘ARRY!” louder, more abrasive, but a tender and warm hand upon his back, rubbing the pain away. It’s heavy, and pushes him further into the ground, but oh it feels nice. Harry has always wished that there would one day be someone to comfort him, hold him while he’s breaking. It’s not exactly how he imagined it, but it’s okay. Harry will take whatever he can get.
“I’m takin’ ‘im with me,” the brash voice announces, and Harry looks up through watery eyes to see Hagrid glaring at his guardians, daring them to argue. Uncle Vernon says nothing, almost a little relieved by the fact that he’s getting rid of two problems in one. Aunt Petunia on the other hand, visibly pales even further, like someone’s sucking the last of her life force away.
“No!” she shouts, louder than he’s ever heard her. She almost looks… scared. “You can’t! I won’t let you take him away to that- that- that freak school!” Harry blinks, lifting slightly, to stare. She’s animated now, mumbling, and rubbing her hands together, but seems to get it together when Uncle Vernon lays a palm upon her shoulder and Harry catches her eye. They’re the same shade of green as his own. “I remember clearly how Lily had turned into one of them. A freak.” She’s spitting now, venomous and hurt. “How she began to stray from her family, and how that stupid man took her away. Your father, he took her, and look where it got them. Killed.”
All Harry can do is stare. He thinks he’s breaking.
Countless years of pain, and insults, and closed doors; this is what ends up breaking him.
“She was an idiot, and she was murdered by that maniac. And now, now you’re going to end up the same,” she hisses. She doesn’t sound worried about that. She sounds sure. As if she’s been waiting for this, waiting for everything to come clear so she can spill like a dam. It hurts, hurts, hurts. He always thought that despite the harsh words, and the bruises, maybe Aunt Petunia cared.
She doesn’t. He gets that now.
“I want to go,” Harry chokes out, eyes stinging, and throat grating. He has to rip his eyes away from Aunt Petunia, to Hagrid, who looks positively furious. “I want to- let me go. Let me go wherever you want to take me.” I can’t be here. I can’t stand it. It’s killing me.
Hagrid stays silent, as if he’s scared to speak. He gives Harry a pitying smile and nods, grabbing him by the waist and throwing him over the shoulder like he’s a child. Harry snuggles his head into Hagrid’s shoulder, hiding his face because he can’t bear to look at anyone.The darkness is inviting, and Hagrid smells of earth, forest and magic. He feels someone clutch at his sleeve, a small chubby hand that is wrenched away, and then Harry leaves the hut into the cold night sky. It’s still raining and the heavy droplets soak his clothes until he’s shivering, but when Hagrid settles onto the motorbike he pauses for a moment, adjusting Harry so his face is now pressed into the back of Hagrid’s coat, arms wrapped around his middle and clutching tight. His eyes are still squeezed shut, but he can feel as Hagrid reaches into his pocket and pulls out an object. He settles it over Harry, and he realises it must be a blanket, as the soft material warms him slightly, protecting him from the downpour.
“Ya should get some sleep ‘Arry. It’s gonna be a long journey. It’s raining fer now, but it should settle. Sorry abou’ the weather, and hold on tight.” The roaring of the bike switches on, and Harry waits, fingers digging into Hagrid’s coat, as they begin to move and then a whoosh of air drifts past them. Still, Harry couldn't care less about the rain. He’s suffered through worse. Lifting his head, Harry looks up momentarily to see how they’ve gotten across the island without a boat, and oh. Oh. Below him, the earth is quite far away. The ocean is dazzling, cerulean and midnight, dark and turbulent in the night. The cabin is now nothing more than a speck of tiny light in the distance, and the beauty of the landscape causes a hitch of Harry’s breath. Because, yes, it’s still raining, and it’s still dark, but the sky is shrouded in stars like a blanket of miniature lanterns acting as beacons. They’re high in the sky, and Harry reaches up with the full intention to take a star for himself. He’s not greedy, but he has wants, and for once he thinks he can have it. Except, the stars are quite far away from his grasp, and he’s clutching at nothing but droplets of rain, which run down his face and pool in his collar.
Harry can’t help it. He giggles. Beside him, Hagrid is smiling, the round helmet flattening his hair, and the rain-speckled goggles covering his warm brown eyes, but still Harry can feel the fondness when his gaze lands on him.
“Yer can sleep now, Harry,” Hagrid states. Harry halts, staring. He doesn’t sleep, not when other people are present. It’s dangerous. It can lead to disaster. But, Harry does feel more sleepy than startled awake by the presence. Hagrid doesn't make him feel scared. Hagrid doesn’t make him worry. Hagrid is- Hagrid. He’s safe. So, gently, Harry presses further into Hagrid, tightening his hold even further, and lets Hagrid talk while he closes his eyes.
The combined force of something warm to hold, the kind chatter, and the presence of someone safe lulls Harry into a calm sleep. He dreams of flying bikes, and warm fires, and kind smiles. This time, another face joins them - a giant man, who clutches him tightly and swaddles him in blankets, reassuring him that everything is going to be okay.
Harry believes him.
***
“Mum, are you sure this is it?” Ron asks, staring down at the piece of parchment, squinting tightly. Holding it fulfils something in Ron. See, he’d always thought that maybe he didn’t belong at Hogwarts; that because he was so different, Hogwarts wouldn’t want him. Except, Hogwarts had taken Percy. But Ron wasn’t Percy. He wasn’t smart, or kind, or ready to forge his path. He wasn’t Charlie either, with a dream and an adventurous streak that set him out, over others. He sure as hell wasn’t Bill, with his strong demeanour, and his calm pull, and his leadership. Nor was he Fred or George, with their humorous and sarcastic streak that definitely leaned into Slytherin, but had a brave and reckless nature that led them more Gryffindor. He wasn’t Ginny either, no matter how much his mother had wanted him to be. She had never said it, accepted him readily when he told her, but still. Sometimes, Ron worries that maybe she regrets it. She’s never said it, or shown it, per se, but he thinks he can feel it.
“Of course, Ronald,” she says, bustling around and checking on each spell. I’m telling you I’ve done this 5 times before, so I know my way around it all.” And yeah, that’s true enough. Molly Weasley was a force of her own, whirling about the kitchen, as the pots and pans washed themselves, the knitting knitted itself, the iron straightened out their clothes, and the table began to set magically, as if an invisible hand was aiding them. That’s not true of course. It was magic. Plain and simple magic that Ron was accustomed to - magic he was going to be learning in less than a month’s time. Oh, he was ecstatic.
The letter had come that morning, in by owl while Mum had been potting about downstairs. Molly Weasley was not exactly an early riser, so what she had been doing up so early in the morning had been nonsensical to Ron when he and Percy had come down - until it hadn’t. Because she was grinning like a madwoman, and holding the letter like it was a trophy, and staring at Ron with such a proud look. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Mum that proud of him, and it made him feel so- so ecstatic. God, it was so good. Percy had looked at the letter, then at Ron, and grinned ruffling his hair. “Told you you’d get one,” because Percy, Fred and George were the only ones who knew that Ron was scared. Ginny was too young yet, to know about it, and Bill and Charlie were away living their amazing lives, but the Weasley children always shared their darkest secrets, their biggest fears, their favourite things. They were inexplicable and inextricable. Brothers and sister. Siblings. One for all, all for one in every meaning of the word. That’s what made them Weasley’s. Their need for love, and their undying loyalty for family.
Currently, Percy had gone upstairs to awaken Ginny, Fred, George and Dad, while Mum was getting breakfast ready with the help of Ron - they’d mostly finished now, the rest to be done by magic, so now Ron was just staring at the unopened envelope before him.
Ronald Weasley
The Bedroom in the Attic
The Burrow
Ottery St. Catchople
Ronald Weasley. The Bedroom in the Attic. The Burrow. Ottery St. Catchpole. His name. His bedroom. His house. His village. His, his his his his hishishishis.
All for him. His letter. His entry to Hogwarts. His opportunity. Oh, that ignited something in him alright. He was Ronald Weasley. And he was about to become a great wizard.
“Morning Mum,” a sleepy voice speaks, and Ron turns his head to see Ginny, Fred, George and Dad trailing after a mildly irritated Percy. It was Ginny who had spoken, and one of her small little hands was curled up into a fist to rub against her brown eyes. “Morning,” everyone else copies, all sounding particularly sluggish, and Percy shares a faintly amused glance with Ron when Fred starts to sit down, only to completely miss his chair and tumble to the floor.
“Sod off,” Fred grumbles when George snorts, and Ginny giggles.
His mum sighs, placing her fists to her hips and turning to look at Fred, warning him with a simple, “Language!”
“Sorry Mum,” Fred recites, but as soon as she turns again to begin plating the food, Fred gives George his middle finger. Their dad merely shakes his head, as he passes by each of them, dropping quick successive kisses to each of their foreheads, and a final one to Mum’s cheek.
“Wassa’” Ginny yawns, plopping into the chair beside Ron, eyes drooped. George glances at him once, looks away, and then pauses and back, eyes narrowing on the letter. Slowly, one of the corners of his mouth lifts, giving him an almost predatorial look. George always had been quieter than Fred, but that didn’t make him any less frightening when he meant for it - in fact, he could often be worse. Ron is just glad that the particular look levelled to him at that moment was always one followed by good memories to look back on, whether he’d been embarrassed in the moment or not.
“Is that-” he questions, and Percy nods, grinning widely.
“It came,” Percy confirms.
“Told you not to worry about it,” Fred whispers, nudging him under the table, quiet enough so only the five of them can hear (though Ron suspects Dad has an inkling, judging from the way his eyes twinkle and he winks at Ron over the newspaper).
Out of the corner of his eye, Ron can see Ginny’s lower lip begin to wobble as she continues to stare at the unopened letter. Taking one hand, he reaches under the table and takes one of her small little hands, palm to palm and fingers entwining. Two squeezes, to say: I’m still here. I’m going nowhere. Ginny shakes her head, and blinks away the building tears, but keeps her hold on Ron’s hand.
“Gonna open it then?” George asks, as Mum settles the plates into the middle of the table before taking her seat. He takes a sausage from the middle of the table and places it on Ginny’s plate, and then repeats the process with Ron, until both of the youngest have two sausages each upon their ceramics. Percy does the same, but with the buttered toast, and Fred focuses on his, George and Percy’s plates, while Ginny piles beans upon them, and Ron handles the eggs. It was a system and the system worked.
“I’ll do it later,” he said, hiding the letter in his pocket. “We can all open our letters together. Deal?”
Fred’s eyes twinkle, getting what Ron was going at, and glancing at Ginny who hunches her shoulders further in. She doesn’t feel as included when the others talk about Hogwarts, and it’s even worse now that Ron is going as well. She’s worried they’ll forget her, or get up to trouble that she’s not a part of (which he will, but that doesn’t mean Ginny won’t be there - Weasley’s are always present in the heart when causing havoc). So, the lot of them had organised a fake letter opening, one that held nothing but a small little card that said, ‘We’ll wait for you’. It’s not much, but it should do. Ron swears he’ll write frequently, the same way each of his siblings have done year after year. And they would wait - Hogwarts wouldn’t be fully ready until they could all be there together.
For now though, the seven Weasley’s eat breakfast, the five of them locking ankles every so often under the table. Weasley siblings stick together. Always.
***
Hermione stares up at the brick wall with a glimmer in her eyes, while the wizard talks. She’s not paying much attention, too busy asking her father questions, which he answers politely even though he looks terrified. Poor Dad.
“Er, Hermione. Are you sure this is what the letter said?” her Mum whispers in her ear, as the wizard man continues to ramble. He’s called Tom, according to the letter.
“Yes Mum. You read it too. It specifically said that we needed to ask the barkeeper Tom a the leaky cauldron how to get into Diagon Alley, and show him our letter as proof.
“Yes my dear, I know. But you have such a good memory, so you’re the one to trust,” her mother tells her, pulling back and smoothing down her hair with a kind hand and warm smile. Everything about her parents was kind. From the way they’d raised her, to the way they’d supported her following this revelation. Lord, Hermione adores them. But sometimes she feels so out of touch. It’s not their fault of course. They’d tried their hardest with her, helped her during her panic attacks, through the bullying, through the times when she felt as if she was some sort of freak. And now, she has learned she isn't really a freak at all; in fact, she’s something special
The letter had arrived through their post box, with Hermione's name, and bedroom, and address, and London plastered across the top of it, and she knew. She knew then, that this was the start of something great, something beautiful, something awesome. This is the beginning and Hermione is going to drink it up, and let fate guide her course. Scratch that, actually. She’s going to guide her course. Hermione granger. Girl genius, child wonder, witch. Witch. How brilliant.
She can feel the power behind that brick wall, feel the linking of the charged atoms and whatever was there, is deep inside her too, bursting at her core. One in the same. Power thrumming beneath her veins and in the air around them. Magic everywhere.
When Tom finally opens the door, after Hermione had caught his attention and asked him ever so sweetly to show them the way, she gasps. The bricks slot behind each other, until they’re gone, and all that lies before them in a pack chock full of various people in robes. Bright colourful robes, long dragging robes, over-the-top robes, simple ones, all sorts of materials, and designs and still so, so beautiful. Tall wizards, and some with knobbly knees; some dressed in funny get ups, and other’s dressed extravagantly in clothes she doesn’t recognise but knows must cost a fortune. Some looked like the ones her nan used to bring when visiting, from her home country. Oh wow. Yes, this was it. A child goes whizzing down the path, giggling on a little toy broom, and a man chases after them, shouting with two other kids in tow. There are children pressed against the glass windows of shops, flying devices, shopkeepers selling for sales and it’s so enchanting. It invigorates her, sending some swell thing flying through her veins. Maybe it’s a zip of magic waiting to emerge after finding contact with its similar particles.
This is her place. She’s found it.
Steeling herself, Hermione’s brown eyes sweep over the people. There’s no coming back from this. All the choices she makes in the future will be dictated by what she does now. Every decision, every action, every word will lead back to magic. Back to her. She’s going to make her place in this world. It makes her grin, beaming brightly.
Then she puts one foot in front of the other and steps into the Wizarding World.
***
Harry glances down at the list, while Hagrid pushes around the trolley for him. They’d decided to grab all his schoolbooks first, seeing as it was the most boring job - there’d be a chance to explore later once everything had been collected. They’d had to go collect money from his vault at Gringotts first (guarded by goblins?? They were small little creatures with long hooked noses, who were very serious about their security, which was fair enough seeing as they guarded people’s finances, which was a big job for anyone) - turns out Harry is rich. Very, bloody rich. His parents' vaults piled high full of money because apparently he was the grandson of a famous potioneer, and his parents had been venerated for their service during the First Wizarding War.
Oh yes, there was a war, which his parents played a huge part in. Harry knew basic history, and according to Hagrid, a very dark wizard had risen. He’d been determined to ‘purify’ the Wizarding World and make it so that wizards from an ancient lineage remained, instead of wizards born from human - no ‘muggle’ (which meant non-wizarding) parents or those who had muggle heritage, and well, that hadn’t sat right with his parents who had fought against him. His mother herself had come from a muggle family. They’d been attacked, and hadn’t survived because no one survived Voldemort, much less a Killing Curse. Harry had. That’s why he had his scar on the left corner of his forehead: thin white lines that diffused from one point outwards, arcing across the browned skin down to his temple, and just behind his left eye; like lightning over a grey sky within a brewing storm. A warning, that there was more to come. Harry has realised that he needs to flatten his long, scraggly dark hair over it, or else people stare like he’s a freak here too. He wants to belong, though. So he hides. It’s not that different from his normal life in the end, if not for the magic.
“ ‘Arry, I think it’s time we go get yer wand,” Hagrid tells him with a ruddy smile, brightening as Harry beams back. A wand. Because Harry was a wizard. Who could do magic. Just like everyone else in Diagon Alley. Not a freak. Just… Harry Potter. Child, student, wizard. Brilliant.
“Yeah, okay,” Harry replies, trying to keep calm, and passing a girl with dark skin and bushy hair that surrounds her face like a ferocious mane. Her eyes are bright and she’s wearing muggle clothing, dragging her parents along with bright eyes and a toothy smile (very toothy considering her particularly large two front teeth which made her look quite like an adorable bunny). Is that what Harry could look like, if not for his parents death? Is that what he’s missing out on?
There is no use dwelling on what he’s been missing. But oh, how he misses despite that.
The wand shop is dark and gloomy, judging from the outer demeanour, its windows covered in dark boards and a dilapidated sign half-hanging over the top, reading Ollivander’s in faded golden script. Paint peels from the walls in copious amounts, like the building was shedding the darkness, and beneath it a strong oak could be found if Harry squints. Harry’s squinting, but that’s mainly because his glasses are broken. Again. Hagrid has no spells on how to fix them - he mainly keeps to overly simple household spells or ones to maintain the grounds at Hogwarts, but Hagrid had reassured Harry that when he got to Hogwarts he’d be able to find a spell to fix them. When Harry had ventured even slightly onto the topic of why Hagrid couldn’t perform the spell himself, despite all wizards in Britain apparently going to Hogwarts, he’d suddenly looked very sad and Harry didn’t have it in him to push the topic much further.
Before Harry can take a step into the shop, a stern-looking elderly woman with a ridiculous hat portraying what looks like a stuffed robin, perched upon her greying hair emerges with a bell ringing lightly behind her; her burgundy robe swishes about her elegantly as she snaps her purse shut and sniffs, and Harry catches a slight glance of a small, round-faced boy with mousy hair and lowered eyes, before they sweep away. Harry looks back up to Hagrid, wide-eyed, but the older man merely chuckles. The two enter, Hagrid holding open the door but as soon as it slams shut behind them, the darkness smothers as a tinkling sound fills Harry’s ears. It doesn’t scare Harry - he’s lived a life full of monsters and darkness, but it does take him back. It takes him back and makes him worry because what if this is a dream and he’s waking up and he’s still stuck? Oh, what if-
“ ‘Arry?” Hagrid says, voice inflecting so it comes as a question.
Harry blinks and he’s in the room again, eyes adjusting to the dim light so he can finally make out his surroundings. The shop is frankly a mess within. Wooden walls are hidden by stacks upon stacks of boxes: different shapes, sizes, colours, but mainly thin and worn as if they have been lying there for aeons, just collecting the thin layer of dust that resides on top of them. Of course, that may have just been an effect of the shop, because particles swirled around with every slight movement Harry makes, suffocating and clogging his throat so he has to choke continuously just to breathe. The floor is made of a similar wood to the walls, laminated and yet rotting - oaken boards in a colour similar to that of Harry’s earthen skin, creak with every step he takes and groan as Hagrid shuffles forward, pushing him forward with a slight nudge. Golden braziers hang from the sides, candles perched in ancient tombs giving off what little light the shop withholds and when Harry’s fingers cling to the ebony desk he feels it crumble beneath his palms; Harry is destruction and the shop harbours his innermost thoughts of conflict and chaos. Atop the desk, on the very forefront, a small little bell perches. It is gold and bronze all in the same because the two metals have moulded and mixed and become something magical, and when Harry finds the courage within himself to gently press it, the object thrums as if infused with a magic. All it takes is one touch, and a loud sound alarms out, sending Harry stumbling back as a thin spindly man comes whooshing out of the unknown.
No, his cloak literally makes a whoosh as if he’s flying through air.
The man is old, that is clear enough, with parchment skin that wrinkles and crinkles with every steady blink he takes. His eyelashes are long and snowy upon his pale tone, with startling blue eyes similar to that of ice peek out beneath eyelids and Harry can’t help but shiver underneath the cool gaze. What’s even more was the fact that his gait was stiff and crooked, forcing him to shuffle about in a slumped over manner and yet he was also agile and fast, as shown when he came hobbling to the counter and peered right into Harry’s face, and then spoke; “Ah yes. Young Harry Potter.”
Harry startles, because he’s so very close, forehead nearly touching his own, and when people get that close to him Harry has a habit of flinching backwards - which he does. The shop owner - Ollivander, Harry is guessing - doesn’t react, but his face does go quite pensive, and he makes a low noncommittal “Hmmm,” as if Harry has just given him an intriguing puzzle to solve (does this mean Harry’s the puzzle? Well, if Ollivander has any clues as to what is going on with Harry, Harry wouldn’t complain if he was told because frankly, he’s feeling very lost at the minute).
“Yes, I know you. Son of James Potter and Lily Evans. A bright young thing your mother was - green eyes taking in everything, always eager for more. 10 ¼” wand, made of willow, very swishy and perfect for charms. And your father, well he was clever too if only in a different way. 11”, pliable, mahogany wood. Yes, yes, very good for transfiguration. Brilliant witchlings, the two of them. It feels like only yesterday they came in looking for their wands, small just as you are.” Ollivander gives him a brief once-over. “Well, definitely not as skinny, and your father had more height on him.”
Hagrid harrumphs behind Harry, and Ollivander looks up, head craning, before his face brightens. “Ah, Rubeus! Yes, yes, I remember you too. 16” of oak wood, rather bendy.” All of a sudden, Ollivander’s face darkens, a shadowed cloud falling over it so his ice blue eyes turn frightening. “A perfect wand, until-”
“Yeah, Ollivander, ‘Arry needs his wand though,” Hagrid suddenly blurts out, eyes widening and turning a tad bit panicked. Harry narrows his own pupils, but doesn’t comment - if Hagrid had secrets then fine, who was he to judge? (he’ll find out later).
“Ah,” Ollivander gasps, as if he’s only just remembered Harry’s presence, but honestly Harry can’t even blame him. It was amusing to see him gush about wands, and Harry smiles as Ollivanders says, “Yes, yes, come here m’boy.” Harry blinks, turning a fraction to look at Hagrid, who merely nods and makes a mere shooing motion.
“I’ll go and get some ice cream, eh ‘Arry?” Before Harry can even say a thing in return, Hagrid is out of the door far too quickly than expected of someone with his lumbering size. Harry curses internally, before fixing a tentative smile upon his face and swivelling back to Ollivander, who he finds is still staring at him.
Okay. Not creepy at all.
Tilting his head, Ollivander inspects him in a way that makes Harry squirm, his skin itching, before the old man pivots and disappears behind a shelf of wands, stacks upon stacks of boxes with shuffling lids and vibrating walls; a chick urging to get out, but not yet ready to hatch, not until it meets its match.
“All wands are unique Master Potter,” Ollivander’s voice calls from between the array, loud and clear even as his body is gone. Harry finds himself attentively listening, eyes glued to whatever moving object appears before his alert eyes.
“All wands, are unique, and emotional, and oh so unpredictable.” The voice gets louder as the old man appears from the boxes once more. It feels as though the two are caught in a stasis that neither can escape from - Ollivander is holding him by a thread and guiding him with each illustrious word.
A wand is handed to him, but something feels so wrong. The grip of it is wrong, and when he swishes as Ollivander instructs him too, a force pushes itself away, as if it’s waiting but not for him. Something cracks, and Harry flinches, but there’s no time to react as the wooden object is pulled from his palms.
“No, no,” Ollivander frowns, and then he’s bustling away again. “You see, they are much like human beings. They can feel and they can interact. Wands are intelligent things, Master Potter. And like all intelligent things, they connect.”
Ollivander is back again, another wand in hand. The last one was straight and long, with dark wood. This one is more curved at the end, pointing downwards like a water droplet at the very end of a leaf; the magic ready to spill upon the slightest act. Nevertheless, it’s wrong. Harry’s magic doesn’t want to spill out. It wants to fizz and build and explode. He can feel it, like a spark beneath his eyelids, and this one is wrong. The wand goes hot within his hand, and with another swish something far away goes BOOM.
“No, not this one either,” Ollivander states, staring impassively at Harry’s palm and plucking the wand out. Whisked behind his crates, Ollivander continues to explain, and still, Harry hangs on to every word.
“Wands are crafted with something that even wizards can rarely explain. They are born of magic and link to magic; whatever particles exist to make you, make the wand too. It is a beautiful thing, like fate some may say. I agree. A wand is one’s destiny, and when a wizard finds that wand, it becomes something particular. Destiny within one’s hand. A string leads one to another, until you find that wand you seek. Or, maybe it is the wand that seeks you and guides your path. Either way, one is often incomplete without the other. Soulmates, some may say.”
Oh, Harry cannot stop listening, because everything Ollivander spoke was like an enchanting song. Oh Harry wants whatever Ollivander is describing, because he makes it sounds so… so… inexplicable. Whatever he is saying, has Harry hooked and ensnared.
A piper to the children.
If he’s going to drown, Harry will go gladly.
Harry’s been drowning for a while after all.
Although, magic feels more like a long breath of oxygen that he’s been aching for since he was a child. He has memories of it, glimpses of what it feels like for his lungs to work properly, and now it’s all coming back.
A rush.
A dream.
Warm lights, and people; flashes of blonde hair, and gold weaved between dark locs; a flying motorbike, and a howling man who cackles as someone else giggles; a sniffling man with a twitching nose and a round woman with dark glowing skin; oh and loving, green green eyes beside rimmed glasses. Flashes that seem like reality. Oh he remembers.
It feels like a buzz.
“And,” Ollivander says, reappearing once more with what feels like an air of finality - a glint alighting within those icy pupils, making them a hint softer, “It is my job, to make sure you meet your soul,” he finishes.
This time, when the wand is placed within Harry’s hand, it feels different. Strange. Yet right. A slow tingle begins announcing itself, starting at his very fingertips and spreading like water; trickling down his arm and up. It is going against gravity, and yet, when the feeling reaches his head a state of bliss fills Harry’s head and heart. Like some block has been relieved and he can breathe.
“Ah,” Ollivander sighs, and a thin smile graces his lips. “Yes, this is the one. 11” of holly wood, supple and bendy with a select phoenix feather core. Interesting. So very interesting.”
Harry stares at him, and the way his head tilts. Matching the movement, the boy opens his mouth to inquire: “Sorry, sir, but what’s interesting?”
Ollivander’s gaze lifted, and those eyes pierce into Harry. He feels that gaze, can sense it invading into his very soul; strong and searching and unwavering. He cannot help it; he gulps. Loudly.
“That wand was made of a phoenix feather, one of a very special variety. That phoenix was kind enough to gift two feathers, but only two. Both were placed within wands, though both were very different. You possess one, and the counterpart belongs with that whom we call He Who Must Not Be Named. Though, he will only ever be a boy to me, one who claimed a strong wand. You, funnily enough, have claimed it’s twin. Like destiny.”
Harry’s heart quickens, fast enough for it to feel like it may possibly beat out of his chest. The whole room starts to get smaller, enclosing on Harry like a cage of wood, boxing him in. He feels cold and hot all the same; stuffy and claustrophobic.
“But that- that-”
“Is interesting.”
“Yes, but- but-” Harry takes in a breath. He clutches onto his wand, tighter. His wand. “What does that mean?”
“It means, Master Potter,” Ollivander answers, gaze searching, “That we can expect great things to come of you in the near future.”
And with that, Harry is whisked out of the shop, the door opening to reveal a tall woman with dark skin, a highly structured face and a clean shaven head. Her dark gaze is piercing, and her plump lips purse, as she stares impassively at Harry. A green cloak swirls around her like a magnificent gown, and though she is dark enough to almost be discernible as having midnight black skin, she seems to glow. A tall, thin boy stands beside her in immaculately pressed robes of navy; skin of the same colour and head just as clean shaven, with similar high bones and long lashes. They are both beautiful, and the door opens just enough to allow them entry, before it closes again. Harry squints at the bright light encapsulating him, and takes one last look at the door behind him, before stepping into the street, flattening his hair against his brown forehead before he goes. He takes not even a step, before a dark shadow appears, and he knows it well enough by now.
Harry pivots, and gazes up at the giant.
“ ‘Arry!” Hagrid exclaims happily, a large ruddy smile gracing his rounded face, and two ice cream cones in hand. He hands one to Harry (the larger of the two, Harry notices), before his smile splits even wider, if possible.
“Whad’ya say we get ya a pet? Think o’ it as ‘nother birt’day presen’,” he says heartily.
Harry grins, and nods, taking Hagrid’s outstretched hand, wand buzzing in the box in his hand. The sun is warm, seeming to get more encompassing, and somehow, it feels like a steady hand on his shoulder. A feeling of pride. From father to son.
The sun is shining, and for now Harry is okay.
***
“Ronald Weasley! You better stop running this instance!” a loud shrill voice screeches, and Hermione winces, turning ever so slightly to locate the source. A round bustling woman dressed in worn robes has her hands on her hips and seems to be scolding her son, while a girl with short black hair in a bob cut giggles as she observes. They share the same ginger hair, though while she is short and stout, he is tall and lanky, his sweater bunching around his waist and shoulders. The boy makes a face, and then goes red. Hermione can see why, because behind the mother, two identical muscular boys peer over the mother’s head and make rude gestures, silently giggling. They are freckled and ginger, so they must be the siblings of the brother although their builds are different.
The family likeness is astounding, even despite the differences. Yes, they have different builds and different expressions currently upon their faces (the mother wearing one of anger, the identical boys holding mischief within their twinkling blue eyes, and the lanky one clearly frustrated but similarly amused as he kicks at the dirt and purses his lips) but even then Hermione can tell they are one. They have the same lilt to their step; an equal amount of indents lining under their eyes to say they are full of joy and laughter. Hermione looks up at her own parents, and she can see differences. Yes, she shares the same bushy hair as her mother and the same brown eyes as her father, but they are clearly scared and worried. They withhold apprehension and fear; Hermione is bursting with excitement and trepidation.
She is not the same as her parents, at her core.
But even then, she is not the same as the people within Diagon Alley, who walk with their heads held high and each embracing the different aspects they have.
Hermione is so tired of being so, so different from so, so many people. It makes her anxious and makes her bones thrum with shame, like her very existence is wrong within itself. She sighs, and guides her parents towards the bookstore, which the boy and his family are hovering around. As she approaches, she takes in exactly his whole being, memorising it.
He wears a maroon knitted jumper in a deep red, the same as that of her favourite cranberry juice, and though it is worn, it is clearly made with love because he shows it with pride. A small, golden lion is knitted upon the breast, intricate and detailed as if one has put utmost care into replicating the animal. The boy is leaning to the side, slouching and it looks as if the mother is almost bearing over him in her anger. He sighs, and turns a fraction, making eye-contact with Hermione and oh. Those eyes. Those eyes are beautiful, there is not a doubt about it. They’re round and bright blue, similar to that of his brothers, like a calm sky untethered and unburdened by the dark clouds that have the potential to infringe there. Nevertheless, there is a tinge of grey around the outer edge of the iris, betraying hidden depth, and knowledge lies there; as if he knows as much of the world as Hermione knows knowledge. One in the same, and yet opposite in so many ways. Bright burning flame versus cool earthen brown. The boy blinks, and tilts his head slightly - a small smile curves at the corner of his lips - and then he’s turning away, as the mother harrumphs and grabs him by the frayed sleeve of his jumper and drags him away.
Hermione lets out a deep breath, which she feels like she’s been holding for hours.
“Hermione?” her mother asks, and Hermione cranes her neck to look up at her adoring mother, who gives her a wan grimace, and lifts her eyes to look back at the bookshop. “Should we go in then?”
Hermione grins, and says, “Oh yes, please.”
***
Draco Malfoy has been abandoned by his parents.
Well.
Abandonment may be a bit of a dramatic term, but he does hold both Malfoy and Black blood, so that’s just really a product of his lineage. See, Malfoy’s are ‘preeners’ according to his mother (he genuinely has no idea what that means), while Black’s are ‘inherently insane’ as stated by his father. Who knew that two people who despise each other’s family so, could love each other so much, despite who they are relatives of.
Honestly, Draco’s parents are a conundrum.
They love each other, of that there is no doubt.
Even then, there are undercurrents of wrongness - as if something taints that love and holds more over it. A duty or a responsibility. Draco Malfoy is in love with his parents’ love, but he doesn’t like that tainting. And that tainting has come to calling now, which is what left him so abandoned inside this robe shop, perched upon the upholstered seat as he waits for Madam Malkin to prepare herself. He sighs, glancing out the window, as a round boy is dragged forward by an old woman with an awful hat. Really, it’s terrible. Who on earth wants to wear such a strange stuffed bird atop… Wait. Oh that was a Longbottom. Yes, Draco knows them. The parents… long dead. A tragedy of his own Aunt Bella’s doing, who his mother demands he acknowledge even despite her bad deeds. Like he said, a tainting covers that love. A tainting of responsibility, like an overcoat of plastic that dares to ruin him.
He doesn’t want to care for someone who can torture two people and leave them with only empty vessels. The thought terrifies him.
Maybe this abandonment comes as a benediction from wizards prior.
The bell of the shop rings as someone small stalks in, and Draco sighs (again), when someone drops into the seat beside him. He twists his neck, and takes in the boy who- oh.
Okay.
He’s by no means rich, or of notable origin. Draco knows all of the heirs of pureblood families by now, so he should probably stray. Even then, there’s no denying the boy is beautiful. Stark brown skin, like that of wooden bark, and darker hair of obsidian, that sticks up in every possible direction; as though someone is trying to push him down but he refuses. Draco cannot help it - he pushes his hand through his own blonde locks and parts it from the slick down his mother imparted upon him earlier. The boy is thin, though dressed in clothes far too large for him, and his face is strong and steady, with arched cheekbones and a sharp nose, lightly freckled in a few spots. His lips are plump and painted red, but what catches Draco off guard are those eyes. Those emerald eyes, of the brightest green, tinged with golden sparks, but shining and strong. The boy’s gaze is fast, and even as Draco takes in everything with his grey eyes, inherited from his mother, he startles, when those green irises meet his own.
Ah.
Instantly, all the blood rushes to his face, and he looks away. But he’s a Malfoy - and above that a Black. Yes, the Black’s are insane and dramatic and some repulsive, but they shine like stars are meant to. Draco is a star at heart.
And so Draco will shine.
He clears his throat and then tells the boy, “This is ridiculous. I’ve been waiting for the last 15 minutes.” It’s a weak imitation of his father, but his nose wrinkles (adorably), so Draco is aware he’s listening. He carries on, babbling, about this and that, and though he can’t exactly tell what he’s thinking (he’s crazily impassive, as if he doesn’t dare to react lest something happen), but he knows every now and then that he’s aware and paying attention due to his incessant twitches. They’re imperceptible, but Draco, much like his mother, is an observer. He looks and thinks, and sometimes he does act rashly like his father, but he watches.
Watching can tell you so much.
Watching informs him of how the boy flinches when Madam Malkin and her attendant both finally come back from the previous robe fitting; watching informs him of how the boy stumbles awkwardly over the giant hem of his trousers when he gets up from the sofa, and then mumbles a tiny apology for it, but makes it seem as if he’s sorry for existing; watching informs him that maybe this boy has scars which are emotional, but he sure as hell bears physical ones, judging from the bruises that line his arms when he shrugs off the plaid overshirt, but refuses to let go and clutches it tightly as if it’s the only treasure he owns.
Draco doesn’t know how to make the boy feel better, or how to make him stop trembling, so instead he just… talks again. He doesn’t know much else to do, and for some reason this boy leaves an archaic silence that he must fill.
Soon enough, the talk broaches upon Hogwarts, and the boy’s ears perk up, to show he’s interested. It’s a bit like a bunny - Draco wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up in Hufflepuff. “Oh, so you’re at Hogwarts too then?” Draco asks, but the boy remains quiet, just blinking. “Father says it’s become a load of hogwash since his time, and that Dumbledore’s ruined the school with all of this muggle-loving rubbish. In fact, he was determined to send me to Durmstrang, but mother managed to dissuade him.”
That was true enough. Draco’s father had been recommending Durmstrang for a while, declaring that it was the finest magic school in Europe, what with its particular dark arts curriculum. The dark arts weren’t seen as a vile thing there, though his father didn’t seem that fussed about the vile stuff either. Draco thinks that his father can be delusional towards magic and glory sometimes. Lucius Malfoy thinks that all magic leads to glory, because magic is power, no matter how twisted or evil - Draco however, has a differing opinion. See, the magic his Aunt Bella practices is by no means glorifying or illustrious as magic is wont to be.
Aunt Bella’s magic belongs in what muggles call hell.
Clearly, Draco’s mother shared the same opinion because she had managed to persuade his father that Hogwarts was the best place to be, and that Durmstrang was far too long of a journey from home. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy have opposing views on many a things, but the one thing they can always share is their love for their son. No matter how misguided that can sometimes be.
Shaking his head, Draco puts on a smirk. “I wonder what house I’ll be put in. I think I’ll be okay, as long as it’s not Hufflepuff, don’t you think? Mother says Hufflepuffs are often too loyal and helpful for their own good. On the other hand, Gryffindor doesn't seem like the best choice - according to family friends, they’re just a bunch of do-gooders with no brains. Ravenclaw isn’t exactly a bad choice if I’m honest; many witches and wizards of good calibre have stemmed from there. Although, Father says that no house can beat Slytherin. Only the craftiest go there. Mother and Father were both in Slytherin during their time at Hogwarts.” Draco raises his chin and lets out a genuine smile of pride, as Madam Malkin finishes with the two of them. When he’s done, he hopes the boy stays and they can chat for a bit. Just sitting in the shop alone while waiting for his parents will be a complete bore. Speaking of parents…
“What about your parents? He questions, crossing his arms over his chest. The boy freezes, and blinks, before a slow blush fills his cheeks and tinges them a startling maroon. He looks even more beautiful like that, and when he bites his lips, Draco all but swoons. But the way he furrows his thick eyebrows doesn’t look right, nor the way he clenches his trembling hands into small fists.
The boy looks Draco right in the eyes, and they look both sad and angry.
“They’re dead.”
Oh.
Oh no.
He’s misspoke.
How many times has his mother told him to be careful with his words.
“I-”
The boy is off the stool before Draco can even speak another word of apology, and out the door seconds thereafter, with a purposeful stride to his stop, and as Draco runs to the window to watch him, he notices the glimmer to his emerald eyes.
Oh how could he have been such a fool. A chance to make friends outside of his family’s social circle (though it’s true he loves Pansy, Millicent, Theo, Blaise, Greg and Vince enough), and he’s cocked it up.
He didn’t even get to ask for the boy’s name.
***
“Come, Neville, we must hurry! I have an appointment with Arabella today!”
Neville groans at his grandmother’s whining, but promptly shuts his lips when she cranes her neck to glare down at him. That look in itself terrifies him - how she looks at him with so much disappointment. Neville lowers his eyes, as they pass by a boy, with what looks like a butler. Funnily enough, his expression also seems downcast, what with his lowered eyes and mussed up tawny hair, despite the pressed design of his tailored suit. Well, at least he’s not isolated in his misery as well.
As they pass the broom shop, Neville pauses momentarily, and his grandmother seems to feel the tug, as she also halts and begins to glare at him, though that stops when she notices Neville looking at the broom in the display window. She makes a small little coughing noise, and let’s go of Neville’s arm, finally.
“Do you want to go look at the brooms, Neville?” she asks, and Neville swallows. There’s affection there in her voice, but it’s not really for him. It’s for a ghost, who doesn’t exist anymore. A ghost who hasn’t existed since Neville was one.
Neville’s father isn’t exactly dead, but sometimes, Neville can’t help but wish he were. All would be better off that way.
See, Frank Longbottom was a brilliant man - top grade student in Gryffindor at Hogwarts, Quidditch Captain by sixth year, Prefect and Head Boy. Graduated with O’s and E’s in his N.E.W.T.’s and even went on to become an Auror with the ministry; fought during the war and got an Order of Merlin First Class for his bravery.
Strange, how all that bravery amounted to was a broken mind and a long-term stay in St. Mungo’s for the rest of his life, beside his wife, who was just as broken as he.
His nan argues that everything his father did was for Neville’s sake, but if it were, then she and Neville wouldn’t be left mourning people who don’t exist.
Sometimes, on the darkest nights, Neville wishes that it would be better if he had gone insane with them.
“Nan, can I go look at the brooms?” Neville asks, raising his eyes and blinking innocently. He’s learned that he can do most things if he shows interest in his father’s hobbies.
Augusta Longbottom sniffed, and looked down at Neville, before glancing away and peering down the street with those eagle eyes of hers. She posed a terrifying figure, what with her animalistic get-up and the frightening gleam in her eye - Neville doesn’t think he shares anything with his grandmother at all. Maybe Uncle Florean (his mother’s cousin) was more like him; he did have a kinder disposition and tended to the harmless job of selling ice cream at the family business.
“Go on then,” his nan finally acquiesces, with a beleaguered exhale, and Neville beams.
“Thanks, Nan!” he calls, and then he’s walking backwards waving at her, but just as he begins to spin and run, he goes crashing to the floor in an awful heap, a surprised “Ah!” tumbling from his larynx.
“You should really watch where you’re going,” a refined voice drawls, in what sounds like a bored voice. Neville lifts his face for a moment, to stare at a pair of polished shoes, and then keeps going, until he meets set eyes in a sharp face.
“I-I-I-” Neville mumbles, stuttering over the words, and the dark-skinned boy sighs, rolling his eyes. Oh he’s scary, but oh so stunning, that’s for sure.
“Do you lack the capability to speak? Or are you just an idiot?” the boy says, staring down at Neville coldly. Funnily enough, it causes him anxiety, but not as much as he would’ve thought.
Maybe he’s developed an immunity from awful authoritative figures who look at him as if he were nothing but a nuisance they’ve encountered upon an average walk. Oh how dare he hinder their path?
Fuck that.
“Only when it comes to speaking to imbeciles,” Neville mutters quietly, raising himself from the ground, and shaking off the dust from his clothes. It takes him a few moments, before he realises that the dark-skinned boy is still before him, and when he looks up again, abyss eyes are wide, with a tinge of what looks like surprise. They have an eyebrow raised, and lips slightly pursed, as if they’ve been given a sour sweet but can feel the undercurrents of flavour underneath the tangy coating.
They open their mouth, very slowly, and begin to speak; “What, did you just say?”
Neville blinks, pauses, and then blinks again. Oh, had he heard? This was not going to end well, if he had. Yes, Neville might be stocky with an athlete’s body, but he’s too much of a blunderer to move well enough in a fight. He’s going to be squished.
He’s dead.
So, he’ll do what he always does when one threatens him for his big mouth.
“Nothing,” he lies blatantly. “I didn’t say anything.”
The enchanting person (really, he must be part Veela, no one human looks that good), halts, like a scratched record, and then scoffs low and derisive. “You-” he begins, but doesn’t finish when another, higher voice, calls out; “Blaise!”
The boy looks over Neville’s head (which really isn’t that hard, considering he’s tall as a tree), and nods, before glancing to Neville. “You’re lucky that I have prior arrangements,” he states mildly, and then he’s sweeping away, cloak billowing away behind him until he’s nothing but a vision, there and then gone.
Neville lets out the breath he’d held since the beginning of their interaction, and composes himself shakily, before clenching his palms into fists and striding off, away from the broom shop, and straight towards the botany shop he frequents without his grandmother’s knowledge. He just barely misses the pretty boy staring at his back as he struts away.
***
Harry strokes the snow-white owl on his arm, as he makes his way out of Diagon Alley. Hagrid thunders behind him, carrying bags upon bags - he was determined to do all the heavy lifting, insisting that Harry should just relax. It was a strange experience, but really, Harry was glad for it; he was far too used to being the Dursley’s personal shopping trolley.
“So, ‘Arry, how d’ya find Diagon Alley?” Hagrid asks from behind him as they reach the exit. A small girl with bushy hair waits there too, and the two people hovering over her (most likely her parents) hold on to her with a jitter. As the brick wall begins to open and expand, Harry ponders upon the question.
There was only really one answer to that absurd question.
“Well,” Harry muses, making his way through the pub, his owl - Hedwig, he decides - chirping upon his shoulder, and cooing when he rubs her under the chin, “It was great.”
“Yeah?” Hagrid inquires, hoping for confirmation. He’s glowing with a happy blush, and Harry is so grateful for this wild man.