Chapter 14
As excited as Harry is to finally be leaving the hospital wing, he can’t help but fret over what to pack in the bag Professor McGonagall helpfully made out of one of Remus’ handkerchiefs.
It’s ridiculous, of course, because it’s not like Harry has much to pack, anyway. He has a set of what Remus and Madam Pomfrey have both assured him are actual, normal wizarding clothes (no matter how ridiculous they look), the cloak from Remus, a hoard of sweets, pyjamas, and a single book. Well, and the collection of potion phials that Madam Pomfrey insists he takes with him, but he’s fairly sure Remus is going to handle those, because Harry thinks he’ll probably break them. Accidentally. Mostly.
Still, he isn’t sure what to bring to Remus’ house. It’s only for a few nights, or so Remus told him, and at least one of those nights will be occupied by being… er, not quite himself. So, he probably won’t need all the sweets, and Remus says he has clothes he can borrow there.
Harry wishes he’d thought about this more last night when he had extra time to dither. But he’d been sore and cranky, his whole body aching, and the potion Madam Pomfrey had given him after dinner had sucked him into sleep faster than he could fight it.
He can hear Remus talking to Madam Pomfrey just outside his door, which means he’s out of time. Frantically, he stuffs the pyjamas and A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration into the bag, throwing a fistful of fudge flies, cauldron cakes, and the remaining Every Flavour Beans on top.
“Ready to go, Harry?” Remus asks from the doorway just as Harry manages to cinch the top of the bag.
“Yes!” Harry eagerly throws the bag over his good shoulder, trying to ignore the fact he has a bad one, now. He’s already made the bed, fluffing the pillows and smoothing out the sheets even though he’s seen Madam Pomfrey fix all of that with magic, and he spent a good fifteen minutes in the loo fighting with his hair and finding the best angle to tilt his head to obscure his scars.
Remus studies him for a moment before his mouth twitches. Silently, he reaches out and tugs on the sleeve of the stupid robes.
They’re inside out.
Harry groans.
“Not to worry,” Remus soothes. “I’m sure it’s all the style amongst children your age. No, don’t bother fixing it, it’s fine. We’ll be apparating to the cottage as soon as we get to the edge of the grounds, I doubt anyone will see us.”
Madam Pomfrey’s waiting for them in the main hall, fussing with some strange pieces of paper on what must be her desk. She nods approvingly when Remus gestures that he’s scooped up Harry’s prescribed potions, which makes Harry scowl.
The matron tuts over the state of Harry’s robes, but it feels good-natured, not like the razor-sharp scrutiny of Aunt Petunia whenever he dared go out in front of the neighbours, so Harry endures it.
“Any trouble at all, I’m just a Floo call away,” Madam Pomfrey instructs, though Harry isn’t sure who it’s aimed at. She’s in front of him, but he has no idea what a flu call means, or how it might help in the event of trouble. Maybe because Madam Pomfrey helps people who are sick?
“You’ve got plenty of dittany and Pepper-Up? Oh, don’t forget the blood replenisher—Dreamless Sleep—Will you need Skele-Gro, do you think?” She’s definitely talking to Remus now, quizzing him on the contents of his pockets, and he’s suffering it gamely.
Harry, on the other hand, feels more and more light-headed with every potion she lists. It’s not like he can’t guess what they’ll be for, and the fact that she thinks they’ll be needed, the reminder of how bad the transformation is meant to be—
Remus has tried to coach him on what to expect tonight, but Harry has the sneaking suspicion that he isn’t prepared at all.
“Thank you, Poppy,” Remus interrupts, putting a comforting hand on Harry’s arm, mindful of his hurting scars. Harry wonders if Remus can tell how overwhelmed he feels, somehow. “I’m sure we’ll make do fine. I have your potions, and I’m rather adept at healing spells myself. Really, my biggest concern is being able to feed us both. I’m still not much of a cook, I’m afraid.”
Harry perks up, relieved to be back on familiar ground. “I can cook,” he says. “I do—did—for the Dursleys all the time.”
Madam Pomfrey frowns at him, but Remus just squeezes his arm gently.
“Good,” Remus says mildly. “Perhaps you’ll be able to help guide me in the kitchen, then. My speciality is beans on toast, I hope that sounds alright.”
Harry makes an approving noise. Honestly, Remus could take him home and offer him nothing but dry cheese sandwiches and it would sound far more than alright. He’s just glad to be getting out of the infirmary and to be sticking with Remus.
“Well, come along, then, Harry. Hagrid will be meeting us at the doors and escorting us to the edge of the grounds, and we don’t want to keep him waiting. Poppy, I’ll Floo you sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
Madam Pomfrey waves her hand. “Don’t overtax yourself, Remus; a note will suffice, so long as you’re both in one piece. Mr Potter, you behave yourself, now, and look out for Remus for me, there’s a lad.”
“Goodbye, Madam Pomfrey,” Harry says politely.
Remus leads them out of the castle, taking a route they’ve made several times before on their wandering of the grounds, but today’s trip is slow. Remus’ cheeks look sunken, and he lists a little to one side. He doesn’t protest when Harry stations himself on that side, just in case he needs to prop Remus up on the way—although, with how Harry is feeling himself, it’s likely they’d both tip over. The walk feels harder than normal, leaving Harry out of breath and sweating, and he starts hiding a limp just before they reach Hagrid’s.
The giant man is waiting for them by the door to his hut, Fang panting at his side. He doesn’t comment on their sorry state, though his eyes look suspiciously watery when he looks at Harry.
Hagrid and Fang take them through the rest of the grounds, right up to the path that he says leads to Hogsmeade, which is apparently a little wizarding village that the older students get to visit on weekends. Harry squints in that direction and fancies he can see tiny black dots moving around. He imagines those are the students, doing their shopping. He wonders if Remus will take him there one day if he asks very nicely.
“I’ll be seeing you, Harry,” Hagrid sniffs in a quivery voice that quite alarms him. “You take care of yourself, you hear? Don’t—don’t get yourself into trouble or nothin’.”
“It’s alright, Hagrid,” Harry says awkwardly. “It’s only for a few days. I’ll be back soon.”
Hagrid pats him on the back with enough force to almost drive him to his shaking knees, but Remus props him up by the elbow. Hagrid still seems unduly upset, so Harry reaches up—and up and up—to gently pat the giant’s arm, hoping to be comforting.
“You’re a good boy, Harry,” Hagrid says.
Remus clears his throat. “We should be going,” he says quietly. “Thank you for escorting us, Hagrid. Harry, hold tight to my arm, that’s it. This is going to be quite unpleasant.”
The world twists and spins and squeezes, turning Harry inside out and upside down, a horrible swirl of colours and sensations, and then, abruptly, it stops. Harry finds himself on his knees, retching into the snow, feeling like every one of his organs has been displaced and his bum shoulder set on fire. Through the pain, he recognises that this is different snow, and when he manages to look up, he confirms that he isn’t at Hogwarts anymore. Hagrid and Fang and the far-off sights of Hogsmeade are nowhere to be found.
“Sorry about that,” Remus says weakly from somewhere next to him. “Side-Along Apparation. It’s always nasty, particularly when you’re already ill. Can you stand?”
Harry staggers to his feet. Remus is by his side, though he hardly looks any steadier than Harry feels—he’s gone all pale and hunched. Harry sympathises.
“Let’s never do that again,” he advises.
Remus laughs, albeit scratchily. “Unfortunately, despite the many wonders of magic, wizarding transportation is rather limited. Brooms aren’t ideal for long distances, and the only other convenient option is a portkey, which is, in some ways, worse than what we just did.”
This is incredibly disappointing. Magic can make beds and conjure furniture and make people fly, but it can’t get a wizard from point A to point B without shredding their insides? Harry has never been so grateful for the invention of cars.
“Welcome to my home,” Remus says, nodding to the building Harry hadn’t immediately noticed in front of them. “It isn’t much, but you’re more than welcome here.”
It’s a squat, somewhat shabby building, almost sagging under the snow accumulating on and around it. It looks pretty small, the few windows too dark to see into, and even through the snow, there doesn’t seem to be much decoration or garden in the front yard. The blue paint is peeling from the front door. Harry can picture it, maybe, in sunny weather and cleaned up a bit. It probably wouldn’t take that much work, even, certainly nothing he didn’t tackle at the Dursleys’.
“It’s great,” Harry says determinedly.
*
Remus takes him on a tour, such as it is.
The front door opens into a little sitting room, crammed full with an old purple sofa and a set of mismatched armchairs. There isn’t a television—Remus tells him that wizards don’t use them, something to do with magic and electronics not reacting well together, which is interesting enough that Harry intends to ask about it later—but there are a few bookcases pushed tight against the walls, and a decently sized fireplace.
“For the Floo,” Remus says nonsensically.
Off the sitting room is a matchbox kitchen. The cabinets are grey with age and the dining table seems to be standing through willpower (and magic) alone. There’s a door to the back garden, but Remus says there isn’t anything to see out that way, because he hasn’t tackled the overgrowth in several years.
Then there’s a little hallway with three doors: the guest loo, the master bedroom, and a room overflowing with books, papers, and miscellaneous furniture.
Remus looks embarrassed when Harry sticks his head in that room, observing the wreckage. It reminds him of Dudley’s second bedroom a little bit, except he doubts Remus broke all of these items in a temper tantrum.
“I’ve been using it as storage,” Remus says, closing the door to the room firmly. “I hadn’t realised I’d let it become quite so bad of a mess… I’ll have to clean it out and put a bed in it, so you have somewhere to sleep for the next moon. For now, you can take my room. I’ll kip on the settee.”
Harry looks at him, aghast.
“You don’t have to do that,” he protests. “It’s your house! I can take the sofa, honest, I don’t mind.”
And he really doesn’t. The sofa may look well-worn and droopy in the middle, but he bets it’ll be comfortable enough with some pillows and blankets. Besides, the sofa is small, and Remus is tall and lanky. Harry, short and scrawny, will have an easier time curling up on it to sleep.
“Don’t be silly,” Remus says. “You’re a guest. Come on, let’s put your bag away. I’ll show you the room.”
Harry reluctantly trails behind him as they cross the hall. A few steps away from the junk room is the master bedroom, which has a double bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and not much else. There’s a half-bath through the door in the corner, but it isn’t exactly pristine, nowhere near Aunt Petunia’s standards. Harry goggles at the calcium spots on the sink, wondering if getting rid of them with magic can really be that hard.
“Remus, I really don’t need to take your room,” Harry insists, feeling nervous. He knows he has Remus’ express permission, that it was his idea in the first place, but as Harry gingerly places his bag on the bed, he feels like he’s doing something very, very wrong. “I can sleep anywhere.”
“And you’ll sleep here,” Remus says calmly. He isn’t getting frustrated even though Harry’s deliberately questioning him, which eases some of the anxiety. “Don’t worry about it, Harry. I can manage one night in the living room. That reminds me, let me show you the cellar.”
The cellar, it turns out, is also accessed through the kitchen. Harry doesn’t know how he missed it on his first way through, but as Remus takes him back through the house and stops in front of the wall, Harry can suddenly see another door. It’s nondescript except for the heavy locks and bolts keeping it closed.
Remus swishes his wand a few times and the locks spring open, and then he does a more aggressive jab and the air in front of the door wavers, like a wave of heat rising up. The edges of the door come into better focus. Only then does Remus reach out a hand and open the door, revealing… darkness.
Harry stares at it, stomach dropping to his shoes.
Hidden room kept sinisterly dark, locks on the little door. This is where Remus intends to put Harry for the full moon? And—and it makes sense, of course. Have to keep him away from others, have to make sure he doesn’t get out and hurt anyone. He knows from last time that he will hurt someone, even if he doesn’t want to, because he doesn’t know what he’s doing when he’s like that; he isn’t Harry, not really. He isn’t human, isn’t normal. Isn’t safe.
And isn’t that what Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia have been worried about all this time? They know magic’s real, know that Harry can do things, freaky things, even when he doesn’t mean to. Maybe they thought it’d be safest if they kept him locked up, away from normal people he might hurt. Because as soon as he did get out, as soon as he found a way out of that cupboard, he mauled Dudley.
It makes sense. Harry should be kept in these little rooms if it means protecting people. He knows that, now, and he’s okay with it—or he can be, he will be, he just… he just has to work on it. He’ll prove it, to Remus, to the Headmaster, to the Dursleys. He’ll show that he understands, that he’s willing to lock himself up to help people.
He just needs a minute, that’s all. Just to make his feet start moving and get his funny breathing under control.
“Lumos.”
Light flares from the tip of Remus’ wand, chasing the shadows away from the cellar door. As the darkness recedes, the stairs become visible, wooden and dubiously sturdy, and the space opens up into a room just smaller than the sitting room, with high ceilings and plenty of floor space.
Harry breathes a little easier and immediately flushes to the roots of his hair, mortified by his stupid overreaction.
Stiffly, he moves down a few of the steps, hanging over the rail to get a better look at the room. He feels Remus slowly follow, the movement of his lit wand making the shadows slide along the walls. A step above Harry, Remus points his wand at the ceiling and the light explodes outwards, a ball flying up to the ceiling and hovering there, keeping the whole cellar bright.
“Not very pleasant, I’m afraid,” Remus says.
Looking at the place, Harry can’t help but agree.
There’s a post in the middle of the room with disturbing markings on the bottom half. Reluctantly, Harry thinks he recognises teeth marks and long, parallel gouges in the wood that remind him of Aunt Marge’s dog, Ripper, clawing at the tree Harry had climbed up to get away from him. More scratch marks scar the flooring, accompanied by unsettling dark stains.
It feels like a prison, albeit not as claustrophobic as his cupboard.
Harry hates it.
Remus makes an uncomfortable noise, clearing his throat. “We could try to make it more… habitable, but most furniture and items don’t tend to, ah, survive the transformation. But perhaps a rug, or some blankets…” He trails off, sounding unconvinced.
Harry thinks it would make him feel better if the place didn’t look so depressing, but… Remus has been a werewolf for much longer than him. Surely, he knows what’s best. If he thought it was feasible to have a comfortable place to transform, he would have one already. He must have a reason for this place being the way that it is.
“How long until the moon?” Harry asks, finding his voice unusually quiet. He can’t tear his eyes away from that post.
“We still have some hours yet,” Remus says bracingly, nudging his shoulder. “Let’s head back upstairs and see what I have in the cupboards, hm? We can have a look at my books and see if there’s anything that catches your eye.”
*
True to his word, Remus makes them beans on toast for lunch, with a towering glass of juice for Harry, who’s starting to feel unbearably thirsty. It’s far from an elaborate meal, but Harry still watches closely, fascinated by the minor—but telling—differences of a wizarding kitchen.
Remus explains that his cottage isn’t fully wizarding, not really, because it was built by muggles, so the plumbing and electric all work mostly the same. He has lightbulbs and electricity, but it doesn’t hold up so well with all the magic, so he has to be careful. Remus is only the second wizard to live here, so most of the enchantments are his own, except for the cellar, which the previous owner spelled and warded to the gills.
“Not sure why,” Remus says. “She was a nice enough witch, but I suppose she might have been conducting experiments or keeping Dark objects downstairs and needed the security. Never did get the story out of her. Not that I tried too hard, of course. I was just out of school and needed somewhere safe to go. The pre-warded cellar sold me on the place.”
The cellar is therefore a complicated mix of magic, mostly of Remus’ and the previous owner’s, but also the Headmaster’s, since he apparently came by sometime before Harry to make sure everything was up to snuff.
“The rest of it’s all mine, though,” Remus finishes, handing Harry his plate. “I spent several months glued to one of your mother’s advanced charms books, trying to figure out the laundry and kitchen spells, as well as basic protection and obfuscation magic. I might still have the book here, actually.”
After they eat, Remus trawls through his bookshelves, humming and hawing over their contents while Harry eagerly bounces at his side, reading the occasional title. Finally, Remus makes a victorious noise and slides a slim book off the shelf, brushing off the dust.
“Here we are!” he says, handing it over.
Harry handles it with great care, running his thumb down the coarse spine. The cover is green with faded gold lettering: Charmed Living: Bewitching the Family and Home. Harry eases open the cover and finds the pages yellowed and torn with age and use, and, right on the first page, a handwritten note.
Property of Lily Evans Potter. If found, please return.
“She left notes in the margins,” Remus says quietly. “Tips on wand movements and pronunciations, ideas for improving the charms. Incredibly smart woman, your mother.”
Harry turns the page gingerly and finds the index. He reads it carefully, overwhelmed. Decoration charms, silencing charms, secret keeping, disillusionment, anti-apparation…Watching Professor McGonagall turn tissues into travel bags and a chocolate frog into a melty teacup is one thing—one incredible, amazing thing—but somehow Harry hadn’t grasped just how much magic can accomplish. There are charms to stop people from stealing his things, charms to make people happy or sad, charms to change the weather.
The things listed in this book look genuinely useful, a quality of magic Harry hasn’t really seen yet.
“It’s advanced magic,” Remus says, watching him admire the book. “Nothing you’ll be able to cast for some years yet, but it’s yours, if you want it. I’d say you have more claim to it than me, anyway. I might have some other books on charms, maybe an old schoolbook… something you can start with, before delving into those Mastery level spells.”
“Yes, please,” Harry says, hugging his mother’s book to his chest. He’s never had anything of his parents before and it’s making him feel awfully unsteady.
Remus smiles at him, eyes just this side of sad. “Feel free to pick anything from my shelves,” he invites. “I have a large collection on a variety of things. I had a reputation as a bookworm, and my friends tended to buy me books on whatever my interest of the term was for holidays and birthdays.”
“I like books, too,” Harry offers. “I mostly just read anything Mr Alden recommended, though, I didn’t really pick out anything… Oh, er, except for the one on wolves.” He ducks his head, pretending to be occupied by his mother’s book again.
“Wolves?”
“After—After I got bit. I thought it was strange, so I wanted to—I dunno. Learn about them? See why it… why it left me alone, after. I never did get to read the book, though, ‘cos then it was Halloween. But I guess it wouldn’t have mattered, huh? ‘Cos it wasn’t a real wolf… Oh, no,” Harry groans. “I left the book in my—at the Dursleys’! They’ll never know to bring it back to Mr Alden!”
“Who’s Mr Alden?” Remus asks. He’s perched in one of the armchairs now, a steadily growing pile of books at his feet. They look a bit like textbooks, maybe, if textbooks were brightly coloured and had… moving pictures on the cover?
“The librarian at my school,” Harry says miserably. “He’s nice, like you. He doesn’t mind if I return the books a little damaged ‘cos of Dudley, but I always return them! He’s going to wonder where I’ve gone.”
That’s a thought, actually. Where does Mr Alden think Harry’s gone? And Mrs Figg, and Ms Mason, and Bethany? Only a few of them actually like Harry, but surely, they’ll notice that he’s not in class or at Privet Drive anymore?
Maybe the Dursleys have spread some horrible story about him, or, worse, maybe they told the truth, that Harry hurt Dudley so badly and had to be taken away for everyone’s protection. Maybe they’ve told it to everyone and now everyone hates him, thinks he’s an evil little boy who likes hurting others, just like his aunt and uncle always said.
Harry bets Ms Mason believes that easily. He bets she told all the teachers about it, bragged that she was right about him all along.
Does Mr Alden believe it? Does he regret ever being nice to Harry, giving him books to read, sharing his wife’s biscuits?
Does Mrs Figg? Does she think about all times she babysat him, wondering if she missed the signs of his being nasty and evil?
Does Harry believe it?
“Maybe I can visit your Mr Alden to apologise for the book and assure him you’re safe,” Remus says. He says it so calmly, so easily, as if any of this is normal, as if any of this is okay.
“Why, so you can ask him questions about me behind my back, like with the Dursleys?” Harry snaps, still reeling from the thought that everyone back home (not home, never home, is it home? Where is his home?) thinks he’s a monster, because maybe he is.
As soon as he spits out the words, Harry is horrified. He stumbles back, mouth open, staring at Remus. He almost trips over the rug, almost drops his mother’s book.
Remus has been nothing but kind and nice, inviting Harry into his home, giving him his mother’s things, letting him borrow as many books as he likes—and here Harry is throwing it back at him, making it out like Remus is trying to be sneaky, trying to spy on him. Harry didn’t even mean it, not really, not anymore, but he still said it, and he doesn’t know why! It just came out without warning, a flash of irritation amidst his spiralling worry, and he took it out on the one person who’s done the most for him, ever.
“I’m sorry!” he cries. “I’m sorry, Remus. I didn’t mean it. I promise I didn’t.”
For no reason at all, his eyes sting, like he’s going to cry. He has no idea what’s happening, why he’s like this.
“It’s alright, Harry,” Remus says, gentle and forgiving, and that just makes his eyes sting worse. “I’m not upset. I understand why you might think that. I did go behind your back to see the Dursleys, and I’m sorry about that. I should have spoken to you about it.”
Harry shakes his head. He keeps having to swallow quickly to be able to breathe.
“I’m not mad about that anymore,” he swears. “I don’t know why I—I didn’t—”
Remus leans forward, like he might get out of his chair, but rethinks it. He stays seated but raises a hand as if trying to soothe Harry from afar.
“Do you remember that I told you the full moon affects you even before the transformation?” he says. Harry clamps his mouth shut and nods, trying to stop skittering back. “It can affect your emotions, Harry, that’s all. It heightens them, brings them closer to the surface. I myself often become irritable around others.” Remus smiles wanly, as if that isn’t ridiculous, as if Harry could ever imagine Remus being irritable.
“I’m really not mad,” Harry says miserably.
“I believe you. No hard feelings for anything said leading up to the full moon, okay? New rule.”
Harry huffs a laugh. “Okay,” he agrees. “If you—If you meant it, about talking to Mr Alden… uh, thank you. I guess I can’t see him, huh?”
Remus hesitates.
“I understand,” Harry hastens to add. “It’s not safe, right? Like you said.”
Remus pulls a face, looking conflicted. “It’s not… quite like that,” he says. “As you pointed out to me, there’s no significant risk to others outside of the full moon. I don’t believe you’d be a danger to your teacher, Harry, but I don’t think it’s safe for you.”
“Uh—why?”
“Because there’s a chance someone from our world will notice,” Remus says. “They might report something to the Ministry, either about your being a werewolf or about your removal from your relatives’ house, or they might try to follow you, if they wish you harm.”
This is baffling to Harry. Other than the Dursleys, why would anyone in particular want to hurt him? The worst thing he’s ever done is hurt Dudley; other than that, he mostly keeps out of peoples’ way. Maybe because he’s a werewolf now? Do wizards make a habit of going after werewolf children? Maybe that’s why Remus is always so worried that someone at Hogwarts will see them on the grounds.
Abruptly, Remus bows forwards and puts his head in his hands. Harry thinks he understands.
“Oh. This is another one of those things I don’t know yet, huh?”
“Forgive me, Harry,” Remus mumbles into his palms. “May I ask for one more day before I tell you everything? I know I’ve put it off for far too long already, but the full moon will be hard enough tonight. Will you let me wait, at least until tomorrow?”
“You’ll tell me everything then?” Harry asks suspiciously. “No more secrets?”
Remus looks agonised but nods anyway.
“Okay, then,” Harry says. He doesn’t like secrets, doesn’t like not knowing, but he also doesn’t like how wretched Remus looks right now. Besides, if Harry is going to work up a fit of good, proper anger about whatever Remus is keeping from him, he’d like to be better-rested and less sickly feeling, not wracked with pain and feeling a fever threatening. “Hey, Remus?”
He looks from his hands cautiously, as if expecting Harry to start yelling. Impatient, Harry tries to convey how much he is not going to do any such thing. Yelling at Remus just because he’s trying to help—however frustrating it is—reminds him too much of Uncle Vernon, anyway.
“I really did mean to read Mr Alden’s book on wolves. I want to understand things. I know it wasn’t a normal wolf, but do you have anything on werewolves?”
Remus frowns at him. “I have one or two books,” he says uncertainly. “But, well. One’s from my da, very outdated, and the other was written under the authorisation of the Ministry. Most books you’ll find on werewolves are several decades old, back from when werewolves were considered mindless beasts even outside of the full moon. Anything newer is likely still biased, written by those who have never met a werewolf.”
“That’s stupid,” Harry scowls. “How do people who’ve just been bitten learn what to expect? I got lucky, having you around. I bet not everyone does.”
For some reason, this makes Remus look away, pretending to study the bookshelves. Harry can tell he’s pretending because his eyes don’t move at all.
“You can borrow the books,” Remus finally says after a long moment. “I’ll have to dig them out of the spare room. Just remember as you read them not to trust everything they say, and you can ask me any questions. For now, let’s see if there’s any other books you like. I’m sure Madam Pomfrey won’t mind if you bring a few back with you.”
Harry lets Remus start suggesting titles, pulling books off the shelves, brushing off the dust, and holding them out for his appraisal. By the end of it, Harry ends up with his mother’s book, a rudimentary Charms textbook that Remus says was his back in the day, a book of common magical garden plants, and a collection of children’s stories.
Cheerfully, Harry wonders if he’ll be able to fit everything in his bag when he goes back to Hogwarts.