Chapter 4
“I’ve had five of the guest rooms refurbished,” his dad tells him excitedly, throwing open the doors to Potter Manor. “You said your favorite color was green, so I had them all done up in different shades of it- Jade, shamrock, emerald, parakeet, juniper- You can choose from any one of them. The library has been cleaned out, and I’ve replaced all the worn children’s classics with brand new editions. And in the sitting room, I’ve got all your birthday presents lined up-”
“Birthday presents?” Harry whispers.
“Oh yes, I know your eleventh birthday isn’t for another ten months, but these are for the nine years that I missed!” his dad says, mistaking Harry’s question for confusion instead of disbelieving awe. “Come on, let’s open them first. If there’s anything you don’t like, I can have it returned straightaway and we’ll get you something else.”
The offer itself doesn’t make any sense, because how could Harry possibly not like a gift when it was his dad who gave it to him? Regardless, by the end of the unwrapping session, Harry is sitting amidst a pile of a dozen Exploding Snap packs, a Gobstone set made of pure silver, a collection of books on magical creatures, a book bag from a wizarding designer brand, ten pairs of fancy wizarding robes, a photo album of his mum that spans half a decade, a pet owl with snowy white feathers, a magical cloak passed down through the Potter line that makes you invisible, and finally, a real life racing broom.
“Do you like them?” his dad asks, biting his lip in a way that would almost suggest he was nervous. “Are the robes too garish? I wasn’t sure, but the shop clerk insisted they were all the rage with kids these days-”
Harry throws himself at his dad and hugs him tightly, half because he feels like this is the only right way to express his overwhelming gratitude, and half to hide his overflowing tears because he doesn’t want his dad to think he’s a pansy, as Uncle Vernon would say. At first, when his dad just remains frozen in place, Harry wonders if he shouldn’t have gone in for the hug after all, but then his dad is returning the embrace, letting out something that sounds an awful lot like a shaky laugh.
“Do you want to try out the broom?” his dad asks eagerly. “It might be a bit shoddy. It’s actually the very one I used back in my school days. I did consider buying you a top-of-the-line model, but I thought- Well, actually, I don’t know what I was thinking, it was stupid, I really should have just bought you a brand new one, in fact, we can go to Diagon and pick one out right now-”
“Dad,” says Harry, and it’s with the choked gasp on his dad’s part that Harry realizes this is the first time he’s ever referred to his dad as such beyond the privacy of his mind. Harry takes the broomstick in his hands. “It’s perfect.”
The moment Harry’s feet lifts off the ground, he knows that this is it, this is what he was made for. Flying comes as naturally to him as breathing, and it’s wonderful, the feel of the autumn wind cutting through his hair as he skims past the grass, taking the broom higher up to touch the bleeding leaves, going higher still, taking his hands off the broom, imagining he is a bird with wings. A strong gale catches him and Harry lets it steer him away, falling in pace with the wind’s movements before breaking off and hurtling straight down at a sharp angle. Adrenaline shoots through his system at the sharp drop, the ground nears faster and faster but Harry isn’t afraid, he knows how to time this, it’s in his bones, in his blood, and all he has to do is-
A sudden force slams into him and throws him into the air. From where Harry hovers awkwardly in the sky, he watches as the broomstick makes its smooth descent onto the ground.
“Sorry, sorry, I-” his dad gasps, hurrying forward. His wand is outstretched in his hand, and Harry is willing to bet that it’s a levitating spell of some sort that tore him off his broom. “I thought you were going to get hurt, I thought- I’m sorry, Harry,” he says again weakly, and slowly sets Harry upon the ground. “I don’t think I ever realized how dangerous flying was. I don’t…” His dad shuts his eyes, and gets on one knee to be eye-level with him. “You have to know you mean the world to me, Harry. You’re the only one I have left anymore. I don’t think I could- No, I know I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if something happened to you.”
His dad is crying. Harry doesn’t know what to do. He also doesn’t quite understand the sob that is building in his own throat, but this, he thinks, might just be what the foreign concept called love is.
“I don’t think I can let you fly anymore,” his dad says, sounding devastated. “I’m only now remembering all the times I flew myself into trees or- Oh Merlin, if you were to start playing Quidditch- The number of Bludgers I took to my head at that age, it’s a wonder I lived to graduate at all.”
Harry is quite disappointed that he won’t get to fly anymore, because even if it weren’t for how Ron managed to get him obsessed with Quidditch over the summer, the brief taste of flying he experienced just now was exhilarating enough to have him wanting to do it forever. But it’s out of love for Harry that his dad is asking this of him, and so of course Harry will listen. The snug, fond feeling of knowing an adult cares about his safety outweighs the ecstasy of flying by far.
“Promise me you’ll stay away from dangers, Harry. Say you won’t ever partake in an action that could get you harmed.”
“I promise,” Harry says, fully intending to keep his word.
His dad finds for him the best tutors that money can buy; Both Muggle ones and magical ones. The former because it’s important to retain his mother’s culture and her roots, and the latter because his dad doesn’t want Harry stressing too much at Hogwarts over something as trivial as grades.
The throwaway manner in which his dad speaks of schoolwork makes Harry suspect that his dad was just the naturally gifted type. Harry is proven correct when, during one of their usual story sessions regarding his dad and his mum, his dad casually mentions how his mum got furious with him for having tied with her for top marks of that year despite him having hardly studied for anything at all. This only pushes Harry to soak up every bit of information his wizarding tutors have to offer, because he really doesn’t want to disappoint his dad by getting less than outstanding grades.
Unfortunately, more often than not, his wizarding tutors will end up gaping at Harry and his lightning scar, to which his dad will always respond by kicking them out of the house. Eventually, his dad decides to teach Harry himself, which makes Harry feel both happy and apologetic, the latter because obviously his dad has loads of other things to be dealing with, too.
Case in point would be the much older girl that starts visiting them almost every day throughout January. Sometimes she’ll be sporting wild brown curls, and at others, her hair will be choppy and colored neon purple. Dora is her name, Harry finds out, and his dad is helping her with very important legal business of some kind. Then there are the list of charities his dad is always sorting through on the couch, as well as the multiple businesses and foundations and political correspondences. It means the world to Harry that, despite being so busy all the time, his dad always manages to make time for him.
For Harry’s eleventh birthday, and also in honor of him receiving his letter to Hogwarts, his dad takes him and Ron to a Muggle cinema, which both Harry and Ron are equally fascinated by; The latter because he’s never been to a Muggle cinema before, and the former because he’s never been to a Muggle cinema before. Then they spend the rest of the afternoon in Diagon Alley being allowed to buy practically whatever they touch. Ron gets himself a year’s supply of sweets, multiple Quidditch posters, and a brand new Wizarding Chess set. Harry gets himself a small book on potions.
And then, at the end of the night, when Ron has been dropped back off at the Burrow, his dad brings him to a Muggle conservatory in the countryside to gaze up at the stars. He points out Uncle Sirius’s star for him, telling Harry that Uncle Sirius is looking after Harry even from afar. He loved Harry so much, his dad says. They all did.
As September nears, their topic of conversation starts centering around Hogwarts even more so than usual. His dad starts getting all excited again, retelling his tales of adventure and mischief. He speaks of the fireplace in the Gryffindor Common Room, always so perfectly warm whether it is spring or winter; Of the sight of the sun rising from the Black Lake, as seen from Gryffindor Tower, and how it is something to die for; And of course, of how it was in the Gryffindor Common Room that Lily Evans asked him out for the first time.
Harry’s dad also tells him to look for the carvings beneath the Gryffindor beds as he moves up the dormitories, because every year without fail, his dad and his friends carved their initials onto the bed frames. It’s a tradition Harry should continue, his dad proposes, he should do it with Ron, who will certainly be a Gryffindor if his family’s track record is anything to go by. That brings them to the matter of the previous Potters’ Hogwarts Houses- All of them proud Gryffindors, through and through.
Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor. All Harry is hearing is the name of the House he must get into. He’ll get himself into Gryffindor no matter what it takes, because he just knows he won’t be able to bear disappointing his dad.
Mrs Tonks, Mr Tonks, and Dora come over for dinner during Easter. Mrs Tonks is Uncle Sirius’s cousin, and with a temper to show for it, according to Dad. Dad and Mrs Tonks get into a fierce argument over the baked potatoes of all things, but Harry must be missing something here, because soon, words like legal power and political target are being thrown around. Dora joins in on the fight, her hair turning a fierce red as she takes Dad’s side. It’s all a very foreign situation that Harry isn’t at all used to, because while he’s had plenty of experience dealing with people who are screaming at him, he has no idea what to do when it’s each other that everyone is screaming at. Harry climbs out of his chair, deciding the best thing he can do is hide. He crawls under the table and claps his hands to his ears, wishing fiercely that by the time he lifts them, everyone will be happy again.
Eventually, they do quiet down. Harry shrinks into himself when the tablecloth lifts, but it’s only Dora coming down to greet him with a half-forced jovial tone of, “Wotcher, Harry.”
“Pass the potatoes, James?”
“Certainly, Andromeda.”
Their voices are stilted, but they seem to be holding back their tempers… For Harry’s sake. Harry doesn’t know what to feel about that.
“Sorry about that, kid,” Dora is telling him later, as she and her parents are preparing to leave. “I know you probably didn’t understand most of it, but basically… Well, your dad convinced me to consider a career change, and Mum’s not a fan of the idea. She’ll come around, though. She’ll understand that I have to do this.” She gives hair a ruffle, and then she’s gone.
“I love you so much. Write every day, alright? I’ll send Hedwig back with loads of sweets every time,” Dad promises him. The Hogwarts Express gives another sharp whistle, signaling its imminent departure.
“I love you, too,” says Harry, wrapping his arms around his dad and squeezing with all his might. Don’t forget about me, he wants to convey. Promise not to forget, and I swear, I’ll come back a son you can be proud of.
“Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford.” Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, turns back to Harry and sticks his nose up high in the air. “But of course you’re making friends with blood-traitors, Potter, what else could one expect?”
Harry let the insult pass. He’s dealt with worse bullies before, and he really doesn’t want to get into a fight on a day that’s meant to be special for them all.
“That father of yours has got some nerve, Potter. Threatening my family’s rightful seat in the government? Finding loopholes around the law so he can get away with breaking it?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry snaps, rising from his seat so quickly that Malfoy stumbles back in alarm. “My dad is a great man. If he’s questioning your family’s authority, then it’s because he doesn’t think foul gits like you and your parents should be in charge.” Harry has no idea what Malfoy meant by any of what he said, but rest assured, he is not about to let someone insult his dad to his face and get away with it.
“How dare you?” Malfoy shrieks. “Don’t you know who I am? You’re going to pay for this, Potter, you and your father both!”
He turns to stomp away, but Harry sends a hex after him. The Jelly-Legs Jinx is a simple but useful little trick that has Malfoy flopping around like an idiot in the corridors of the train. Ron guffaws at the sight, which is an added bonus. Harry likes making Ron happy.
Hogwarts Castle is every bit as grand and glorious as Dad made it out to be. Harry feels an altogether different kind of magic upon seeing the reflection of the castle in the lake stretch out into the great structure itself; A magic that flutters rapidly in his heart, welcoming him home. This is where he belongs.
“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school,” Professor McGonagall tells them, once they are standing outside the Great Hall. “I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting.”
Her eyes fall upon Harry, and something in them softens. She looks a bit close to tears, Harry thinks, but before he can think too much on that, she is gone, and then, after being accosted by the school ghosts, they’re being called in for the Sorting.
“Potter, Harry!”
Explosive whispers spread throughout the student body. Harry is well aware of how Magical Britain has been perceiving him in the past decade, but right now, the only thing on his mind is the matter of his new House. Gryffindor, he chants in his head, Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor.
“Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, my goodness, yes… But there it is. A desperate, near-obsessive thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting... So where shall I put you?”
Gryffindor, Gryffindor, Gryffindor.
“Gryffindor, eh? Are you sure?” the Hat asks amusedly. “And you would do anything to achieve this, yes?”
Anything, Harry replies back. Anything and everything for Gryffindor. No matter what it takes.
“Well, if you’re so certain about that…” the Hat laughs, as though having spotted a joke Harry didn’t catch. “Better be… SLYTHERIN!”