Harry Potter was not sure which of the four members of his family was more upset about the way things had played out. The Dursleys had been invited to attend a party at Nottingham Racecourse by an important client of Mr. Dursley's drill company. Families were invited to attend, and Mr. Dursley had every intention of adhering to all social expectations, telling his secretary to RSVP for his family. In Vernon Dursley's mind, that family included himself, his wife Petunia, and their son Dudley. It did not and would not ever include his wife's nephew, Harry, orphaned at one year old and left on their doorstep "as if it were the 1800's." An odd child from the start, Harry was provided the basic essentials, purely out of obligation. He was not considered part of the family, which all four of the people living inside Number Four Privet Drive understood and accepted without question.
The trouble was, Mr. Dursley had been unaware that the exact number of family members had been requested on the invitation, and his secretary, who had only been with the company for a few weeks, just so happened to have met Harry recently when Vernon had been forced to bring the boys in with him on a Saturday to prepare a presentation that had gotten mixed up by a now-fired co-worker. Petunia was set to meet with her ladies club that day, and neither one of them wanted her to suffer the negative social consequences of cancelling at the last minute. So it was that Harry got to sit around at his Uncle Vernon's office, essentially ignoring Dudley, who complained for most of their time there, just taking in the new environment. The secretary, Sally, had popped in to help with making copies, and Harry happened to smile hello at her. She had waved back with a curious smile of her own, then disappeared into a copy room. When Uncle Vernon called Dudley over to help him lift and sort binders (he would never trust Harry with something so incredibly important), Harry tiptoed into the copy room in the interest of watching the machine at work, and ended up chatting pleasantly with Sally for the rest of their time there.
When Sally had been told to respond for Mr. Dursley's family, she had done so by indicating that there would be four attending the party. She had not even questioned it, as her conversation with Harry made clear that he had been living with the Dursleys for the past seven years. Managing somehow to control himself when eventually learning this, Mr. Dursley had saved his rage for when he got home, lamenting to the kitchen the situation they now found themselves in. If they were to leave Harry behind, as was always intended, someone might question where the other child was, which would be incredibly embarrassing, no matter what excuse they might cook up. But taking him along was very nearly equally chancy, considering Harry's… his kind, which the Dursleys did not speak of, and Harry never understood. The decision had been made that Harry would go with them.
Now, the afternoon of the party, Mr. Dursley was fuming silently, making repeated trips to the liquor cabinet, closing it almost as soon as he opened it in an impressive display of self-control; Mrs. Dursley was tidying maniacally, muttering words under her breath that Harry could not make out; Dudley would complain every five minutes, only to have the same explanation be told to him each time; and Harry, while somewhat curious about what a horserace was like, just sat looking out the window, feeling disappointed. He had actually been hoping they would allow him to stay at home, on his own—something he had never been allowed to do. Before the invitation debacle, the plan had been for him to visit Mrs. Figg, the woman who usually watched him at times like this. She was an odd woman, with many cats, whose house made Harry feel strange each time he was there. Having cancelled with her, Harry was hoping for a last-minute change of heart from the Dursleys about bringing him. He even considered trying to do something that would dissuade them from wanting him there, but thought the better of it. His aunt and uncle reacted rather intensely to any behaviour from him that they considered out of the ordinary.
Once, when he was five, Harry had checked each torch in the house for fresh batteries, taken large candles out of a box from his cupboard under the stairs, and prepared a box of matches, all arranged very nicely on the coffee table in the living room. Aunt Petunia had just started scolding him for trying to start a fire when the electricity shut off and stayed off for the next twelve hours. Last year, a girl had moved into his class from Germany and did not speak any English. She seemed understandably lost during the school day, until Harry tried communicating with her. By the end of the day, she had started to understand what was being said to her, and was even using short sentences in English, albeit heavily accented. When the teacher had commented to Aunt Petunia on how remarkable a job Harry had done in helping the new girl become acclimated, his aunt rewarded him by making him stay in cupboard, silent, for a whole day. There were other scattered examples throughout his childhood, enough of which to convince Harry that it would be better to just go along with today's flow of events.
"And for you, sir?" the waiter asked Harry at the lunch table later, having already been given orders from Mr. Dursley for the rest of the family. Harry had been resigned to let the bread and water suffice, but the young man was looking at him expectantly. By the look on Uncle Vernon's face, he only now realized that he was so used to treating Harry like empty space that he was doing it here instead of working to keep up appearances.
"Yes, Harry. Decided, yet, have you?" Uncle Vernon asked with an attempted smile—something he was never good at faking and usually only displayed if he had beaten someone at something.
"Oh. Erm…" Harry quickly scanned the menu, which he had ignored until now. "Okay, erm… I'll have the crab legs. I've always wanted to try those."
The waiter nodded and had Harry select from side dishes before moving on to the next family. They were seated outdoors at a large, round table, twelve total seats occupied. Harry tried not to smile too broadly. He had never been out to eat, and was only aware of what to do from having seen characters doing it on television. The food was excellent, and Harry had no trouble essentially ignoring the conversation around him and enjoying the meal.
"Well Vernon! I hear you're a novice to the races!" a man somehow even more boisterous than his uncle bellowed, throwing an arm around Mr. Dursley who, to Harry's surprise, did not shrug it off.
"Oh, I don't know about that, Richard," Vernon said in an almost playful tone. "My family has a keen eye for animals. My sister breeds bulldogs, you know. We come from a long line of—"
"That so? Well then, who's your favourite for the first race, then?"
As conversation continued, Harry came to realize that this man was the important client who had invited everyone here, which explained why they were all laughing at his unfunny jokes and brushing off his barbs and insults as though they were pleasantries. The men all went off to place bets, and the women and any children went to their seats, which Harry found to be rather misogynistic for this day and age. Aunt Petunia, however, seemed to revel in it, and Harry figured if it made her happy, who was he to judge.
They had seats very near the starting line, where Harry could see the jockeys making preparations for the race, the horses being led to their starting gates. The horses looked bigger than Harry thought they would, but perhaps that was only because the jockeys were so small. Uncle Vernon and the rest of the men returned, each comparing tickets with each other and their wives, going on about how and why they felt their picks were the smartest choices for the race. The man next to Harry, who already smelled heavily of alcohol, showed Harry his ticket.
"Whadda you think, lad? Think I've got a chance? Couldn't resist the odds!"
Harry looked. The man had chosen a horse named Modest Hope to win the race. Harry looked at the name, then looked up to the starting gate, then back down to the ticket. His eyes glazed over a bit as he stared at the names. Again, he looked up at the horses, then back down at the list of names.
"Oh. Well… I dunno. I feel like Golden Torque is going to win," Harry told the man, who did not miss a beat.
"Golden Torque, at eight to one odds? Well yeah, that's the safe bet, but you can't really win until you reach big!"
Harry smiled up at him and shrugged. Soon, the race was off. Harry had a somewhat difficult time seeing over the heads of the adults in front of him, especially once they stood up during the last lap. It was only when the man next to him reacted that Harry understood the results. At first, the man reacted dejectedly, but then shifted gears towards Harry.
"You won!" he said excitedly, looking over to Uncle Vernon. "Did your dad bet on—no, I suppose not," he finished, as Uncle Vernon was already tearing up his ticket, looking disgusted. "Oi! You should listen to your son next time!" the man called to Uncle Vernon who, unfortunately, heard him. "He picked the winner!"
Uncle Vernon looked briefly at Dudley, who shook his head furiously, then at Harry, who avoided eye contact. Some of the men began making their way to place their bets for the next race, leaving Harry to wonder if those who stayed in their seats had already placed bets, or had already lost all of their betting money on the first race. The man next to Harry made to leave, but stopped.
"Okay, genius, what's your prediction for the next one, then?" he asked jovially, showing Harry the list of horses for the next race.
Harry read through the names three times, a furrow appearing at his brow. "Do… do you have to bet on the winner?" he asked. "Is that the only thing you can bet on, or can you bet on a certain horse for a certain position?"
The man looked at Harry a little sideways. "Yes, you can specify which and which, but not many people do it. Why?"
"Well, the favorite is Gold Desert, right?" Harry asked pointing to the name, which had an incredibly obvious one to four odds.
"Yes, almost certain to win," the man said.
"Okay, so that's a terrible bet, but I feel like this one," Harry pointed to the name, "Cal's Boy." "Is going to come in at fourth place. And it has 25 to one odds, so that would be 'going big,' right?" He smiled at the man, who smiled back.
"It's not 25 to one when he comes in fourth, but yeah it's still a big bet. Why him, though?"
Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Same reason as last time, I suppose. It just really feels like he's going to come in fourth."
The man smiled, half nodding and half shaking his head, then went off to make his bet. When Harry turned to Aunt Petunia, she did not hold back from giving him a fierce look of warning, even though he had no idea why.
Twenty minutes later, the man next to Harry exploded in triumph, going so far as to grab Harry around the shoulders and shake him with vigorous glee. Seemingly embarrassed at accosting a youth, he leaned across Harry to explain himself to Mr. Dursley in a whisper-scream.
"Your son just won me 2,000 quid!"
Mr. Dursley's eyes popped wide open. "Two thousand? How?" He looked back and forth from Harry to the man.
"Picked the most random bet I've ever seen, and for some reason I went along with it. That's two now he's chosen correctly!"
Harry watched his uncle. His mind seemed to process this information and move at a speed which Harry had never in his life seen happen before. Aunt Petunia whipped her head around to her husband, and they exchanged looks, some kind of silent conversation passing between them. Vernon looked to the ticket, already halfway torn in his hands, up to the horses, to Harry, to the man, and back to Petunia.
"Budge over," he said to her, gesturing to Harry to come towards him. Aunt Petunia scooted a protesting Dudley into Harry's seat, and Harry was pulled by Aunt Petunia into her previous one, where Uncle Vernon leaned close to Harry's face. "You can tell who's going to win?" he asked quietly.
"Erm, I dunno. I guess—maybe," Harry stuttered.
"Well then what about the next—no forget that." The next race had only two horses. Uncle Vernon leafed through his papers to get to the race after that. "This one. You know who's going to win, do you?"
Harry looked at the list of horses. More easily than before, one name somehow rang out to him. "Scarlet Princess," he said almost ashamedly. "I don't know why, but I feel like she's going to win."
Uncle Vernon examined the list. "At twenty to one odds?" he asked incredulously. "Are you trying to lose my money, boy?"
Harry made full eye contact with his uncle, fed up with being treated like his. "You asked me who would win. Scarlet Princess is going to win." He maintained eye contact as Vernon searched Harry's eyes, then backed his head away, looking almost frightened.
"Right," Uncle Vernon said, then snapped his fingers at his wife, who eventually understood that he was asking for her purse. She handed it over, and he rummaged about until he had combined his cash with what she had been carrying. "If you're wrong…" he said warningly to Harry.
"I'm not." He did not understand why, but Harry knew it now for a fact—would stake his life on it.
Uncle Vernon frowned, but left to place the bet anyway. Harry looked ahead at the track, the feeling of being correct only strengthened by looking at the actual horses being led to the starting gate. He could feel the gaze of the man three seats down, and turned to him, mouthing, "Scarlet Princess," and holding up a single finger, despite Aunt Petunia's scathing look. The man shot out of his seat and scrambled away.
Three hours later, Harry was sitting on the living room couch, where he had been (shockingly) politely asked to wait by Uncle Vernon, who had shuffled Dudley up to his room to go to bed while Harry's aunt and uncle exchanged fierce whispers in the kitchen. Several minutes later, the pair of them emerged, approaching Harry with the fakest smiles he had ever seen.
Harry's prediction for the horse race had come to fruition, as had the next and final race of the event. Harry was not sure exactly how much money the Dursleys had won, but it was enough to warrant this incredibly reversed behavior towards him.
"Harry," Aunt Petunia began. "We feel you've grown so big, and it's likely time for you to move into the bedroom upstairs. Does that sound nice to you?"
Harry looked at her. "Dudley's second bedroom?"
She nodded, and he thought he detected some pain in her eyes.
"All right…" he eventually responded.
"Oh, excellent," Aunt Petunia breathed. "And we thought, perhaps maybe, since we're giving you the bedroom, you might like to go with your uncle next weekend to the races again and have a bit of fun?"
The reality of the situation hit Harry immediately. He did not understand why he had known which horses were going to win which races, but that knowledge was clearly and intensely desired by his aunt and uncle. He forced himself to stop and think before responding, to the point where Aunt Petunia opened her mouth to almost say more, before he spoke.
"Okay," he cut her off. "And… the bedroom is nice, but I want more." He caught a flash of a grimace on Aunt Petunia's face, but plowed on. "I… I know you lied about how my parents died," he said, his heart racing. His aunt had told him that they had died in a car crash, but he had memories—clear, vivid memories of his mother lying in a bedroom, attacked by a strange, terrifying man, flashes of strange green light infused in the images. "I want to know whatever you can tell me about my parents. All you've told me is how they died, and that was a lie." The look on Petunia's face confirmed as much. "I don't just want to know how they died. I want to know… how they lived."
Intense and prolonged silence followed this until at last, Petunia looked to Vernon, who paused, before nodding in what looked like surrender. Aunt Petunia looked to the floor for a very long time before finally meeting Harry's searching eyes, and she began to speak.
Over the next two years, both Harry and the Dursleys stuck to their agreement. Harry accompanied Uncle Vernon to various sporting events, somehow predicting with precision outcomes which resulted in large financial gains for the family, and Harry began to learn about his parents. First and foremost, Aunt Petunia provided Harry with previously undisclosed artifacts from his early years, including a pocket watch with a moon face that had apparently been left with him as a baby, a blanket hand-embroidered with "HP," and a photo album depicting his parents and other, unknown acquaintances. Each time Harry looked at the photo album, he had the strangest feeling that the pictures would sometimes shift or move. At first, he attributed the effect to his glasses, which he repeatedly took off, cleaned, and put back on. After a week of doing this, however, he realized that the glasses were actually making his eyesight worse, and abandoned them.
Elated with his newly cleared vision, Harry began to investigate the photo album more intensely, finding that the harder he concentrated, the more likely he was to see movement in the pictures. Finally he asked Aunt Petunia about the phenomenon.
His aunt paused her scrubbing of the dirty pans from that night's dinner, staring at the suds. To Harry's surprise, it only took her a few seconds to compose herself and continue to scrub and speak.
"Your parents were magical," she said plainly. "My sister was a witch, and your father was a wizard. Clearly, you have inherited these traits." She continued scrubbing for some time until she went on, turning her face to Harry. "She died because she was a part of that. When we took you in, I vowed to keep you away from it…" She went back to scrubbing the pot in her hands. "Clearly, I have failed at that."
Harry just stared at her, at a complete loss of how to respond. Aunt Petunia continued scrubbing, and he gratefully watched her hands work, glad to have something else to focus on.
"We… I was told that the only way to keep you safe was to take you in," Aunt Petunia went on. "Something about blood and magic—I don't know!" she spat. "I am not a part of that world! If you want to know more, you can ask Dumbledore!" she finished, her hand shooting to her mouth as if she had said too much, dropping the steel wool and rushing out of the kitchen.
Harry stood there for a while. He did not really understand most of what his aunt had said, and yet… it also seemed familiar. Magic. Was magic what he had been doing his whole life, compared to everyone else? The oddities about him? The strange events surrounding him? Was that the explanation? It seemed almost a fallacy—something invented to rationalize his oddness, but at the same time, this was his Aunt Petunia, the very antithesis of fallacy, telling him that it was the truth.
That afternoon, Harry entered his bedroom, closing the door behind him and turning to face his bed. He kept the box with his family items on his bed at all times, even when he was sleeping. It comforted him, he had come to realize. He had always thought it was the obvious sense of family that made him feel that way, but standing here now looking at it, he wondered if it was more. The first time Aunt Petunia had taken the box from the attic and shown it to him, he had felt a sense of familiarity. It had reminded him then of Mrs. Figg's house, which he had attributed to the similar attic smell her whole house always had. What Aunt Petunia had just told him was somehow shifting Harry's thinking.
He took a slow step towards the bed, tilting his head as if trying to listen. It was like that—as if he were possibly hearing a noise. He took another step. Yes. Yes, there was something. Another step, and a stronger sense of… something from the box. Sure now that the unknown sense was there, he crossed fully to the bed and opened the box. There was more in here than there had been before. Aunt Petunia had apparently been withholding things from him, only now sharing them. Harry moved slowly to remove the items. Each time his hands touched one, he paused, feeling something akin to warmth. He was interested in looking at the photo album again, but was distracted by the new sensations and, even more so, what happened when he picked up what looked like a blank journal. It was a hardback book with no title, but as he picked it up, words and illustrations began to appear on the cover as if bleeding through from underneath. Harry nearly dropped it, then doubled his grip.
The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 shined in silver words against the purple background of the cover. Harry could feel his heart beating madly in his chest. He ran his fingers over the letters, and briefly considered putting the book down to see if they would remain, then thought the better of it, now desperate to never put the book down again, in fear that it would return to its blank state forever. With that concern driving him, Harry instead opened the book, always keeping a hand under it, and turned the pages to read. The first thing he saw inside the cover was the juvenile, but clearly slowly and carefully-written scrawl which declared the book's owner, "James Potter."
For a while, despite the urge to keep turning pages, Harry just stared at the name. His actual father had written it—used his own hand to write it. Harry brushed his fingertips over it carefully, worried that he might smudge it. He held it up to his face and tried to smell the ink, suddenly desperate for any way to connect to his dad. Finally, he turned the page, reading quickly. Harry had always been a quick learner, easily grasping concepts and never having any trouble remembering information taught in books or in class. The school had even contacted the Dursleys about advancing Harry a grade, to which they had responded with shock and horror, shielding Dudley from ever learning about the suggestion, which would have put him and Harry in the same year. Harry actually had not minded. He had friends in his year, and was able to read books from the library to keep himself challenged and interested. Plus, try as he might, Harry really did not like Dudley very much, and was uninterested in spending more time in his company.
As Harry read on, he understood most of what the author was explaining, but he found there were times when a frame of reference about wizardry was necessary to fully understand. There were some passages that he could read, and work some understanding of through context clues, but he knew he was missing things. It also frustrated him to read about the motions and intentions of using a wand, which it seemed was necessary to focus one's magic to properly perform these spells, without actually being able to try it. Worse, as the book went on, the spells compounded onto spells presumably learned and mastered by the reader in previous chapters, meaning that there were even more references that Harry could read, but could not fully grasp, no matter his penchant for learning. The only thing that saved him from utter exasperation was the inclusion, every now and then, of his father's notes or doodles in the margins of the book, which made the reading feel like a little treasure hunt.
Only with the understanding that it clearly had to eventually be done, Harry forced himself to put the book down, watching with wide eyes to see what would happen, relieved beyond measure when it did not return to its previously blank state. It was only then that he realized that the other books in the box now also had visible titles and images. Somehow, he was certain that the books' information was now permanent, so he now leafed through them at random just to get a feel for what they contained, then turned his attention to the photo album. Unlike before, when he had thought to have glimpsed the occasional movement from one of the photos, the pictures were now animated as though each of them were a small television screen. He reveled in the living, breathing representations of his parents, especially those taken during the time after he had been born. The longer he watch them, the more familiar they seemed to him. It took him a while to realize that it was not the repeated viewings that caused this, but that he was remembering the moments. The pictures had sparked memories, presumably hidden within him, that now came to light. Granted, they were the memories of a barely-toddler, but he was certain they were real. He could recall details outside the scope of the photographs.
He closed the photo album and shut his eyes, the memories starting to overwhelm him. They were so vivid—so present. It was as if he were living them right now. He was not ready for that. He stood up and checked the time. He had spent a good deal of the day looking through these things, but it was not too late for a walk.
Twenty minutes later, Harry was ringing the bell of Mrs. Figg's house. While Harry felt and experienced a variety of emotions and, to a different extent, feelings during his examinations of the items left behind by his parents, there was one sensation that underlined everything that had been tied to the magical community. It was almost like a vibration in existence itself, and he had realized that it was not a new phenomenon. He had felt something like it before whenever he had been sent to Mrs. Figg's house any time the Dursley's needed to get rid of him. Maybe it was some kind of crazy coincidence, but he wanted to find out, either way. After a few moments, the older woman opened the door.
"Harry? Are you—am I watching you today? I don't remember that being arranged," she said.
"Hi, Mrs. Figg. No, you aren't watching me. I was just wondering about something that I felt like you could help me with. It's about the magical community." Harry kept his eyes locked on hers, having planned this abrupt introduction. Knowing Mrs. Figg as he did, if she had never heard of such a thing, she would react as though he was out of his mind, and if she were aware of magic, she would be unable to hide it. Harry smiled and nodded when her face blatantly told him the latter. "My aunt told me about my parents, and then I kind of figured out that you were somehow connected to it. May I come in?"
Mrs. Figg nodded mutely and held the door open for Harry. As he walked in, he felt the familiar sensation, although it was somewhat muted—yes, definitely not as strong as he felt when handling the items from his parents. He walked to the living room where Mrs. Figg usually showed him photographs of her cats from ages past, but he remained standing. Mrs. Figg shuffled in behind him, still looking rather disturbed about this turn of events.
"Are you… I'm sorry if this is rude—I don't know if it is… Are you a witch, then?" Harry asked.
Mrs. Figg took a few moments to regain some composure, and Harry was worried that he had offended her. "No. I'm not," she said. "But the rest of my family is magical. I was born without that ability. I am what is known as a Squib."
Harry did not like the sound of that word. It sounded derogatory. "I… I didn't mean to…"
Mrs. Figg waved a hand dismissively. "No—I am decades beyond feeling sorry for myself. There's nothing to apologize for. I am quite content with who I am." She paused. "But… so… what is it, exactly, that you were looking for?"
Glad he had not made a faux pas, Harry moved forward with his intentions for this visit. "I was hoping that someone would be able to get me acclimated to the wizarding world, before I start school." He had figured out from the books that when magical children in Great Britain turned eleven, they were invited to attend a school called Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This was over a year away for Harry, and he wanted to learn as much as he could before that day arrived. "Do you know who I can contact, and how, to maybe start learning about things in the magical community?"
Mrs. Figg shook her head as if she could not comprehend the turn her day had taken, but responded. "Yes. Yes, I can send a letter to Professor Dumbledore. I will send a letter—definitely. I'm supposed to anyway if anything unusual… I'll write him and pass along your request. I'm sure he'll get back to us straightaway."
Harry nodded. "He's still the headmaster at Hogwarts?" He had heard the name mentioned a few times in a couple of his father's journals.
"Yes, but he's much more than that," she said, seemingly distracted in her thoughts.
When she did not elaborate, Harry spoke. "If it's not too much trouble, I'd rather not have to come here to see the response. Would it be possible for him to contact me at the Dursleys'?" he asked.
"Oh. Well, yes. I imagine that would be fine," Mrs. Figg said absently, clearly still lost in her thoughts.
"Okay, great. Thank you, Mrs. Figg. I really appreciate it."
She barely responded, just nodding vaguely. Harry waited a few awkward seconds before rising and showing himself out. During the walk back, he took out the pocket watch from the box, clicking it open. More than any other item, the watch radiated the energy Harry now associated with magic. It seemed very old, the cover etched to resemble the moon. The face inside did tell the time, but there were eleven other hands under the usual ones, extending deeper into the casing of the watch than was physically possible and moving at various speeds, or not at all, or perhaps too slowly for him to perceive. He had no idea what any of them represented, but he liked having the watch with him at all times. It let him feel a constant connection to magic, and therefore his parents. He also thought the chain looked kind of cool.
Three days later, Harry was sitting at the kitchen table, holding his elbow in a bag of frozen peas. Across from him, his cousin Dudley had a bag of frozen corn on his knee. Both boys were scowling at each other, neither of them showing any sign of hearing Aunt Petunia go on and on about the dangers of what she called "karate," even though that was not what it was. Harry had become interested in Muay Thai through a friend at school. He had been walking home with her when her little sister told Harry about how Gemma had "beat up a bully." Gemma was reluctant to talk about it, but felt compelled to explain that it was not so dramatic and she had just defended a younger kid. With some prodding, she had shared with Harry the martial art she had been studying for a few years. When Harry mentioned it to the Dursleys, who had become downright agreeable with his requests these days considering the winnings he continued to help them procure, they allowed Harry to sign up for classes, but of course enrolled Dudley as well.
Being in immensely different weight classes, the two of them rarely sparred in class, but today they had been paired-up. The animosity between them was certainly less than it used to be, as it had so often been fueled by Dudley's parents who were far more tolerable of Harry now, but Harry could not help but to suspect a sense of jealousy from Dudley for Harry's contributions to the family. Perhaps he was just in a bad mood, but for whatever reason, Dudley came at Harry hard during their spar, moving with surprising speed. As he reflected on it, Harry felt it was a pretty good fight right up until the moment he went in hard with an elbow at the same time that Dudley threw in a knee, which collided with each other in a loud crack.
Remembering that moment now, Harry broke eye contact with Dudley, trying to control himself. He did not want to give in to the emotional urge he was feeling. Aunt Petunia's continued rants, like a turkey trying to escape a pen, were not helping. Harry made the mistake of shifting his eyes back to Dudley's, and he was sure he could see the same thoughts rising in his cousin's mind. Both of their faces contorted at the same time, and they each broke out in laughter, stopping Aunt Petunia dead in her tracks. Immediately after the impact during the spar, both boys had fallen to the ground and simultaneously shouted, "FUCK!" at the top of their lungs. Everyone seemed to have been understanding of the situation, so they did not get into trouble, and Harry would not have cared anyway considering how much pain he had been in. Reliving it in his mind now, though, with the pain ebbing away and no apparently broken bones, it was possibly the funniest moment of his life so far.
He and Dudley's laughter increased, Aunt Petunia just staring at them. Finally, they began to get themselves under control, until Aunt Petunia asked worriedly, "Dudders, what's wrong?" prompting he and Harry to lose it again. Tears streaking down their face, they only managed to recover when there was a loud knocking at the front door, making Aunt Petunia jump.
Putting her had to her chest, she left the kitchen to answer the door, while Harry stood up, flexing his elbow. He opened the freezer and put the peas back in.
Dudley lifted off the corn, examining his knee, where there was a Harry's elbow-sized bruise. He looked up at Harry. "The sound it made…"
Harry grinned, but waved his hand in front of him, not wanting to lose it again. He walked out of the kitchen, clapping Dudley on the shoulder as he left.
"Vernon!" Aunt Petunia called from the still-closed front door, looking white as a ghost. Harry's uncle came trotting down the stairs, a glass of brandy in his hand.
"What is it? Who's there?"
Petunia looked to Harry, then back to Vernon. "It has to be… it's someone from…" she just pointed at Harry, and it seemed to take a couple of seconds for Vernon to catch on.
"Standing on the—Get them in! The neighbors!" he hissed.
"But Vernon!"
"Better in here than out there drawing attention!" He brushed Aunt Petunia aside and pulled the door open, stepping back immediately. Standing in front of the door, blocking out all light as if it were still closed, was a giant of a man. Huge, dressed in almost medieval-looking clothing, his hair and beard wild. Harry thought he looked like some sort of…
"I… I know you," Harry said as soon as the man made eye contact with him. "I know you!" he repeated, amazed at the sudden knowledge.
The man smiled at Harry, which was incredibly incongruous against the initial impression he made. He stepped inside the house, Harry's aunt and uncle backing away and blustering, but Uncle Vernon moving to shut the door behind him, regardless.
"Hullo Harry," the man said, looking down at him warmly.
"Jesus Christ!" came Dudley's voice from the kitchen doorway, which seemed to snap Aunt Petunia out of her shock.
"Dudley! Up to your room, now!" She moved sideways along the fireplace to take Dudley by the shoulders and escort him around the man, shooing him up the stairs, Dudley openly gaping at the giant as he went.
"Sir," Uncle Vernon finally managed to say. "What is the meaning of this, showing up at our house in the middle of the day, unannounced. You were surely seen!"
The man took a further step inside, which is to say he closed half the distance across the living room. "Oh, that. No need to worry there. Had it all worked out. No Muggles'll see me comin' or goin'."
"Muggles…" Harry said. "That's—that's non-magical people, right?" The man nodded. Harry stepped closer to him. "And you… you're… your name is Hagrid, isn't it?"
Hagrid's smile grew even wider, and he fell onto the sofa, which screamed in protest. "You remember me? Oh, tha's tha's… how do you remember me?"
"I have a pretty good memory, but honestly I didn't remember you until I saw you just now, then it all kind of came flying back in," Harry said, sitting across from Hagrid on the other sofa.
Hagrid looked concerned. "What else do you remember?"
Harry was not sure what he meant by that, but Aunt Petunia interrupted, regardless, stepping forward. "Could you please explain your presence in my house?"
"Oh. Well, er.. les' see… Arabella Figg sent an owl to Dumbledore, who came to me and Professor McGonagall, and we worked out who should go and see about showing Harry around the magical community and such, and I… well I kind of insisted it be me." He turned back to Harry. "I was the one that brought you here, all those years ago, after…"
"After my parents were killed," Harry finished for him. Hagrid really wore his heart on his sleeve, the emotions from even thinking about it plainly evident. What a nice man. "My aunt told me about it, or as much as she knows, at least." Looking into Hagrid's eyes, more memories flashed back in, and Harry could not help but to smile, which he knew must have seemed strange, considering the current topic. "I called you Haggy!" he said, and was glad to see the smile return to Hagrid's face. Harry thought more, and gasped. "I used to ride on your shoulders. It was so high up! It felt like I was in the clouds!" The memory of it was vibrant in Harry's mind—almost too much. He could feel tears in his eyes, and worked to center himself back to the here and now. He shook his head, still smiling. "Sorry. Wow—the memory of it all just came rushing back in."
"Don't you apologize," Hagrid said warmly. "You have no idea what it means to me to find out you remember those times. Some of the best of my life."
Harry smiled, but kept himself from sliding back into the memories just yet.
"Right, well, if you're up for a bit of a trip, we can get going whenever you want," Hagrid said, standing up.
"Oh, now?" Harry said, also standing.
"Well, unless," Hagrid started unsurely, but Harry cut him off.
"No! Now is great. Erm, just let me change first." He was still in his training clothes for Muay Thai, which he did not think would be appropriate for his first venture into the magical world. He scrambled up the stairs, glad to not hear any protestations from his aunt or uncle about him disappearing with a giant into the wizarding world for the day.
"You all right, Harry?"
Harry held up a hand, not trusting himself to keep from vomiting if he spoke. He was doubled over, just trying to breathe at the moment. They had used a magical device Hagrid called a Portkey to travel the distance from Privet Drive to London in a matter of seconds. At first, it was amazing and thrilling for Harry to experience his first true, purposeful magic, but by the time they landed, the fun had worn off. In addition to the nauseating experience of travel, Harry was hit hard with an overwhelming sensation that seemed to be pressing in on him and through him from all sides. Finally, after staying hunched over while Hagrid attempted and failed to pat him gently on the back, Harry stood up.
"Okay. I'm fine," he said sheepishly.
"Coulda warned you," Hagrid said with a grim face. "But I don't think it woulda made a difference. You're kinda young to be travelling by Portkey, but this was the safest way." He led Harry to a brick wall and tapped his pink umbrella on a series of bricks, which led to the wall rearranging itself brick-by-brick until there was a large enough opening for the both of them to enter.
Harry had to put forth an unusual amount of effort to walk forward, still dazed by the force of whatever it was he was feeling, although it was diminishing rapidly. His head clearing up, Harry gaped at the sigh before him. A cobblestoned street way, looking initially like a scene from a Charles Dickens story, filled his vision. Shops lined the street, which had no vehicles on it. This was a pedestrian roadway, uncrowded at the moment with just a few people wandering about. Harry scanned them quickly. These were, presumably, witches and wizards. He saw that some of them were dressed rather formally and… strangely, whereas others were far more casual. As Hagrid began pointing things out to him, it took Harry about a minute to see anyone close to his age, and he was glad to see that the younger the person, the more like Harry they were dressed. In jeans and a t-shirt, he had been starting to worry that he would stick out terribly. As it was, no one seemed to pay much attention to him or Hagrid… at least, initially.
"A bit different than the Muggle world, eh?" Hagrid asked to a still-gaping Harry, who simply nodded. "All right, well if you want to see the real differences between the Muggle world and ours, I say we start with creatures, because you'll find no bigger difference than that!"
Harry did not argue, although he found it difficult to believe that animals could prove more interesting than being able to do actual magic. Hagrid led him to a shop called The Magical Menagerie. Loud and a little smelly, it was still incredibly entertaining, and helped Harry at least understand why Hagrid had seen it as an outstanding example of the differences between the Muggle and wizarding world. The animals… or creatures, rather, as some of them did not conform to the standards by which Harry would normally categorize animal or plant, were a far cry from the things seen in the Muggle world. In addition to the incredible abilities some of them exhibited, all of them overall were clearly more intelligent than what could be considered their Muggle counterparts. As they perused the shelves and cages, a few of the creatures sparked a sense of familiarity in Harry. A creature called a Kneazle especially caught his attention, causing him to stare at it for several moments before he registered that Hagrid was telling him that his mother had had one as a pet before he was born, giving it to a friend with other Kneazles to watch until Harry was older. Harry reached his hand in between the bars of the cage in spite of the warning sign, the Kneazle sniffing and eventually giving a lick to his fingers.
"He likes you Harry!" Hagrid boomed, making both the Kneazle and Harry give a startled jump.
"I don't know much about Muggle banks, but I'd bet a Galleon that Gringotts Wizarding Bank is as different as a Niffler is to a hamster," Hagrid said later, pointing to an ominous-looking building taking up a street corner. "The safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe –'cept maybe Hogwarts. Fancy a peek inside?"
Harry nodded, and he and Hagrid climbed the marble steps, to a grand doorway, guarded by two…
"Goblins," Hagrid said in an undertone to Harry upon seeing his astonished face at the two short, sinister-looking creatures… no, that was not right, Harry knew. They were intelligent. Beings. Different than him, but no less than him.
The goblins probed Harry and Hagrid with what he learned were secrecy sensors—long, thin, wiry objects apparently attuned to detect any magic meant to deceive or swindle the bank. Harry made a point of making eye contact with the goblin attending to him, smiling politely. To his surprise, the goblin's mouth dropped open at the interaction, and it took her a moment longer than her counterpart on Hagrid's side to wave Harry through the entrance. A bit disconcerted by that interaction, Harry worked to keep the smile on his face as he and Hagrid made their way in. The main room of the bank was cavernous, with tellers set up on raised platforms to either side. Hagrid began pointing out different features and sharing some information about Gringotts that he knew, but Harry was hardly listening. Movement at the side of the bank had caught his eye. The guard he had encountered had followed them inside, whispering conspiratorially with another two goblins, all the while looking in Harry's direction. One of those two goblins moved off to speak with the goblin seated at the very front of the bank, at the head of the two rows of tellers. Eventually, Hagrid caught on to Harry's distraction, following his eye line until the both of them were watching in silence as what seemed to be the head goblin climbed off of his perch and approached the pair.
"Good day. I am Ricbert," he said in a professional tone. "May we speak in my private office?" He gestured invitingly towards a hallway, speaking directly to a bemused Harry, who looked up to Hagrid for guidance.
"What's this all about then, eh?" Hagrid asked.
It seemed to annoy Ricbert to have to divert his attention Hagrid's way, but he recovered quickly after a long blink. "You may accompany him, of course, but it is better if we discuss this in private. It pertains to Mr. Potter's accounts with Gringotts Bank."
Harry looked back and forth from Ricbert to Hagrid, who seemed to be processing what the goblin had said. Hagrid looked down at Harry thoughtfully, then back to Ricbert.
"Well all right, then, as long as I can go with him. If that's all right with you, Harry."
Harry just nodded, grateful to have Hagrid with him. Ricbert smiled and gestured again, leading them down a dimly-lit hallway to the very end, where he brushed his pointed fingertips against an ornate door, which opened to reveal a small, but lavish office.
"This chair will suit you, sir," Ricbert said to Hagrid, indicating a plain wooden chair that looked as if Hagrid would crush it to dust as soon as he sat upon it. Unperturbed, however, Hagrid lowered himself onto it carelessly, and to Harry's amazement, it expanded immediately into an immense armchair which held Hagrid's weight with ease.
"Oh. I'll have to get me one o' these," Hagrid said to Harry, running his giant hands over the soft leather of the armrests.
"They are available for purchase, through the bank, at considerable cost. I can get you in touch with the creator, if you are truly interested," Ricbert said smoothly.
"Oh, er… I'll think about it," Hagrid responded, and Harry thought he saw a hint of pink in his cheeks.
"Very well. Now, onto the matter at hand. Mr. Potter, since your parents' deaths, Gringotts has maintained your family's accounts in accordance with Ministry laws and guidelines for just such a circumstance. If you are not familiar with those regulations, we can provide you a copy." Ricbert paused, so Harry responded.
"Erm, yeah, probably, right?" he said, turning to Hagrid.
"Always a good idea," Hagrid agreed.
Ricbert took a quill, dipped it in ink, and checked-off a box on a piece of parchment in front of him as he continued. "Very well. The number and types of accounts have been unchanged for the past roughly nine years and, utilizing said regulations, Gringotts has invested the gold and holdings in each during this time, absorbing the interest and profit to the legal degree outlined in the aforementioned regulations, and returning the remaining gains into said accounts." He opened an expandable folder and began shuffling his thin fingers through the many pieces of parchment within.
"With the considerable amount of investments, the balance of all accounts shifts by the minute, but is recorded at the start and end of every business day, for security. At the beginning of today, the total worth of gold, holdings, stocks, and various properties, both magical and Muggle, was calculated to be precisely 5,347,516 Galleons, three Sickles… and ten Knuts."
Hagrid made a choking noise which turned into a coughing fit that lasted several seconds. When he had recovered, he looked to Harry with open shock.
"Is… is that a lot?" Harry asked.
A while later, Harry and Hagrid were back in Diagon Alley, continuing the tour. Ricbert had explained that Harry's fortune was indeed quite a lot. He had given him options about what his next steps could be with the various accounts, listing off the choices a little too quickly for Harry's tastes, getting the feeling that Ricbert was perhaps not someone who could objectively offer Harry advice in his best interests. Harry decided to maintain the status quo for now, arranging to return in two weeks to settle on a plan of action. Seeing the disappointment in Ricbert's face only bolstered Harry's decision to wait. He did, however, withdraw a good amount of both wizard and Muggle currency. It made almost no difference to his account totals, after all, and while his life with the Dursleys had certainly improved since he had started winning them money, he had never, ever just had money of his own to spend as he pleased.
The first thing Harry spent it on was ice cream, which he knew was silly, considering he was in the magical world and could have purchased any number of exotic things he had never heard of, but he could not help himself. The smell of the freshly-cooked waffle cones had been overwhelming as they exited the bank. He had no regrets, though, after his quadruple-scoop cone offered combinations of flavors he had never before experienced in the rare times he had been able to enjoy ice cream in his life, and it turned out to be a nice respite in which to sit and chat with Hagrid about the wizarding world.
"Is there no electricity?" Harry asked, having noticed that Diagon Alley, at least, had no discernible uses of such.
"Nah, no need," Hagrid said, using a tremendous spoon the shop owner, Mr. Fortescue, had gone into the back to get to Hagrid with which to eat his casserole-dish-sized sundae. "Magic powers whatever we need it to."
Harry nodded, licking and looking around the alley. The longer he stayed here, the more that sense of magic grew within him, almost to the point where he was becoming concerned. He had read about people having anxiety attacks, and could not help but equate this feeling with what they described it was like. He tried to eat and breathe slowly, calming himself, which seemed to help. He pressed on with the conversation, as a distraction.
"Everything here… it seems almost old-fashioned, which is strange. There seem to be gas lamps, but why? Why not use magic to light modern light bulbs rather than outdated technology?"
"Erm…" Hagrid swallowed, wiping his mouth with a tablecloth Mr. Fortescue had brought him for a napkin. "Hang on—I think I know this." He looked up at the ceiling, clearly trying to remember. "It has somethin' to do with history, and the Statute of Secrecy and when it was signed by Muggles and wizards an' all that. We kinda went our separate ways at that point, an' magic folk just kep goin' on with what worked for them an' let Muggles figure out the rest on their own."
Harry looked at Hagrid, thinking, and eventually nodding, sure now where he wanted to go next, after their ice cream. Harry made an effort to suppress and store the questions that continued to compile in his mind, and they spent the rest of the time in more casual conversation. Harry learned that Hagrid worked at Hogwarts as the gamekeeper and overall caretaker. It sounded like he enjoyed his job, and that the headmaster, Albus Dumbledore, was a good man, at least from Hagrid's point of view. As he went on about Dumbledore's accomplishments and accolades, Harry listened, but part of his attention drifted, his eyes looking out the window of the ice cream shop.
Albus Dumbledore. He was a good man. Harry knew this. But he was also… a tortured soul. Yes, in so much pain—reminded of it daily. He had tried to surround himself with youth and promise, but somehow those things always ended up reminding him of what he had lost, and what would still eventually be lost.
"Great man, Dumbledore," Hagrid finished, scooping the last of his ice cream from the bottom of his great bowl.
Harry smiled. He really liked Hagrid, at first because he could remember him as "Haggy" from years past, but even more so now after getting to know him.
"I look forward to meeting him," Harry said, and he meant it. Everything Hagrid had shared with him indicated that Dumbledore was a key player against the chaos that had embroiled his parents and eventually led to their death. He wanted to learn more from such a source. "Can we go to Flourish and Blotts now—that's the bookstore, right?" Harry asked, keen to begin gathering information, especially now with his belly full, which he made a mental note to make a habit of from here on out. Hagrid agreed and they headed to the bookstore.
Harry had finally worked to become accustomed to the magic emanating from Diagon Alley, only to have the variety and opportunity of choices for learning with reading materials from Flourish and Blotts regenerate the pressing sense of anxiety. If he could have it his way, Harry would have taken one copy of every book on the shelf. He had to make a conscious effort to temper his instincts, and instead sought out an employee who could help him focus his studies. Hagrid had stayed outside, finding the bookstore too cramped for his stature. Harry had made his way to the middle of the store before realizing the need for guidance. He stood in place and spun in a circle, surveying the workers he could observe. There was a very old woman several rows away, marking inventory on parchment, whom Harry immediately found to be too old-fashioned. Closer to him there was a younger woman who was very attractive but whom Harry considered would not understand his needs. At the counter, a young male worker was arguing with a customer, whom Harry somehow knew was insisting that the store carried recipes for Wrackspurt stew, which Harry knew nothing about, but also knew did not exist in this shop. This was Harry's man. He headed to that counter straightaway.
"It was listed in you catalog!"
"Excuse me," Harry interrupted. "Hi, I'm Harry Potter, and I wondered if you could help me."
Both the ridiculous customer and the employee stared in amazement at Harry. Hagrid had informed Harry of his role in the role in the end of the wizarding war, and how famous and mysterious he was. He figured he might as well use it to at least procure preferential treatment at a bookshop.
"…Yes. Erm, yes. Yes, I can help you," the clerk said, the complaining customer apparently at a loss for words.
"Thank you!" Harry said sincerely. "Would you mind showing me…"
For the next hour, the clerk, named Hugh, led Harry through the store. Harry was not disappointed with his choice in Hugh, as the young man was not only incredibly knowledgeable regarding texts and literature, but was also eager to assist Harry specifically, having followed and embraced his mythos for several years. As they moved from shelf to shelf, collecting tomes and discussing Harry's specific interests, Harry could not help but to realize Hugh's personal interest in him, feeling almost guilty while also marveling at the fact that he could seem to nearly see into Hugh's thoughts.
"The total comes to… 947 Galleons, 14 Sickles, and three Knuts," Hugh finally said at the end of their shopping spree.
Harry rounded it up to an even thousand Galleons, tipping Hugh for his time and expertise, which left the young man speechless and flushed. Harry had collected the entirety of the Hogwarts texts for years 1-7, as well as many other specialized texts that caught his eye, and a premium trunk in which he could carry, conceal, and organize not only his collection of books, but other belongings as well. Something told Harry that this would be an important item in years to come. By the time he exited Flourish and Blotts, Harry knew that Hagrid was growing somewhat impatient.
"Sorry, Hagrid. I know that took a while. There's only one more shop I really want to go to, and then we can head back," Harry said sheepishly once he exited, his new trunk already magically shrunken and in his pocket for safe-keeping.
"Yeah, all right. I just promised Professor Dumbledore I'd have you back by five…" Hagrid said somewhat nervously.
"We will be," Harry assured him, and pointed down the alley, to the one place he knew he absolutely must visit.
The tinkling of the bell for Ollivander's Wand Shop prompted its owner at once to appear from the back room. His bulbous eyes initially, understandably, found Hagrid, but then shifted to Harry, who did not shy away from their piercing gaze. More than anything so far, this moment connected Harry to magic. He somehow felt as if he had experienced this meeting before. He recognized Mr. Ollivander, who finished walking to the counter, staring in wonder at Harry. A few moments of silence passed before he finally spoke.
"Harry Potter," he breathed. "You are here… earlier than expected."
Harry nodded. "I'd like to buy a wand, please."
Ollivander swallowed, and seemed to compose himself. "A witch or wizard is permitted to procure a wand on or after their eleventh birthday, for the purpose of learning magic at an acclaimed…" He trailed off, still locked with Harry's eyes, which were fierce with determination.
"Mr. Ollivander, I am interested in learning magic now. In order to do that to the best of my ability, I require a wand. I can either find a wand that suits me here, or purchase a used wand from another source."
"A… a used wand?"
"Surely, witches and wizards die," Harry said, knowing the effect this would have on Ollivander. "Their wands remain behind. I am sure I could get one from any number of families…"
"No! No, Mr. Potter. I… I would be happy to help you find a wand that suits you," Ollivander said, his face blanching. "No—yes, let's… let's just see what suits you, yes?"
Harry nodded, pleased with this response. For the next few minutes, Mr. Ollivander measured Harry in a variety of places, then popped back and forth into and out of his rows of stock, offering Harry different wands to try, each of which Ollivander snatched away almost immediately after he had presented them. After many, many tries, with Ollivander shuffling somewhere unseen, and Hagrid's impatience palpable from behind him, Harry slammed his fist upon the counter in a rare lack of self-control, at which point a wand flew at him from spaces unknown. He snatched it just in time, grasping the handle with his hand, which filled at once with a satisfying warmth. He raised it instinctively up into the air, showering the shop with purple sparks.
"Oh yes! Well done! At last!" Ollivander cried.
The raw surge of magic brought about by holding this wand left Harry feeling as if he were on the brink of exploding. He should double over, he knew, or scream, but all he could do was stand and breathe heavily, feeling as if his arm was vibrating madly even though it was perfectly still. Somehow, he knew what he needed to do, raising up his left hand to catch the second wand before it had even begun towards him. Sure enough, another wand flew from the shelves into Harry's left hand, gold sparks shooting from the tip at once, causing Mr. Ollivander to shield his eyes. Harry felt certain that the ground beneath him was quaking at the magic he felt, and wondered if a crack might just swallow him in. That image in his head seemed to temper him. He could not let that happen, and so worked to calm and control himself, which seemed to take minutes to Harry, but only passed in a matter of seconds in the shop.
Mr. Ollivander stood in silence, gaping at the display, his face illuminated by the sparks still emanating from Harry's two wands. Eventually, Harry lowered his arms, making the shop seem incredibly dark by comparison.
"I… I've never seen," Ollivander said. "Two wands have chosen you, Mr. Potter," he finished, sounding like he could not believe it.
Harry looked at his incredulous face, then at Hagrid, who just looked confused. A little embarrassed at causing such a dramatic scene, he shoved both wands in his pocket, and fiddled with his money bag.
"Okay. So… erm… how much?"