Chapter 1

AUGUST 9, 1989

Now nine years old, Harry Potter was walking down a tree-lined street in Little Whinging, enjoying the summer morning.

His life had taken a marked turn for the better ever since Mr. P showed up in his dreams. He wasn't suddenly a deadly ninja, but he now gave as good as he got in his scraps with Dudley.

Mr. P taught him about weight classes, so he knew he'd always be at a disadvantage against a bigger opponent. Still, Dudley and his gang, unused to any effective resistance, had mostly backed off.

They still bullied anyone he tried to be friends with at school, so Harry kept to himself. At Mr. P's encouragement, he let his grades improve, and stoically suffered through the punishments he earned from his aunt and uncle.

"Their bark is much worse than their bite," his teacher once told him, and Harry agreed. They already treated him so poorly, so he had very little to lose.

Soon enough it just became embarrassing to constantly call attention to the fact he was doing so much better than Dudley in school. So they began ignoring Harry's grades entirely, just as Mr. P predicted they would.

This summer, he'd made a habit of getting up early, getting his gardening work done before cooking breakfast, and then making himself scarce until six in the evening, when he had to be back to cook dinner.

He began speaking to any snakes he glimpsed slithering about during his morning gardening, again at Mr. P's encouragement. They weren't great conversationalists, but Harry followed his teacher's instructions and told them to tell other snakes they met about him.

More and more snakes began to visit Harry, and he made sure to keep any insects he found while digging in the garden. His scaly friends always appreciated a tasty treat.

Mr. P had told him that speaking to snakes was called Parseltongue, and someone who could do it like him was a Parselmouth. Apparently, this had a pretty bad reputation and Harry was supposed to keep it secret, if possible, once he got to Hogwarts.

Harry thought this was another silly aspect of the magical world. Snakes were just normal animals, they weren't evil.

He whiled away most days at the local public library, if the weather allowed for the rather long walk.

The library was, indeed, his current destination. With no school work to review, Mr. P's nightly lessons this summer had focused on the magical world.

Harry was most interested in the lessons on magical beings, like centaurs and house-elves, and creatures, like dragons and trolls. His teacher somehow made them show up in the dreams, amazingly life-like.

Mr. P said they felt so real because they were based on his memories. Upon hearing this, Harry had declared his teacher to have lived "the coolest life ever," which for some reason Mr. P found exceptionally hilarious.

The highlight of his summer had been when, on his birthday, Mr. P showed him how to ride a hippogriff!

His other lessons focused on history, which his teacher seemed very passionate about. While less exciting than coming face to face with a Hungarian Horntail, it was still fascinating, though Harry felt he'd never remember all those names and dates.

He was glad Mr. P wasn't testing him on this stuff; but he did have some homework. Not traditional homework, of course; he couldn't take an essay with him into a dream, after all.

Mostly he read biographies - today he was hoping up to finish up one on Alexander the Great. He didn't always understand all the words but could generally follow the plot.

Mr. P would later explain the bits he hadn't quite gotten, and often add in additional details from his own knowledge that weren't in Muggle books at all.

Reaching the library, he retrieved the book where he'd shelved it the previous day - he still didn't dare bring anything of value home to Privet Drive - and settled into his favorite corner.

He grinned as he read. According to Plutarch, Alexander slept with a dagger and the copy of the Iliad under his pillow.

Harry thought that sounded pretty awesome. He decided to see if the library had a copy of Homer's epic poem, once he finished his current book.

SEPTEMBER 20, 1989

Dudley shoved past Harry as they left class for lunch, knocking his bag to the floor and spilling its contents, then running off and laughing with his friends.

As he kneeled to gather his things, he heard his teacher's voice emanate from the classroom.

"Harry, come in here a minute please, I'd like to have a word."

Harry sighed and complied. When he was younger a few teachers tried to get involved, but nothing had happened. Mr. Fowles was new to the school and seemed pretty cool, but Harry still suspected this was going to be an awkward conversation.

"First of all, Harry, congratulations - you're doing very well so far this year. I had a look at your grades from past years, and… well, I'm glad to see you've turned over a new leaf."

Harry smiled uncertainly, not sure if he was supposed to say anything.

"Yes, well, I wanted to level with you because you seem like an intelligent young man. You were doing so well this year, in fact, that I spoke with Headmistress Roemmele about you. Proposed that we move you up a year. You obviously don't get along with your cousin had his friends, and it's holding you back from your full potential."

Mr. Fowles frowned, his bearing slumping a bit.

"The Headmistress was… quite dismissive of the idea. I pressed her for a reason and learned that she is quite close with your uncle's mother. Childhood friends. So, unfortunately, my hands are rather tied. Still, I thought you deserved to know - though I really shouldn't be telling you any of this."

"It's fine, I won't tell anyone," Harry replied quietly. "I really appreciate that you tried, honestly it explains a lot. Like why Dudley was never held back a grade."

Mr. Fowles' eyes sparkled in amusement. Harry could tell his teacher didn't think much of Dudley when he didn't disagree with Harry's assessment.

"You're a good kid, Harry. I was bullied at school and I'm young enough to remember what that was like very clearly. Let's see if we can't figure something informal out, a little independent study - just between you and me."

"That sounds great!"

Harry was actually quite bored with the pace of his class, now that Mr. P had him more engaged with his schoolwork. The prospect of some more advanced work sounded quite appealing.

He suppressed a chuckle. A few years ago, he'd never have dreamed of conspiring with a teacher to secretly get extra work.

Mr. P was a bad influence - he was turning Harry into a downright bookworm.

Harry agreed to meet with Mr. Fowles again tomorrow to discuss it more. Then he hurried off to get some food before they stopped serving.

Harry hated missing school lunch. They were the only meals he could eat where he got the same portion as everyone else, and everyone didn't glare at him and make snippy comments while he ate.

As he broke into a jog in the deserted hallway, he imagined what the meals at Hogwarts would be like, sitting in the Great Hall, eating feasts prepared by the mysterious House-elves.

—

In the back of his mind, the older version of himself who Harry knew only as his dream-teacher, Mr. P, pondered on the course of events.

He vaguely remembered Fowles as one of the nicer teachers from his youth, but he supposed his poor academic performance hadn't inspired any special interest the first time around.

Despite all his knowledge, he'd never known the Headmistress of his primary school was friends with Vernon's mother. He appreciated Fowles being willing to go behind his boss's back for a student's benefit like this.

Forced to live in Harry's mind, unable to communicate to him except through dreams, he experienced everything Harry experienced. If his younger self was bored, he was bored to death.

He was looking forward to the new lessons as much as Harry; most of his education had been in the Magical world the first time around. That had proven a fatal weakness in the end, one that he was determined to correct this time.

DECEMBER 25, 1989

Christmas with the Dursleys was an annual ordeal Harry dreaded. So, he was extremely excited that night when he found himself dreaming, sitting in a familiar classroom.

"Happy Christmas, Mr. P!"

"Happy Christmas, Harry. I'm glad we got to meet tonight."

"Me too! Mr. Fowles said I'm already finished with the standard coursework for the whole year! I can start learning Latin and algebra after the break."

Mr. P beamed at him.

"That's wonderful, Harry. Having some knowledge of Latin is extremely useful for Spellcrafting, and there are many old books written in Latin for which there are no translations. And of course, proficiency with algebra will aid your study of Arithmancy."

Changing the topic, his teacher grew more serious.

"Now, as proud of your progress as I am, I don't just want to talk about schoolwork tonight."

"Since I can't get you a Christmas present, I wanted to tell you something. I haven't told you before because I was worried you might do something rash with the knowledge. It's about your neighbor, Mrs. Figg."

"Err… alright," Harry said slowly, unable to help feeling disappointed. What could Mr. P possibly know about the batty cat lady that could serve as a Christmas present?

"Arabella Figg is a squib, Harry. She knows about magic, and she knows Headmaster Dumbledore."

"Oh… huh," Harry blinked. "If she knows the Headmaster and the Headmaster has my key, she could get it from him, and then I can convince her to take me to London," he said, thinking aloud.

"You're very fixated on getting the key to your vault, Harry, but money won't solve your problems. We've talked about this. Dumbledore put you here for a reason, and you won't be able to buy your way out of that."

Harry growled. Mr. P had explained about the magical protections the Headmaster had put on Privet Drive. Only possible to cast on the house his mother's sister lived in. The reason he'd been left in a house where he was unwanted.

"At least I could look around, exchange some Galleons so I'm not broke. Maybe buy a book or two on magic," he groused.

"What would your Aunt and Uncle do if they found such a book? I know I've told you to stand up to them more, but this would be crossing a line. You have no reason to know about the magical world, about Diagon Alley. These lessons must remain a secret."

Harry nodded, trying to be logical. Mr. P had explained that he didn't shoot Harry's ideas down for no reason, as many other adults did. He wanted Harry to come up with better ideas, to think things through for himself.

"You're right. Mrs. Figg probably wouldn't want to leave her cats and go to London with me anyway. I still want to contact Dumbledore though. If he's going to leave me with the Dursleys, at least he should let me visit Diagon Alley, so I can get to the money my parents left me."

"Hmm, maybe I could tell her I overheard Aunt and Uncle talking about it? She can't really check that."

"There you go, Harry, sly as a Slytherin," Mr. P grinned.

Harry stuck out his tongue. "I'm just being smart, like a Ravenclaw," he countered.

JUNE 23, 1990

Aunt Marge was visiting for Dudley's tenth birthday, which meant Ripper was also visiting.

Marge's visits were always particularly awful for Harry. Vernon's sister delighted in tormenting him even more than the rest of his relatives and would often needle Aunt Petunia about getting her "poor, dear little brother" burdened with the care such a juvenile delinquent.

Dudley had also been unhappy with Harry - thick as he was, even he was able to see that Harry had some kind of special arrangement going on with Mr. Fowles, and he complained about it incessantly to his parents.

They weren't able to do much other than insult him. He already did all the chores and had no privileges that could be taken away.

All of this had culminated in a very resentful Dursley family, and they had all fed off each other when Aunt Marge started laying into him. Ripper had picked up on the social energy and started growling at Harry ominously.

He dashed out the front door, the laughter and jeering of his relatives and a slavering bulldog hot on his heels. There was a nice and climbable tree a few houses down, and he sprinted toward it, full tilt.

His heart thundered in his ears as his feet pounded the pavement even though it was only a hundred meters or so. Adrenaline rushed through his veins.

He could hear the clatter of claws in pursuit as he drew closer to the tree. Not slowing down, he leapt up, grabbing onto a thick branch and using his momentum to do a pull-up. He slung a leg over the branch and risked a glance down.

Ripper was circling the tree below, eyes rolling, slobbering and snapping.

Harry began working his way further up the tree toward a more comfortable position. He'd have to wait this one out.

Suddenly, high-pitched yelps rang out from the ground.

"We have driven off the beast, Speaker."

In the fading light of dusk, Harry couldn't see the snake speaking to him, so he climbed down. Ripper was out of sight, from the sound of it having fled, tail between legs, to hide between Marge's feet.

Several grass snakes had gathered, their heads lifted to regard him. Tongues flicking out intermittently to taste the air. They were larger than any he'd seen before, easily the length of his arm, though thinner around.

"Thank you, friends. Have we met before?"

"No, Speaker. We wintered with some you did meet, and came to see the Speaker for ourselves, then decided to stay, there is good hunting here."

Harry thanked the snakes again and they vanished into the grass. Mr. P had been right again; snakes weren't particularly bright or interesting friends, but they were very loyal to Parselmouths.

Briefly, he was tempted to call the snakes back, and set them on his relatives. Just to keep them on their toes.

His better judgement won out - it would just make them hate him even more, and he didn't want to push them over the edge. Uncle Vernon had a nasty temper.

Still, he didn't want to go back home yet. Aunt Marge wouldn't be happy if Ripper had snake bites on him, and they were certain to blame Harry's freakishness.

Perhaps he'd see if Mrs. Figg was home.

Harry hoped she'd let him stay over until Aunt Marge left the next morning. Maybe she'd even agree to put him in touch with Headmaster Dumbledore!

Mrs. Figg's house smelled of cabbage.

Harry usually stayed with Mrs. Figg when his Aunt and Uncle took Dudley somewhere for his birthday, but this year Aunt Marge was visiting so they didn't go anywhere.

Dudley threw a tantrum, of course, but it had made no difference. Harry suspected Uncle Vernon feared his sister's temper more than his son's.

Mrs. Figg was happy to have him over, despite his Aunt not having called ahead. They were now sharing a cup of tea in her sitting room, each petting a cat nestled in their lap.

"Mrs. Figg, I overheard my Aunt and Uncle discussing something very strange. I'm scared to ask them about it, so I was hoping to get you opinion, because it was really confusing."

"You shouldn't eavesdrop, Harry," she scolded, her expression a little wary.

He put on a bit of a show, hunching his shoulders and staring at his shoes. He fiddled with his sleeves, emphasizing their frayed cuffs and how poorly they fit.

Harry felt a little embarrassed, but Mr. P had coached him for this. Fortunately, it worked, and Mrs. Figg soon capitulated.

"Oh, very well, what was it that you heard?"

"Well, I didn't hear it all, but it sounded like they were arguing about my mom. They never talk about her, ever, which is why I stayed to listen. They were saying she got her letter when she was eleven and were arguing about what they'd do if I got one."

"My Uncle said they he wouldn't let me go. But my Aunt said that the Headmaster would force them. My Uncle didn't like that, but he didn't argue, and he changed the subject."

"Do you know what they were talking about? How could the Headmaster of a school be able to force my Aunt and Uncle to make me go there, even if my mother there? I don't think my parents had a will, I asked my Aunt about that once when we learned about wills in school."

Mrs. Figg was silent for a long time. Harry tried not to hold his breath, hoping she wouldn't blow him off. He looked up at her, but she was staring off into the distance and seemed unaware of his gaze.

Eventually she let out a deep sigh, focusing back on Harry.

"I'm sorry, Harry, it's really not my place," she began, but Harry interrupted her.

"Not your place? So, you know what they were talking about? Please, I just want to contact this Headmaster, if he knew my mother. All my Aunt will tell me is they were drunks who died in a car crash."

Mrs. Figg paled at the last part. She made as if to start speaking several times before going silent again.

"That is a horrible lie, Harry," she finally said. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt if I were to contact the Headmaster, and inform him that you asked-"

Harry cut in again, before she could reconsider.

"You know this Headmaster? That's amazing, thank you, Mrs. Figg! If I could borrow a pen and paper, could you send him a letter from me?"

She agreed and provided Harry with the requested implements.

"How should I address the letter? How soon do you think you'll hear back from him?"

"That's difficult to say, Harry. No sooner than a fortnight; the Mug-," she coughed. "Excuse me. Headmaster Dumbledore's school, that's his name, is in a remote location, and the Postal service is rather slow."

Harry nodded. "I think I should keep this secret from my relatives. Can you put something in your front window to let me know if a response arrives?"

Mrs. Figg dismissed his subterfuge as unnecessary, but he eventually convinced her to humor him. She would hang a bright yellow ribbon over her curtain rod if the letter arrived.

Harry wrote the letter, then settled in for the night on Mrs. Figg's couch. The next morning, much to his delight, he woke to a hearty breakfast she prepared for him.

After thanking her profusely for everything, he reluctantly made his way back to Privet Drive, dragging his feet the whole way. With school out for the summer, he had been excited to resume his visits to the local library.

He dreaded being grounded, confined to his cupboard for the long summer days.

However, when he returned to Privet Drive, his Aunt and Uncle ignored him, and Dudley squeaked and ran upstairs to hide in his room. Harry grinned.

They were actually scared of him!

Harry suspected it wouldn't last forever, but he would enjoy the novelty of it for now.

JULY 31, 1990

The Dursleys stepped lightly around him for a few days after the snake incident, but soon returned to their usual nasty behavior. Fortunately, they didn't try to stop Harry from leaving the house.

His studies at the library this so far this summer had spanned a variety of topics. He continued his studies of Latin and algebra and did a great deal of reading on science.

He focused on the history of science because the stories were so fascinating. Reading them made him feel like he was there alongside Pythagoras, Aristotle, Archimedes, Sir Isaac Newton, Sir Francis Bacon, Mendeleev, and others, as they made their great contributions to mankind's knowledge.

Having just finished a great book on the early development of chemistry, he was planning to switch gears and find something about biology today. Maybe evolution - he'd heard about Charles Darwin and wanted to learn more about him.

The skin on the back of his neck prickled. Growing up around Dudley, Harry had learned to trust his instincts, and he whirled around, expecting to see his cousin and his gang sneaking up behind him.

He frowned - nothing. Just a tabby cat across the street, licking a paw and watching him with feline indifference. He continued toward the library, less caught up in his thoughts, more aware of his environment.

That was odd. Whenever he turned around, he'd notice the cat not far behind.

Harry was fairly certain it wasn't one of Mrs. Figg's. He'd never seen one at her house with those distinctive markings around the eyes, like square shaped spectacles. He shrugged and ignored the animal. What harm could a cat do?

The cat in question sat and watched the skinny, dark-haired boy enter the local public library. Swiftly it darted into a narrow alley across the street, vanishing from sight.

Several minutes passed, then an older woman wearing even an even older style of dress emerged from the alleyway and strode purposefully into the library.

She found the boy in a secluded corner of the library's upper floor, sitting a small study table in front of a window. He was hunched down reading a book in his lap, while a stack of around a dozen more covered the table in front of him.

Surreptitiously, she removed her wand and cast a few silent spells, to make sure they wouldn't be overheard or interrupted. Then she approached the boy and cleared her throat.

Harry jerked in surprise at the sound, snapping the book shut, jumping out of his chair and spinning around in a single motion. A forbidding older woman gazed down at him with a critical eye, deep frown lines surrounding her mouth.

He was about to apologize - his default response when dealing with irate adults - but hadn't quite yet formulated what to apologize for when the woman spoke.

"My apologies, I didn't mean to startle you. My name is Minerva McGonagall, and I'm a professor at Hogwarts."

"Harry Potter, ma'am," he said, extending a hand despite the fact she obviously knew who he was; it was just good manners.

Her stern expressions softened slightly as she took his hand, which Harry had a feeling was a smile by her standards.

"In addition to professor of Transfiguration and Head of Gryffindor House, I am also the Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. Headmaster Dumbledore was away from the school when your letter arrived so it was delivered to me."

"Mr. Potter, reading the slanderous lies your Aunt and Uncle told you about your parents was too much for me to bear. Your parents were in Gryffindor, my House, while they were at Hogwarts, and they were some of the most talented and kind-hearted students I ever had the pleasure of teaching. They were most certainly not drunkards who died in a Muggle car crash."

The venerable woman was clearly feeling quite emotional, breathing hard after the short speech. Harry already knew some of this from his dreams with Mr. P, so he wasn't quite sure what to say. She seemed to master herself, and continued, fully composed.

"You, Mr. Potter, like your parents before you, are a wizard. You'll attend Hogwarts next year when you turn eleven and begin learning magic. Normally, since your Aunt and Uncle know about magic, we'd have sent you an acceptance letter and expected you to visit Diagon Alley accompanied by your guardians."

"However, given the contents of the letter you sent, I've decided this would be insufficient in your case. I expressed my reservations to the Headmaster about leaving you with those Muggles, and I fear he was mistaken to dismiss my concerns. You have my apologies that I did not press him further on the matter."

"If you're willing, I'd like to escort you to visit Diagon Alley, and give you the usual introduction we'd give a Muggleborn student. It's the least you deserve, Mr. Potter, and I hope that would make for a suitably pleasant birthday."

A grin split Harry's face from ear to ear, and he quickly expressed his enthusiastic consent, practically hopping from foot to foot.

With no ribbon appearing in Mrs. Figg's window, he had more or less given up on hearing back from the Headmaster. He certainly hadn't woken up expecting to end up in Diagon Alley.

He'd even entirely forgotten it was his tenth birthday!

—

Even after everything he'd seen and learned in his dreams, he was totally unprepared for how awesome magic was in person.

First, Professor McGonagall had cast a barrage of spells at him. One shrank his clothes to fit him properly, another repaired the various patches and frayed edges. Finally, she caused a small hand mirror to appear out of thin air and handed it to Harry.

His hair had lengthened, curled, and lightened to a reddish brown, and his eyes were now blue instead of green. Other features of his face had changed a bit here and there as well - his nose was a bit pointier, and his cheekbones more pronounced, and probably other things he couldn't pick out.

"I don't recognize myself at all," he said.

"That was my goal, Mr. Potter. The Potters are well known in our world, and you are the spitting image of your father. I believe it would be best if we pretend you are merely another Muggleborn, so as to avoid any unwanted attention, however well-intended it may be."

Harry nodded vigorously. From what Mr. P had told him, what McGonagall said was quite the understatement. The mysterious Boy-Who-Lived would probably get swarmed if seen for the first time in a decade in Diagon Alley.

Next, the Professor removed a chess piece from her handbag, a white pawn.

"This," she explained, her voice taking on an experienced lecturer's cadence, "is a Portkey. Any inanimate object can be turned into a Portkey; this was just an ordinary Muggle chess piece before the charm was cast, and that is all it will be again once the charm fades. Muggles, to be clear, are what witches and wizards call people without magic."

"However, while the charm remains active, the Portkey can transport anyone touching it to a specific destination. This particular Portkey will take us to a private room in the Leaky Cauldron, a pub and inn that also contains the only passage between Diagon Alley and the Muggle world."

"A room is set aside each summer for this purpose, to serve as an arrival point for Muggleborns on their orientation. Traveling by Portkeys can quite dangerous if proper precautions aren't taken, and thus their creation is strictly regulated. It's important the designated arrival location be kept clear, so that the arriving party doesn't arrive on top of someone. Any questions so far?"

Harry had about a thousand, but he was even more excited, both to try out the Portkey and to see Diagon Alley. He could always ask Mr. P later. He just shook his head, then grabbed ahold of the chess piece when instructed to do so.

The world became a dizzying blur as Harry felt a tremendous yanking sensation jerk him upwards. He tensed reflexively, expecting his brains to splatter on the library's ceiling. But then he was high above the ground, spinning all the while, so the sky and ground kept switching places.

Then he was hurtling toward the ground. He braced for impact… and stumbled as there was none at all. One moment he felt like he was moving a thousand miles an hour, and then he was just standing on the ground with no downward momentum.

The experience was jarring, and he fought a wave of nausea, taking several controlled breaths with his diaphragm, a technique Mr. P had taught him.

McGonagall, who looked completely unfazed by the trip, gave him an approving nod when he looked up at her after collecting himself.

The professor gave him a few more instructions, along the lines of "don't run off and don't talk to strangers," and then led him out the private room, through the crowded pub, into a small rear courtyard.

"This is the entrance to Diagon Alley," McGonagall said, motioning at a nondescript brick wall opposite the door to the pub. "You tap these bricks…"

Harry was ready to burst with anticipation. The bricks in the wall began to re-arrange themselves into an archway supported by two stylized pillars, opening to reveal to Harry his first glimpse of the magical world.

McGonagall motioned him forward, and he walked through, eyes wide.

This was, without a doubt, Harry's favorite birthday ever - tied for his all time favorite day ever, along with the one Mr. P showed up in his dreams. Though Harry supposed that was a night, technically.

Harry had seen dream versions of many of the sights before, with Mr. P, but they had been deserted except the two of them and all misty and dream-like. Seeing everything in person, solid and real, all bustling with activity, left Harry feeling elated.

He had harbored doubts. Feared he was going crazy, after all it wasn't normal to learn things in your dreams. The Dursleys had instilled a strong sense of what was normal in him, perhaps above anything else, so he was quite certain of that.

Yet this validated everything his mysterious dream visitor had told him over the past couple years. Everything he had promised. Harry really was a wizard. He beamed up at his companion, who was already back in professorial mode.

McGonagall pointed out the important landmarks, while using them to explain concepts that Harry would be unfamiliar with, if it weren't for his unorthodox private lessons.

He could tell she was a good teacher and looked forward to learning Transfiguration from her.

Their first stop was Gringotts, of course, so that Harry would be able to withdraw some money as he had requested in his letter. The goblins were scary, but the ride on the mining cart to his vault was exhilarating.

McGonagall had politely given him privacy in his vault, and he'd just stuffed his pockets with Galleons until he couldn't fit anymore.

He stopped at another counter and a surly goblin handed him a fat stack of Muggle currency in exchange for a few handfuls of Galleons.

Harry had entered a pauper, and left feeling absurdly wealthy.

He'd have to stop by Diagon Alley again before attending school next year, McGonagall explained, to purchase his wand and the other items on the First-Year shopping list.

"However," she finished, "I'll allow you to purchase a few things now - I can tell you're an avid reader, so we'll stop by the bookstore. First, let's stop by Leaky Cauldron - the room we arrived in is also reserved for our lunch."

Over lunch, McGonagall interrogated him over his situation at home. He didn't enjoy talking about it, but Mr. P had slowly convinced him that none of it was his fault and that the Dursleys were the ones who were misbehaving.

The professor seemed to agree, particularly when he let slip that he lived in the cupboard under the stairs while his cousin Dudley had two bedrooms.

"Mr. Potter, your situation continues to shock me. Have no doubt that I will have words with the Headmaster, who has the final say in such matters, and with your guardians, who should be ashamed of themselves."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea, Professor," he contradicted respectfully. "I think they'll just be angry at me if someone magical talks to them. They really hate magic."

McGonagall made a face at the notion but didn't immediately disagree with him. She tapped her chin, looking thoughtful.

"I did tell Albus they were the worst kind of Muggles," she muttered under her breath.

"Perhaps you are correct, Mr. Potter - I will defer to your judgement on the subject of your guardians, though I still feel I must speak with the Headmaster about it."

Harry nodded agreeably, mouth currently full of pasta. He didn't much care what she told the Headmaster.

He wasn't even sure it would be a bad idea for her to talk with his Aunt and Uncle, but things had been pretty calm lately, and he didn't want to rock the boat.

The first shop they visited after lunch sold a variety of magical luggage. McGonagall looked a bit uncomfortable about him spending so much, but she didn't stop him when he purchased an expensive model enchanted with Extension Charms to contain a modest living area.

Part of the reason it was so expensive was it was fully furnished. Shelves lined all the walls, except one which was dominated by a large rolling-top desk beneath a lofted bed.

Best of all, the trapdoor leading to the magically expanded area was Charmed to be invisible to Muggles. This would be his sanctuary, somewhere the Dursleys could never go.

The shopkeeper put a Voice-Activated Shrinking-Engorging Toggle-Charm on the trunk for an extra fee, after Harry inquired over a more convenient way to transport the trunk without the use of wand.

The trunk already came with a Permanent Feather-Light charm, which would keep it comfortably light no matter how full.

Harry smirked. He planned on putting that Feather-Light charm to the test. Books were heavy, after all.

At McGonagall's insistence, they made a few practical purchases. Pretty boring, though Harry was glad to have some clothes that weren't hand-me-downs and brand-new glasses that made his vision crystal clear.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in Flourish and Blotts. Harry ended up buying a couple dozen books after browsing through at least a couple hundred over the course of four hours.

Professor McGonagall was amazed at the boy's clear passion for learning. He was busier than a Niffler in a Gringotts vault, and when it was time for them to leave, she nearly had to drag him by his arm to purchase his selections.

The stern woman normally would never have let a young orphan spend so exorbitantly on their first visit but couldn't help but indulge a soft spot for the child of James and Lily Potter.

Particularly when he'd clearly had so rough a time of it with those Muggles. She decided to treat him to dinner back at the Cauldron before Apparating him home. How dare they not feed the child properly?!

That night, back in his cupboard, Harry pulled his shrunken trunk from his pocket and set it on the floor along the back wall, where the shadows were deepest.

"Engorgio," he whispered, while tapping the miniature trunk with his right index finger in lieu of a wand to activate the charm.

For the first night ever, Harry Potter slept in the most comfortable bed in the Number Four, Privet Drive.

Even the best Muggle money could buy didn't compete with good charm-work when it came to comfort.

DECEMBER 30, 1990

Minerva McGonagall contemplated the glass of Firewhiskey sitting on her desk, delicate strands of smoke curling up from the beverage's surface.

Charlie Weasley, star Seeker and Captain of her team, was leaving school early to start a prestigious internship as a dragon handler on a large preserve in Romania. The largest in Europe.

She was proud of Charlie, but he was going to miss the final Quidditch match, and the Reserve Seeker was a nice boy but, if McGonagall was being fully honest, rather inept.

They were going to be smashed in the final game against Slytherin. That meant Slytherin would get the Quidditch Cup. Thanks to the antics of Charlie's younger brothers, the already infamous Twins, that meant Gryffindor had no chance at the House Cup.

Flitwick's Eagles might edge out, but likely Snape would be smirking away with both Cups in his office at the end of the year. Again.

Minerva downed the shot just as a knock sounded at her door. Smoothly exhaling the smoke through her nose, she raised her wand and cast a silent Scourgify to remove the scent of alcohol.

"Come in," she called out.

The caretaker, Argus Filch, entered her office, his bearing seemed even more resentful than usual.

"Good evening, Argus, how may I help you."

"Mail. From the Muggle Post," he stumped to her desk and dropped a letter on her desk.

Odd at this time of year, but not unheard of. Addressed directly to her, not the school. No return address. She tried to recall if any Muggleborns were staying at the school as she opened the envelope.

Minerva smiled with delight, her worries about family emergencies vanishing. The letter was from Harry Potter.

He thanked her again for taking the time to escort him to Diagon Alley and introduce him to the magical world. He emphasized how much more pleasant his life was with his new possessions and expressed how excited he was to be coming to Hogwarts next year.

He wished her a happy Christmas and New Year, wished her luck with the rest of the school year.

She leaned back, a warm feeling in her chest. Mostly the Firewhiskey, she decided, but she did hope the Hat would put Mr. Potter amongst her Gryffindors next year.

JULY 24, 1991

Harry had switched up his schedule over the last week, doing his gardening chores later in the day despite the heat of the sun.

Mr. P had reminded him in a dream that his Hogwarts letter would be arriving soon, and it'd be best if the Dursleys didn't see it.

The mail arrived in the afternoon, and the mailman had started handing the mail directly to him right away, when he ran up and stuck out a hand.

Harry quickly scanned the day's arrivals before delivering them through the slot in the front door himself.

Today was the day, and he tucked the odd-looking envelope addressed to him under his waistband, covered by his sweaty t-shirt.

He abandoned his gardening work and hurried inside, dropping the Dursleys' mail on the designated table by the door, then made for the sanctuary of his trunk.

Sitting cross-legged on his bed, he reverently opened the letter. The shopping list held no major surprises - he'd bugged Mr. P endlessly for details all summer, to the lesson-obsessed teacher's visible frustration.

As much as Harry respected his mentor, he hadn't been able to help himself. The envelope did contain something unexpected though - Professor McGonagall had included a small personal note for him!

Short and to the point, she thanked him for the letter he sent her for Christmas, told him he needn't reply as requested in the official letter because she knew he planned on attending Hogwarts already.

She also included instructions on getting to Platform 9 and 3/4, which she explained had slipped her mind during their Diagon Alley visit. Finally, she wrote that if he did need any help, he should send her a letter as soon as possible, and that she would make the necessary arrangements.

Harry appreciated Professor McGonagall's concern, but decided he'd be fine on his own. He didn't think he could wait long enough to send a letter.

He also wasn't as excited to try Portkeying or Apparition for the second time now that he knew what they were like.

He knew there was a train to London. Tomorrow, he could head to the library and start planning his trip to the city.

So distracted he was scarcely able to function for the rest of the day, he burned dinner and got sent to his cupboard hungry by an enraged Uncle Vernon.

His mind too fired up and his stomach too empty to sleep, he cracked open the introductory Arithmancy text he'd picked up last year. His maths was good enough now, according to Mr. P, but it was still difficult reading - dry and dense.

Better than counting sheep. The complex formulae quickly dissolved Harry's excitement, while his hunger faded to a familiar dull ache on its own before long. He drifted to sleep with the vague hope he'd get to see Mr. P that night, but it wasn't in the cards.

JULY 28, 1991

Several days of rain had forced Harry to delay his plans, letting his excitement cool. He was glad he did, because he finally had a dream with Mr. P, who gave him a lot of useful advice.

Today, he was finally leaving Privet Drive.

Harry expected it to take four hours to walk to the train station, so he rose before sunrise, helped himself to the ingredients for a few sandwiches for the road, and left the Dursleys a note stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet.

At Mum's school, required to return this summer; see you then.

HJP

He downed a few glasses of water to hydrate for the journey, packed his sandwiches away in the top compartment of his trunk, and made it out the door before the sun crested the horizon.

The fastest route to the train station committed firmly to memory over the long rainy days, Harry strode forth rapidly, almost jogging.

He didn't stop until a small park he'd picked out near the midpoint of his journey, where he settled down at a picnic bench to each his lunch. He made sure no one was in sight when he expanded his trunk.

Harry was getting a little footsore, but the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and he was starting his new life as a wizard. Mr. P always went on about the dangers of the magical world, but Harry didn't care.

Anything short of Azkaban was better than life with his relatives in Little Whinging!

Harry ate his second sandwich on the train to London, after expanding his trunk in the cramped and somewhat unsanitary privacy of an on-board toilet.

Upon reaching the city in the early afternoon, he walked down Charing Cross Road towards the Leaky Cauldron, stopping at several Muggle shops along the way.

Mr P had made him memorize a long shopping list of mundane items, and he did his best to find everything his teacher wanted him to have. Even when it seemed strange or unnecessary given the conveniences which, even with his rudimentary knowledge, Harry already knew to exist in the magical world.

Some, like a black baseball cap and a cheap mechanical watch, didn't need any explanation. Harry put those two on right after purchasing them.

He spent the longest time in the Muggle bookstore right next to the Leaky Cauldron, accumulating a hefty stack of non-fiction that had the salesclerk giving him a rather incredulous look.

Fortunately, the man accepted Harry's crisp Pound notes without making a fuss.

Honestly, as if it were so strange for eleven-year-olds to be interested in - among other things - linear algebra, Latin, Ancient Greek, Egyptian hieroglyphs, electrical and mechanical engineering, quantum physics, and the history of architecture.

Harry chuckled ruefully as he exited the shop, the top compartment of his trunk packed to the brim with his new books.

To be fair to the salesclerk, those books were mostly for Mr. P. Though, Harry was quite interested to learn how to read hieroglyphs; Egypt was full of ancient and mysterious magic.

The Leaky Cauldron was his next stop, where he rented a room through morning of September 1st.

He spent the next remained of the night in his new lodgings, tired from the long day. After a long, hot shower, he took a quick nap to recharge, then ordered room service and ate a much-needed meal.

The next few hours Harry sorted through his new purchases, slowly carrying everything down into his trunk's Expanded space and organizing everything as best he could.

Finally, he transcribed the receipts he'd received into a notebook, and counted up his remaining Muggle currency. Mr. P was trying to teach him bookkeeping.

Taking a look at his new watch and seeing it was past midnight, he set an alarm for eight in the morning and went to sleep in the bed in his trunk in favor of the unfamiliar rented one.

In the morning, after breaking his fast with another order of room-service, Harry stopped by Gringotts to replenish his depleted coffers.

Well-funded, his next priority was getting a wand, which led to a lengthy visit with the inscrutable Ollivander.

Now the proud owner of a holly and Phoenix feather wand, Harry set about getting the rest of his Hogwarts shopping list taken care of.

By the time his stomach insisted on lunch, he had everything except his textbooks. And his order from Madam Malkin's, which wouldn't be ready until the afternoon.

Returning to his room at the Leaky Cauldron, he put in another order for room service and repeated his errands from the previous night, logging his purchases and storing them in a trunk.

After eating, he took out his wand and tried a few simple spells. Mr. P said they couldn't detect underage magic in a place as magical as Diagon Alley.

At first, he was still worried the Aurors would show up knocking on his door, but after he successfully lit the tip of his wand for the third time with no ill consequence, he decided it was safe.

He let a whoop of joy - he was truly on his way to becoming a wizard.

Once he started feeling comfortable with the Wand-Lighting Charm, he set back out for the Alley. He planned to pick up his robes and then spend the rest of the day browsing Flourish and Blotts.

Harry almost whistled a jaunty tune as he walked down the bustling magical thoroughfare. Not quite; it was too ingrained in him to avoid notice - but almost.

As eager as he was to get to Hogwarts, he was going to miss this sense of total freedom. He resolved to make the most of the next month.