Disclaimer: I make no profit from this piece of work. Cover credits go to Numyumy.

Prologue

Pvt. Johnson woke up that morning, not in the best of moods. He had been stationed over Little Whinging for over four months now, and, although he didn't hate it, the small town was the most peaceful (read boring) place he ever set foot in his short life. Now don't get me wrong, Johnson wasn't in any particular hurry to be welcomed onto the battlefield by a stray bullet, no sir thanks but no thanks. But you see, before joining His Majesty's Armed Forces, Johnson had fancied himself a man of action – or ill-breed boy, the Madam at the school would say – and always dreamed of partaking in glorious battles and daring rescues, away triumphing over the legions of the Usurper. And so he had not thought twice about enlisting as soon as he got of age, if against the protests of his mother.

But four months on guard duty and the most exciting thing he had seen was an almost car crash on one of the busier days. He still remembered how the drivers got out and promptly apologized to each other in overly polite nods. And that was his life in the military. A far cry from storming the Usurper's castle holding only a knife with his teeth, true, but what's a bloke to do?

He chuckled, laughing at his own joke, while chewing on... whatever they served in the mess hall, almost spilling it. Besides him Pvt. Bryce gave him a look, raising an eyebrow. Bryce had been his shift mate for at least ten weeks now. Johnson couldn't say he the arrangement dissatisfied him (his ex-partner Clinton had been a dick), the blonde soldier was an agreeable fellow if one could excuse his eternal cheerfulness. In fact, Bryce's liveliness had gone up over the past few days, having found a local girl to gallivant around on his breaks (and out of them). True, Johnson had thought of doing the same in the beginning, but his plans were crushed when the Sargent seemed to take a liking to him and relished in any opportunity to punish the younger soldier. Johnson had sighed in resignation, shrugging at it. Nowadays it looked like he could not take a step without his superior breathing down his neck.

"Oi, you alright there mate?" Bryce asked, taking a break from whatever he had been saying before.

Johnson muttered something under his breath to dismiss his partner. Bryce seemed to understand his bad mood and decided to leave him alone. But not for long. Pretty soon Johnson's ears were being abused again as the other male, having finished his breakfast, resumed his speech on the Tales Of All And Every Thing On The Life Of Colbert Bryce. He didn't mind; in all honesty, the silence irritated him sometimes.

So after finishing his plate of disgusting nutritious food, gathering his gear, being yelled at by the Sargent and having to start the old jeep three times, Johnson and Bryce left the base for another exciting eight hours of watching the neighbourhood of Little Whinging.

He didn't make to the first corner before sighting the confirmation that day really wasn't one of his.

A group of strangers people blocked the street, not so quite whispering together, arms waving in the air, and lips moving quick. All in cloaks of different colours. Johnson, though free-spirited, never saw himself as a rebellious youth. He didn't buy into the alternative sense of fashion other teenagers had favoured back on his time. Yet, he couldn't say he didn't know of all the new and inventive getups they would come up with every few years and, truth be told, he didn't give a damn; they could dress up for all he cared. But obstructing streets for their weird collections was just plain rude.

Counting to ten in his head, he honked his way through the bodies, promising himself he'd just run over them if they didn't move fast enough. But when he took a closer look, more than a few of his obstructors turned out to be not the youngsters he imagined; that guy's beard had to be reaching his chest, he must have been as old as his dad!

"...yes murdered…"

"...incredible… "

"...all by himself ..."

"...Black did it, you say?…"

"...is it over? It's over r-right?..."

Fragments of their quiet conversation made it to him through his unrelenting hoking. He had not heard of any murders that morning, but he guessed it wasn't that late yet, so maybe he would catch wind of it later from the radio. Perhaps that was why all these weird people were making a ruckus; someone they knew had been killed? Deciding it didn't matter – God knew someone was always being killed somewhere these days – he pushed it out of his mind and focused on getting through the crowd.

Nothing else disturbed him for the rest of the trip to the post, bless the King, save for an unnatural amount of owls swooping past. What the hell, he thought, crazy day. It was just one of those, he knew. He sat down on the watching-booth, tuned his pocket radio on the sports station and let his mind go numb. Along the day he spotted more of those weird fellas in cloaks. Curiosity almost compelled him to stop and question one of them, but the broadcaster just announced the results for the junior league.

Much later, almost by sundown, that he spotted Bryce coming from his own cabin across the street, with the usual sheepish grin he carried every time he wanted to make one of his escapades to visit his bird.

"Hey there, partner," Bryce said, looking down and scratching his neck, "you got any plans for this evening?"

"You can go see your lass, it's all good over here," Johnson said, chuckling.

"Cheers mate," the blonde lauded, already turning to leave. He turned one last time before adding, "I'll pay you back when you find yours."

Johnson just shook his head, smiling despite himself, "Sure thing, Bryce."

But Bryce had gone. Good thing they had been assigned to a place as peaceful as Little Whinging where no one ever checked on them. The Sargent would have a field day if he learned of one of them neglecting his duties. Hell, best he not even dream of it. Johnson shuddered at the thought and went back to his radio.

Later, he browsed through the stations when the evening news caught his attention:

"...and more on our latest news about the sudden death of the Usurper. If you happen to have turned us on right now, the Usurper and a significant part of his court were found dead this morning in his ancestral residence. Although there have been attempts to hush the spread of information, our sources point out that property damage was quite significant. Yet no declaration has come from Camelot, either to take responsibility for the attack or to comment on the event. We've invited Professor Durrant Coke, PhD, and Political Science Professor at the University College London, to talk more about this issue. Good evening Professor, what do you think this could mean for the war effort from now on?"

"Good evening Tom, thank you for inviting me. I believe this spells an end for the pretenders' campaign now that the head of the snake is no longer attached to the body, so to speak. We have seen such cases many times before and with prime examples this very century in Hitler and Mussolini. For all intents and purposes, we can consider this civil war to be over. I would say we can expect an official treaty for the end of hostilities in a few days at most, even more considering..."

Johnson sat frozen on his plastic chair.

The Usurper was dead; the war was over. What were the cloaks talking about earlier?

But these thoughts were mostly drowned by the conflicting feelings spreading inside him. On one hand, it made him glad the ten-year-old war was coming to a close, and, of course, he wouldn't be dying by way of any stray bullets. On the other, he wouldn't come anywhere near stray bullets to begin with! Where was the action?! The glory?! He sighed; at least his mother would be happy in a few weeks when he'd return home after decommission.

The fireworks started some time after that and went on for awhile – not that many though, people still feared the rebels would just keep going without their so-called king, but not enough to not allow the people to breathe a little easier now. He checked his pulse watch; Bryce returned at that time most days. He and his girlfriend had probably caught air of the news and decided to extend their evening liaison. There must have been some festivities going on at the bars downtown. Johnson hoped he would remember to come back the end of their shift; he wouldn't like to have to ask the next guys to keep quiet about that.

It was then he noticed someone approaching the gate. One of those people with cloaks (purple at that!), a tall, thin old man with very long silver hair and beard. He carried a bundle of blankets on his arms.

Johnson rose from his chair, walked out of the booth and moved to meet the stranger over the traffic fence. Up close he could see how old the man truly was. Wrinkles covered most of his exposed skin. A long and crooked nose served as support for small half-moon spectacles. Still, his blue eyes twinkled with life, giving him a much younger air than his appearance would otherwise indicate.

The senior had an odd familiarity, but Johnson couldn't quite place him.

"Good evening, sir, can I help you?"

"Good evening. Beautiful night, isn't it?" the man said jovially. Johnson nodded. The stranger continued, his smile widening, "you wouldn't be interested in opening this gate for me, would you?

Johnson stared at him, "Can I see your documents?"

"Oh right, just a moment please." The man started rummaging in his loose clothes with his free hand. Johnson took that moment to better inspect the bundle of blankets. Through a gap, he saw a mess of black over pink; something that, for sure, could only be the head of a-

"Sir, is that a baby?" But no baby existed in the next second, and Johnson had no recollection one ever did.

"Alright, I believe those are what you asked for?" the old man handed a huddle of crumpled papers. Johnson gave them a once-over. They appeared okay; the stranger lived down one of the streets for something close to twenty years now. He cocked his eyebrow, looking one more time at the smiling old man, before moving to raise the fence.

"Thank you, young man, I am just dying to get home and rest these old bones in a nice warm bath," he said in his ever genial voice.

"It was no problem, Mr Glover, have a good one. Long live the King." He downed the fence again.

"And Praise be the Holy Sword!" exclaimed Mr Glover, again too cheerful. At least someone seemed to be enjoying himself. "And nice business with the war if I do say so myself. I knew you all had it in you."

Johnson said nothing but gave him a wry smile. Just as well, as the man had already resumed his walk down the lane with a brisk gait.

Later, Pvt. Bryce would return from his vagrancy, by the grace of the King not reeking of liquor. He would tell Pvt. Johnson everything about his evening with the lass with the long legs, how happy he was the war would be over and how he would try to maintain contact with the girl ("It's true love Johnson, you will understand someday!"). He would ask how the shift went and if anything exciting had happened. Johnson would say no, just the usual people that did the exact same trip every day back from work. Nothing unusual. No one interesting. The lads for the next shift would arrive and they would drive back to the base in their old jeep.

And somewhere that town, in a street called Privet Drive, a certain Mr Dursley would wake to a very uncomfortable surprise.

Chapter One: The Two Witches

Harry Potter woke up on the morning of his eleventh birthday feeling better than he felt in years. He didn't even mind when his Aunt Petunia racked her knuckles on the door of his small bedroom like the end of the world and snapped for him to rise and come down to help her prepare breakfast. He put on some of his over-sized hand-me-downs from Dudley and made his way down the stairs and into the kitchen. Sitting at the table still in his pyjamas, his Uncle Vernon seemed to have decided to not go to work that day; his face behind the morning journal was of a man readying himself for war.

"Good morning," Harry said, such was his good mood. He received a grunt back from his uncle and a frying pan from his aunt. She had started on the bacon, and Harry moved on to the eggs, humming a song to himself – which earned a cold glare from Aunt Petunia, but otherwise went unprotested.

The reason for Harry cheerfulness was a rather sudden phone call his Aunt received a couple days prior. Harry remembered how, for days, strange letters addressed to his name arrived with increasing persistence in the home of the Dursleys. After the first one, when his relatives decided to move him into Dudley's second bedroom (which was good), Uncle Vernon had been obstinate in not letting Harry get his hand on one of the letters (which was bad). The situation got so ridiculous he even found his uncle sleeping by the mail slot on the door one morning, which led to some trampling, some shouting, and the innocent slot being nailed shut.

But one afternoon after a new batch of letters came in, it all came to an end when the living room phone roared, startling his relatives – who, in truth, were quite easy to startle these days. His aunt and uncle shared a look and she moved to answer the call.

"H-Hello," she said, "yes, I am." She stayed silent for a few seconds then looked at Harry, who, like Uncle Vernon, listened in by the door, and her face bleached, "y-yes he does." Then she looked at Vernon with desperate eyes, "A-actually, I don't think that's a good day, y-you see my husb-" she stuttered, but shut her mouth again, her face losing even more colour, "O-okay, we'll be waiting." She finished, putting the phone down. She spun to face Vernon and Harry.

"Who was it?" Uncle Vernon beat him to the question.

"It's the one who's been sending the letters," she looked at Harry with apprehensive eyes, "she's coming here."

"I'LL NOT ALLOW IT," his uncle exploded at his side, his face getting redder by the second, "I WON'T HAVE ANYMORE OF HIS ILK AT MY HOUSE! GIVE ME HER NUMBER PETUNIA I'LL CALL BACK AND GIVE THEM A PIECE OF MY MIND!"

Uncle Vernon kept ranting on for a couple more minutes, but to no avail; the person on the other side didn't bother leaving a contact number. In the end, his relatives hurried Harry back to his room while they discussed the upcoming visitor.

Harry put the eggs on the table and joined the rest of the family. Dudley came down minutes earlier and had been trying to poke Harry with his Smeltings stick.

"Dad, when does the guest arrive?" Dudley asked between great mouthfuls of sausage and eggs. Harry put a little more on his own plate, just to be on the safe side.

"Later," Uncle Vernon groaned.

"Who is it?"

"I told you Duddydums, it's one of Mummy's old acquaintances — you don't know her," Aunt Petunia answered instead, trying a quick glance at Uncle Vernon. She spread a bit more peanut butter on a toast for good measure before putting in down on Dudley's plate.

"Why is she coming here?" he insisted. Harry stayed silent throughout the exchange. Maybe he would learn something if he stayed silent long enough.

"To talk about your cousin — now eat your breakfast, you're a growing boy and need to eat properly," she replied with a tone of finality she seldom used on her son. Harry did not comment on the 'properly', getting his satisfaction instead from Dudley's sulky face as he went back to his eggs with a vengeance.

"Higher import taxes?!" Uncle Vernon brandished his journal in anger, no longer able to contain his bad mood. "Have those baboons at Camelot gone mad?! King Samwell would never stand for this! Just wait and see until..."

Harry tuned out another of his uncle's usual rants about the sickly king of Britain and how he would 'straighten this country up' as soon as he got better, which would happen any day now. He still remembered the first time his uncle had said it years before.

'Later' came fast while Harry kept himself busy with his every-day chores. He had just finished trimming the grass before Aunt Petunia hurried him inside, told him to take a shower and get into something presentable. He wondered if he should wear his older and more fitting, but more battered, clothes or the newer but much larger ones. If his cousin kept growing at the alarming rate he did these days, soon Harry would be able to cut into two pieces any future hand-me-downs he got.

Minutes later, Harry came down the stairs to find Uncle Vernon pacing from right to left in the living room. He wore one of the nicer — if not the nicest — of his suits , looking absorbed in thoughts as deep as they were disturbing, judging by the shades of red his face kept shifting into. As soon as he saw Harry he made a beeline for the boy, took him by his shoulder, and pulled him aside.

"Look here, boy," he started, "I want you on your best behaviour, do you understand me?" Harry nodded. "You are to speak only when spoken to and make absolutely — absolutely! — no questions, got that? And no funny business either! Also, refuse whatever offer these people make to you; they're not the right sort and should not be trusted."

But Harry was not of the right sort either, if he were to believe his uncle. "Yes, Uncle Vernon," he lied. No way he would just shut his trap, not when he had the answer to the mysterious letters so close at hand.

Aunt Petunia and Dudley joined them in the living room. His aunt also wore one of her more elegant dresses, one of those that looked like it came with a matching extravagant hat old ladies wore on Sunday mornings at the church. If it really did, she chose not to put it on. Dudley wore his Smeltings uniform — seeing as it was the poshest outfit he owned at the moment.

Did they want to impress the guest or intimidate them? Suddenly, he didn't feel as self-conscious about his baggy clothes.

Soon enough the doorbell started to ring. His uncle and aunt shared a nervous look and rose together to answer the door. Vernon straightened his suit, stuffed his chest, and opened it.

On the other side stood a tall, rather severe-looking woman. She kept her dark hair drawn in a tight bun and wore a very conservative (and outdated) high buttoned shirt and a long skirt, both of deep emerald colour. She carried a small woman's bag, and square glasses rested on her nose, completing the look of a non-nonsense school matron.

"Good afternoon," the woman said in a strict voice, " Mr and Mrs Dursley, I presume?"

Uncle Vernon seemed to struggle a bit to find his voice, "Yes. Are you the McGonagall one?"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Professor Minerva McGonagall — your wife and I talked over the phone." Harry noticed she spoke with a hint of a Scottish accent, like that of someone who lived years without interacting with other scots. She stared straight at the door line on the floor separating the inside of the house and the outdoors.

The Dursleys seemed to find their manners because they made way for her entrance then. Once she got inside Aunt Petunia lost no time in closing the door, and the three made their way to the living room, the professor's heels tapping on the wooden floor. Harry and Dudley, who had been spying from the corridor ran back to their assigned seats, each trying to trip the other on the way.

The group found them seated and behaved on the couch. Uncle Vernon sat on the important people's armchair and Aunt Petunia joined Harry and Dudley, while the professor took the opposite loveseat for herself.

"Again, I am Professor Minerva McGonagall," she said. "Thank you for agreeing to receive me in your home."

Harry doubted his relatives had any choice in the matter; they were being uncharacteristically rude, for they would have never sat down without Aunt Petunia making a trip to the kitchen to retrieve at least a tray of cookies or cake — it was the proper, normal thing to do in such cases, and God forbid his relatives were to be anything but normal in any situation.

But if the lack of tea and biscuits bothered the woman at all, she didn't show; instead, she turned to Harry, "And you are Harry Potter?" he nodded wildly, "Nice to meet you, Mr Potter. I did have the pleasure of teaching both of your parents and I must you say you look remarkably like your father."

His eyes widened at that. Harry had never seen a picture of his parents. According to the Dursleys, they had been dumb, pleasure-seeking vagrants who went on and got themselves killed in a careless car crash, leaving their orphaned son to burden honest, hard-working folk. He was about to ask more about them before the professor continued.

"I lecture at one of Britain's finest institutions, Mr Potter, and — like your parents before you — you were found to possess the extraordinary qualities we at Hogwarts seek in our students."

"But I don't have any extraordinary qualities," he said, confused. He caught Uncle Vernon throwing him an icy glare through his narrowed eyelids, but ignored him and focused on the professor.

"Tell me, has anything unusual happened around you before, Mr Potter? Things you couldn't quite explain?" Harry opened his mouth to deny but found himself closing it again. Thinking back on it, what happened at the zoo with the Brazilian boa weeks before was just one of many episodes involving Harry around inexplicable events — including the infamous regrow of his hair every time his relatives tried to get him a 'normal' haircut. Aunt Petunia beat him to answering the woman this time.

"He doesn't have it," she breathed, "nothing weird ever happened. He's not like L-Lily. He's like us, completely normal."

Professor McGonagall eyes narrowed a millimetre as she turned to her, "Nonsense. The Ministry has registered no less than twenty occurrences in the last eight years in this area. Unless you're telling me your son —" she looked at Dudley, who appeared lost but was making an effort not to show it, " — is the one we are looking for, I'm inclined to believe no mistake has been made."

That silenced Aunt Petunia, but was just enough for Uncle Vernon, who stood and started, "My Dudley is not one of your lot! You will not accuse him of — of this freakishness! And the boy is not going! We'll beat it out of him if we have to! We agreed to have you here to stop the madness with the post! But that's it! He's not going and that's final, you can leave now!"

Everyone in the room watched in silence. The professor didn't move. She waited for Vernon to finish and very calmly, very slowly, she said, "Mr Dursley. You are sorely mistaken if you believe me to be here seeking your permission. Harry Potter is going to Hogwarts whether you approve of it or not. It's his birthright as a subject of the king and one of our kind."

"What do you mean your kind?" asked Harry, not able to stop himself.

But Uncle Vernon had just begun, "WELL I'M NOT PAYING FOR ANYTHING SO HOW IS HE GOING YEH?" he yelled, quickly approaching beet status.

Harry could tell the woman professor was too reaching the limit of her patience as well, if the severe thinning of her lips was any indication. Nevertheless, she still kept her cool when she spoke again, "You need not worry about that. If Harry's parents were unable to leave a trust-fund for him, the Crown shall provide its usual scholarship for orphans and unfortunate children." She turned to Harry and continued on a much gentler tone, "By our kind, I mean the people who can do the extraordinary things you can do — people like me and your parents. Mr Potter, you are a wizard."

The very word seemed to affect the room. Dudley and Harry went wide-eyed, while Aunt Petunia gasped in horror. Vernon started contorting, and if Harry didn't know any better he would say the man was about to have a stroke.

"GET OUT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! I FORBID YOU TO SAY A– UHMM" Uncle Vernon stopped in the middle of his rant when the armchair, which had been immobile right behind him, suddenly came to life, engulfed him in a hug and forced him to sit down again, one of its arms covering his mouth. Three things happened at the same time as that; one, the horrified shriek of Aunt Petunia, who pushed herself as hard as she could against her seat and away from the possessed chair; two, Dudley, who also shouted, but choose to jump over the couch and run inside the house; three, of course, Harry, who stared in disbelief, his mouth falling to the ground.

"Now that, I hope, we'll finally not have to suffer any interruptions, do you wish to ask me anything, Mr Potter?" Harry returned his gaze to the stern woman just in time to catch her putting away what looked like to be a wood stick. One side of her lips rose slightly.

"Me? A – a wizard?" gasped Harry.

"Exactly." She reached inside the small bag she carried and retrieved one of the envelops Harry saw so many times these past few days but had no chance of getting a good look at so far. She leaned over to Harry and delivered it in his hands.

It still read in emerald green letters 'Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Private Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey'. He pulled the envelop open and read the parchment:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: SIR ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Kn. of The R. Table, Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,

Deputy Headmistress

"You do not need to send any owls, as I have delivered your letter myself," McGonagall said.

Harry had one and a million questions in his mind. He agreed on the one at the forefront.

"So, if my parents were wizards — like me — how did they die in a car accident?" He asked, who could not fathom how magic-widening wizards die in such a common way.

The professor frowned and turned to his aunt, who despaired over her bound husband in her seat — worried for him but still afraid enough to not get any closer. When she noticed both of them looking at her she straightened her dress, trying to regain some composure.

"Care to explain, Mrs Dursley?" the Professor said. Aunt Petunia made a face before speaking.

"They didn't die in a car crash." She scoffed. "No, that was too normal for Lily Evans, wasn't it? Too ordinary. No, the Witch of The Family had to go run around with that terrible Potter boy doing God knows what, get herself blown up and just leave her responsibilities to other people like she always did, that — that selfish b — girl."

'Blown up?' Harry mouthed. The venom in his aunt's voice caught him by surprise; she had always refused to talk about her late sister and never had anything good to say about her and her husband, but still, he had never heard such malice coming from his aunt before. It made him wonder for the first time if she really, truly, hated his mother.

Aunt Petunia looked away and didn't say anything else, her face distraught. He turned to the professor.

"I'm sorry, Mr Potter, despite being their teacher I did not come to know them well in their later years." Harry's face fell at that, but she continued, "however, there's someone at Hogwarts I think might have the answers you seek, a friend of the family for many years to whom you ought to pay a visit. His name is Rubeus Hagrid; perhaps he can point you in the right direction."

Harry raised his head. Professor McGonagall was giving him the first smile that afternoon. There and then, he made his heart; he would definitely — definitely — go to Hogwarts. He would learn more about his parents no matter what.

"Mrs Dursley, there is a place in London Harry can get his supplies for the year. It's called the Diagon Alley — here is its address." She reached into her bag and pulled a piece of paper, putting it down on the short centre table. "I recommend you look for the Wizarding Bank once you get there, Mr Potter. It's not unusual for parents to set a trust-fund for their children in preparation for their school years. And if they didn't, tell the bank you will need the Crown's scholarship funds."

"Can — can you take me, professor?" Harry asked.

Her gaze softened at that. "Unfortunately, I can not. I'm already overstepping my duties as it is, having come talk to you. Usually, this task is reserved for the benefit of muggleborns — children with both non-magical parents, which we call muggles — and wizards or witches living in orphanages. Since you live with relatives who already know of magic, my coming here was a personal request from the headmaster, who was worried because no owls arrived with your answer. But don't worry, I'm sure your guardians won't return to neglect their duties regarding this matter." She set her eyes once again on Aunt Petunia, who wrinkled her nose in distaste, but otherwise said nothing.

"I must be going," McGonagall continued, rising to her feet. " Mr and Mrs Dursley, thank you for your hospitality." She retrieved the stick from her waist, and after a flick of her wrist the armchair released Uncle Vernon and returned to its original still state. Aunt Petunia hurried to her husband's side, fuzzing over him, unsure of what to do to help. Harry thought he looked fine enough though, if a bit out of breath. The professor turned to him one last time. "Pleasure meeting you, Mr Potter, please remember to get your supplies in advance. I expect to see you at Hogwarts on September 1st."

"Yes, Professor!" exclaimed Harry.

"One last thing: minors are not allowed to do magic outside of school, that means when you get your wand you must restrain yourself from practising the spells on your schoolbooks — there will be time for that at Hogwarts. Violating this rule can lead to grievous consequences, including expulsion and the breaking of your wand, understood?"

Harry gulped. McGonagall nodded and without another word she turned on her heels and saw herself out, leaving the horrified Dursleys and one amazed Harry behind.

Three days later found Harry in his room bored out of his mind. His relatives had refused to speak to him since the eventful visit, which made living together quite the awkward affair. He noticed Dudley kept throwing glances at him, dying to ask questions, but obviously forbidden from doing so by his parents. Also, he noted that the armchair was gone before the end of that day, which put his relatives' hate of anything abnormal in perspective because Uncle Vernon loved that armchair. It had been Italian.

A sudden, loud knock on the door made him jump, and Uncle Vernon's voice came through.

"Get ready, boy, I'm taking you to London," he growled.

"Why?"

"Don't be stupid! To get your dumb freakish things, why else," he snapped and left, judging by the heavy bangs going down the stairs.

Harry grinned to himself. It had worried him the Dursleys would still be too cross to agree to take him to buy his school supplies, but he guessed they were more afraid of what would happen if they didn't. Not that he wasn't prepared to go by himself if he had to — he managed to catch a glimpse of the address on the paper before Aunt Petunia yelled him upstairs back to the bedroom — but it was nice to not have the trouble.

Five minutes later, he stood ready downstairs waiting for his uncle. Didn't take long, he appeared in the corridor, gave Harry an once-over, produced a sound between a sigh and a snort, put on his hat, and went out the door. Harry followed him into the car.

Harry had never been to London before. He was excited to see a big city up close for the first time. His world consisted of the few streets between the Durleys's home and the elementary school he and Dudley frequented. He took in the sight of the skyscrapers and the busy streets, eyes wide and mouth open. While nowhere near the likes of Camelot and other court cities he saw every now and then on TV, London was still considered one of the bigger metropolis in the country.

The car stopped on a busy little street. Uncle Vernon shoved his big hand in his pocket and, with some difficulty, pulled a crumpled piece of paper from within. He squeezed his little pig eyes to read then threw it to Harry.

"Well, this is it. Out."

Harry left the car and was about to close the door when he noticed the older man wasn't doing the same.

"I'll come by again around six. Be here. I'm not waiting around for you."

"Wait — Uncle Vernon!" Harry called, but in vain; he was already pulling the car, the door — jerked from Harry's hand — closing by itself.

Now alone in the middle of London, he was less sure of himself than a minute ago. If he hand't witnessed one of the living room furniture assault his uncle with his own eyes he might even think this an elaborate prank at his expense. But he did and so he could not lose heart now because he would be going to a magical school and would learn more about his parents.

He straightened the paper in his hand. It read:

The Leaky Cauldron, Charing Cross Street, London

Harry looked around, trying to spot any shops that might appear to sell magic wands, cauldrons, spell books and the likes. Nothing looked the sort, however. Yet he remembered the professor mentioning something like a diagonal alley, so he tried looking into alleys sprouting from Charing Cross, but did not find anything. After going up and down the street a few times, he finally saw it.

A grubby, tiny pub nested between a bookshop and a record store. Over the door hung a sign, 'The Leaky Cauldron'. This is it, Harry thought. And it must have been, because people walked by without sparing a glance, sliding their eyes from one of its neighbouring stores to the other, without even noticing the dirty pub. Harry was almost certain he alone could see it.

He took a breath, steeled himself, and walked inside.

It was a very dark place, he noted at once; illuminated by candles and nothing else, the pub had no electric light. Very shoddy too, the tables arranged in a disorganized pattern — in fact, no pattern existed, people sat where they would. A number of heads turned when he came in, but soon lost interest and returned to what they had been doing.

He walked between the tables unsure of what to do. It helped that everyone wore some kind of weird tunic (wizard clothes?), so he guessed he was, at least, in the right place. But where to go from there? After a few minutes loitering, looking around, he went to ask for information. Naturally, being a boy, he hated doing that but saw no other alternative. He grimaced, wishing professor McGonagall had been more helpful.

He spotted a woman sitting at a table not far from him, stirring her tea while reading a newspaper. Olive skinned, ebony hair kept in a braided bun, and wearing deep purple vests, Harry thought she looked friendly enough. He approached her.

"Excuse me, ma'am." He waited for her to shift her gaze to him. "Do you know where I can get my Hogwarts supplies around here?"

He stood there as she scrutinized him through long eyelashes. At last, she spoke, "Muggleborn?"

"No — I mean, kinda — I mean, it's complicated," he tried to articulate. She smirked.

"And did you think of asking the bartender over there?" she looked somewhere behind Harry. He twisted and saw a bald man cleaning some glasses behind the balcony. Harry almost face-palmed.

"No," he said and sighed. "Thanks, ma'am, I guess I should have done that first. Sorry to bother you."

He turned and started to make his way to the balcony, but stopped as he heard a soft laugh and the woman's voice calling him.

"Come back here, kid." He walked back to her table. "That man can't help you."

"Why?"

"Because he doesn't sell anything other than food and drinks," she continued with an upturned smile. "What you're looking for is the Diagon Alley."

Oh, so that's how it was called. Unfortunately, that did not get him any closer to said destination.

"I don't know where that is. Could you show me, ma'am?" he said and then, realizing his rudeness, offered his hand and added, "I'm sorry, my name is Harry Potter."

She looked at him for a long moment with an indecipherable expression, deep red eyes piercing into his own. Just as Harry was getting uncomfortable and about to lower his hand, she grasped it with hers.

"Well met, Mr Potter. And yes, I would be delighted to," she said, smiling. "My name is Cecilia Quirrell. You're in luck, I also happen to be your Professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts for the year."