Chapter 1: Harry Potter and the first Breakfast

Did you ever stop and consider for a moment that it all could come to an end? The fresh mornings on the way to school, endless afternoons spent in a warm class while the rain sings autumn's carol all the way to christmas and soon the summer is already over. Your stomach's fuzzy once again but not because you're back to school, but because you aren't: there won't ever be anymore classrooms, no teacher, no classmates, except in your dreams, once in a while, where you forgot to turn your homework and the morning saves you from the Professor wrath, except you're not sure if you're happy or sad that it's over when you head out in the cold morning; you're a grown up now.

Of course you know that nothing ever lasts, haven't you learnt that already? Our childhood lay in the past, the teens years blinked away and look, the bakery where we used to buy our indulgences has closed. We're adults now, we've reached our final destination, except we never did.

But what about the cobblestones in Diagon Alley? Will they turn to dust as well? Centuries of hoofs, boots, shoes and robes, grinding the stone, heels to heels, dust to dust; until we run out of stones as well.

There's no escaping this fate, unless of course, you had a magic wand. As it turns out, you can buy one next corner, on the left after the lampost shaped like a coffee grinder, Ollivander's shop still stands, and I remember when I had mine so many years ago. Honing wandcrafting skills generation after generation since 382 BC, Ollivanders will provide you with the most refined craft for your magical art. A flick'n swish and the whole road is brand new. That's the trick with us wizards: our cities can grow to the moon, should we wish so, even reach the stars, never age. We endure, survive and prevail.

Ollivanders — South Side, Diagon Alley — Fine Wands for fine magic.

Mr Arthur Weasley skipped through the advertisements page and turned to the economic section of the Daily Prophet, dated 1 August 1998, oblivious to the chaos that passed like a storm through his kitchen. Perhaps he was used to it, perhaps a countless nights without sleep made the amount of care he had to give spare.

Not a second after his eldest son, Bill, had gotten up after grabbing a cup of coffee, Fred Weasley took the chair and offered it to his girlfriend Angelina before Ron could sit down, despite arriving first. Then when Bill came back with his fiancee Fleur and an empty cup of tea. Charlie made an apparition, whispered something to his father's ear, hugged Mrs Weasley, summoned a crate of wine from the cellar, snatched a couple of muffins Ron had set his eye on and vanished through the door. Then Hermione Granger got George seat, next to her, Percy got up, grabbed the small mountain of parchment he was working on, freeing one seat and a quarter of the table surface, Ron finally sat down, but before he could touch the muffins, his sister Ginny came down and Mrs Weasley asked him to leave the seat for his sister since she had to leave early and if you were hungry you simply had to wake up earlier and I don't want to hear about it Ron! Hermione, Ginny, we're leaving at ten.

"They sure don't lose much time," commented Arthur to his wife. "Flourish and Bott is back in business as well — here Hermione, take the muffins, they're with oat. Molly dear, are you sure it's a good idea to go shopping today?"

"I rather go now while everyone is busy than wait until the end of the month and there's nothing left," said Molly while conjuring a batch of sausage from her pan to the table. "Butter is here, Hermione dear. Besides, you said that Diagon Alley is safe now, isn't it."

"It is, it is, Molly…" Arthur flipped through the page and ducked as a sausage flew by and mumbled, "no magic on breakfast."

"Sorry dad," said Fred and he got up. "I can't wait to get out once the Lockdown is lifted. What are they waiting for anyway?"

Percy's head emerged from the door frame. "The Ministry wants to make sure to take every necessary step carefully when removing the enchantment," he said. "As the Minister said, the safety of our underage student is our priority."

"But we're not underage!" protested Fred. "Dad, how come we have to stay in?!"

"Because we said so!" responded Mrs Weasley. "And it's only one hour, it will be over very soon," she added gently for Angelina and Hermione who hadn't been able to go back to their family that summer in a row and were eager to meet them before going back to Hogwarts.

It looked like Fred was about to sit down and argue for the remaining hour if needed but Ron had taken the seat, planted his feet on the floor and was busy stockpiling sausage and grilled mushrooms in his plate, daring Fred to try and kick him out. This time, Fred didn't, and, since Angelina had finished eating, they left the room together.

"Can you pass me the butter, Hermione?"

"A moment, Ron."

"Come on, hurry up."

"I'm using it, Ron," she said, showing her plate.

"Who put butter on a muffin anyway?"

"I do," she said simply, now taking a deliberate long stab in the butter and slowly dragged the knife across said muffin to demonstrate her point.

"But it doesn't go well with it, does it?! Come on," he repeated. "I'm starving."

"But what if I like to butter my muffin?" responded Hermione, shielding the butter plate from Ron's attempt to catch it.

"Will you hurry? Do it with magic, you're a witch for Christ's sake!"

"I like to butter my muffin without any wand thank you very much."

A confused argument ensued where Ron tried to convince Hermione to use a spell he had supposedly learnt and Hermione kept evading it until Ron almost stabbed Hermione's muffin with his wand. At that point, Ginny, who had been carefully watching the two of them argue, wondered why Ron was so interested in Hermione's muffin; George Weasley opened his mouth but Mrs Weasley was first.

"George, please don't answer that, Ginny shut up and get ready and Ron, please do leave Hermione alone, you're not twelve anymore!" she said and that was the end of it.

Very far away from here, another breakfast was taking place. Now, being far away is a very relative notion. For example, the Burrow is not that far from Twelve Grimmauld Place. A three hour drive will get you there. A train ride can get you there faster, depending of the Muggle Prime Minister. And if you're not afraid of planes, a broom ride is even quicker. And with the help of floo powder or from a talented Wizard or Witch, travelling there from here is as easy as taking a step in the next room. However, no amount of magic could reduce the distance between what is the life at the Burrow and the life at Twelve Grimmauld Place.

There, very far away from the Burrow where Mr Arthur Weasley was reading his journal, our story truly begins, and the final chapter of Harry Potter's life ends, but we're in luck, because it's only a mere chapter that ends, not the whole book; there is an epilogue still, which can be as long as we wish, for the final page has not been written. Of course, the anxious reader might take fright upon embarking on a journey with no goal at sight, and yes, it is quite possible the author will fail to deliver a satisfying conclusion, that he will be a poor guide, and perhaps abandon you before reaching the safe shores where the promised treasure is buried: a final point. But no adventures is ever safe, and if you worry that nothing is written in advance, take a look at young Harry Potter whose future is no longer written in a prophecy and yet happily embrace the unknown, eager to start his new life, therefore we shall wrap up this introduction quickly, because as you will soon learn, Harry really does deserve it.

Until now, Harry Potter story had been set in stone — more precisely a glowing orb shelved with dust in a corner of the Department of Secrets — by a defrocked seer, half-fraud half-charlatan, who, after an afternoon spent with a bottle of Sherry, had been visited by the Voice of Narration; Harry would have to kill Voldemort, murderer of his parents, or die by his hand. Since that moment, Albus Dumbledore, who had conveniently been the sole recipient of this tale, made a resolution that he knew would take everything from him: to prevent the Boy-Who-Lived to become the Boy-Who-Ends-Up-Dying-After-All.

And Dumbledore's plan succeeded. After hiding baby Potter from the Ministry of Magic and public eyes with his Muggle relatives, he worked days and night, until the boy's destiny was revealed to him. At Harry eleven's birthday, Albus, Hagrid, and Sirius Black — Harry's godfather falsely accused of murder broke out of prison by Dumbledore himself — went to meet him, and explained it all, that his parents were wizards, that he was supposed to go to Hogwarts, but couldn't, because he had to kill the ghost of his parent's murderer, except that the ghost was currently unkillable, which was kind of a bummer really, because he was already dead but-not-completely, that he should be resurrected to die again, not Harry, not like Jesus Christ, and also Harry would have to train and live in secret in the wizard's secret world, and all of that was highly illegal, and they could all go to jail if the authorities ever found that out, because on top of harbouring a fugitive, they would all commit massive fraud and embezzlement to fund their secret war.

The boy took it pretty well all things considered, probably because it was a better choice than staying with his cousin. Indeed, it was around that time Aunt Petunia had yielded to the school nurse and reluctantly agreed to put some vegetables on her large son's large plate. The transition went better as she expected since Dudley quickly understood the tactical opportunities cabbage and sprout provided in his crusade against his frail cousin. Biological warfare can be nasty, and Harry didn't think twice when offered a way out of Dudley's fart. Then, for five years, he endured it all, the training, the privations, the punishment, the pain, the trials, sleeping on the floor, waking up before dawn, surviving alone for a month in the forest, coming up with a counter curse while being cursed, weekly wizarding duels against Albus Dumbledore, the regular fight with his godfather. At age thirteen he was thrown in a fighting pit in a back alley of Knockturn against savage wizards and devious magical beasts. At age fourteen, there was not a single bone in his body that hadn't been broken once and he had learnt how to repair each of them. Around that time the assassination missions against active Death Eater began. At age fifteen, with Albus Dumbledore, he went on a hunt for Horcruxes and destroyed them one after the other, include the one in himself, with the creative help of a conflicted Dementor. That event was the worst moment of Harry's life so far, except for the time he had to sleep in the same room as his cousin during after a leak in his cupboard; Dudley never liked broccoli as much as that day... The trauma still haunts Harry: some injuries close up but never heal completely.

The day he turned sixteen, Harry Potter went out to kill the Dark Lord.

At his feet, Voldemort's body was judgement day. For a day and a night, spells had cracked and curses gushed through the sky so loud the damned rose from the earth, hell rained down and heavens were torn apart until finally Harry had dealt the finishing blow. By then, there was nothing human left from Voldemort, except that he was dead and Harry wept as he buried him in an unmarked grave right where he had fallen.

When he was back to the headquarter at Twelve Grimmauld Place, Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black were waiting for him, but before they could speak, he informed them the deed was done and he needed to sleep, except he didn't go for the basement, to his training room and the pallet he used to sleep on, but headed upstairs, picked a room, one with a large bed, and without casting a single ward or protection spell, or checking the floor for traps, or raising his mental wards in case legilimens invasion, or meditating, or doing his workout routine, or replenishing his potions vials from their supplies, or using any visualization exercises allowing him to anticipate any danger with at least three different responses including killing the enemy with his own hairs, he fell asleep before hitting the mattress.

The next morning Harry Potter was greeted by a ray of sunshine instead of murder attempt which was a nice change for starters. Also the bed sheets were the most comfortable material his skin ever touched. If Harry ever had known a mother's embrace, he would have still chosen the mattress over it. If he'd known a lover's embrace, it would be a close tie. Little did he know that it was filled with feathers taken from youngs Hippogriphs and Golden Snidgets — now extinct — a practice deemed so barbaric it was outlawed in thirty nine magical countries, and the possession of a single feather could have thrown you in Azkaban for year. Even touching one was still a punishable offence. This particular furniture, including the cushion had also been imbued with the last breath of a dying phoenix, making the lot worth more than half the content of every Gringotts vault, declared or not: inheritance wars had been waged over it and family torn apart, husband murdered and children disowned…On the other hand, the thread count was off the roof and Harry had never slept so well in his life, therefore we can say it was worth it and agree not to tell a word to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. As they say, snitches get caught in Quidditch, then spent most of their life locked in a box; you've been warned.

When he came down for breakfast — and this time he didn't have to fight a troll to get it — Albus Dumbledore and Sirius Black were already there, or, more likely, never left the room at all; Sirius's loud snore filled the dull kitchen, his head tucked in his arm surrounded by empty bottles while Dumbledore had allowed his eyes to rest a few hours ago.

"Good morning!" chanted Harry.

Albus Dumbledore didn't open his eyes at once. "Good morning to you, Harry," he said and fumbled inside his beard because his half moon spectacles were stuck in it. "How are you feeling today?"

"Excellent!" he said and poured himself a large cup of tea while Dumbledore adjusted his glass.

"Hmmr," grumped Sirius and he attempted to wipe the drool off the table before giving up as his sleeves were still wet from the previous night libations. Unfortunately there is no spell for hangovers, but legends do tell that the Noble and Ancient family of Blacks have discovered a portion for it: dragon's horn powder, pearl oil, a dash of cinnamon and two large portions of brandy. Sirius was out of dragon's horn powder and couldn't find the pearl oil and didn't like cinnamon, but he cleverly replaced them with leftover butterbeer and a large swing of icyvodka for the same effect.

"Harry, we didn't have the opportunity to talk about what happened yesterday," said Dumbledore while Sirius was taking his antifogmatic medication. "I'm sure there are many things you want to say."

"Not really. Our plan worked. It was brilliant. I won. Voldemort's dead and buried. It's all over. End of story."

"Indeed, we've sent word about your victory all night," said Dumbledore gravely. "We received information as well, most Death Eaters have been captured or surrendered once they felt the death of their master..."

"Good to know."

"A few fled but the Ministry sent his Aurors after them. The Order sent some wizards as well."

"I'm sure they will find them in no time."

"...there were celebrations all night long, everywhere in the country. Here too, members of the Order of the Phoenix passed here too. Everyone knows what you did Harry, that you vanquished it once again, and they're very grateful."

"True, true..."

"This time, I'm sure they'll give you a national Holiday. Victory day. Or Harry Potter day."

"And they should!" said Sirius, finally out of the fog, "because it's all thanks to you. All these years, you were fighting for them, no matter how hard. For Lily and James!"

He raised his mug, drank, and grimaced. Leftover liquor makes a poor breakfast.

"Indeed, indeed," commented Harry, absent minded.

"All these years of sacrifices, of efforts, of training, well, it all paid off!" continued Sirius. He really wanted to congratulate his nephew, but it seems unable to find the right word. "You faced the prophecy and you came out alive… the cost was high, I know… what was done to you... what we did — what I did — it was necessary. It was your only chance but it doesn't mean it was right. Do you understand? We all did what we needed to save everyone, even if we didn't like it, it was so you could survive."

"Of course."

"Harry," said Albus Dumbledore. "You've but solely concentrated on killing Voldemort for the last five years. It would be perfectly understandable if you were overwhelmed by now."

"I'm fine," repeated Harry. "Voldemort's dead, it's a good thing, isn't it ?"

"Indeed, indeed, but I have come to realise during my long life that we don't always react the way we had expected when the things we wanted most finally occurs. Defeating an arch nemesis can yield… contradictory feeling. Joy, grief, guilt, relief, resentment perhaps. After all, in a way, Voldemort was a large part of your life and now is gone. "

"He sure is," said Harry with a proud smile. "There wasn't much left of him in the end! And now, life goes on."

Sirius and Albus glanced awkwardly at each other. Harry did not react the way they expected and the godfather was getting increasingly worried over his nephew.

"But there's a difference between surviving and living and now… and now…" Sirius' voice trailed off and he launched an interrogative glance at Dumbledore who replied with an imperceptible node, "Harry, is there anything you need right now?"

"Yes… Sausages!"

"What?"

"Can you pass me the sausages?" He pointed at the plate the House Elf Kreacher had brought at the end of the table, "I'm starving."

"Of-of course," said Sirius and he passed him the plate. "But Harry, I meant, after all you went through, you've been to hell and back, is there anything you want? Anything you need?"

"Yes in fact there is," said Harry gravely and Sirius braced himself for the bitter rant he knew was about to come. "Sirius!… I need the marmalade as well. And the muffins," he added, noticing the pile on the other end of the table. "I don't think I ever tried these."

Sirius obliged once again and raised an eyebrow in a way that conveyed his opinion to Dumbledore: he's in denial.

Dumbledore scrunched his nose, meaning Give him time — Sirius was still worried.

"Harry, Harry…" he said. "What I meant is... if there anything else you want, apart from breakfast, you just have to ask. Anything at all. We could go out later, you don't have to hide anymore. You are free now. I'm sure there's many people who want to meet you after what you did…"

Harry shrugged, "Nah, I'm alright. I don't think I want anything other than breakfast right now. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day after all!"

Sirius shook his moustache to Dumbledore — We broke him. "You can do everything you want. Get out, travel across Britain... travel the world even. You can get your own place. A nice wizard's cottage or a muggle penthouse. You could meet people your age… Money's not a problem, I'm sure. Anything you wanted to do but never could, it's possible now."

Dumbledore surreptitiously confirmed to Sirius it with a subtle crease on his forehead. The embezzlement scheme had worked way beyond his imagination thanks to the Ministry of Magic sheer ineptitude. Incidentally, since Dumbledore had slipped his puppet-master fingers way up the Public Treasury purse, public funds had been so well managed and the budget was finally balanced, something that never happened in history — be it Wizard's or Muggle's history. Also there was not a single bathroom in Hogwarts that hadn't been renovated with a brand new Jacuzzi made of solid gold. The gold was a bit over the top but even the Headmaster ran out of ideas on how to launder the money, and now, well, they had earned themself a bit of fun.

As for the Ministry Master of Jewels, he never suspected a thing and saw a validation of his own principle in life, don't think too much about anything and everything will sort itself out eventually.

"I'm happy with the room upstairs," said Harry and he decided it would be his room from now on.

"What if we spent a visit to the Dursleys?" suggested Sirius with a complicit smile. "Want to tell them that you save them and save the world, right? Give them a few words about how they treated you? I sure wouldn't mind punching that ugly doughnut Dudley? Or curse your Aunt and Uncle." He launched a side glance at Dumbledore who said I can handle the Ministry on that with a wriggle of the beard in their secret non-verbal language. "I'm sure it can be arranged, no one could blame you after what happened..."

"Nope, I'm good."

Sirius frowned. Dumbledore interpreted this secret message and passed him the butter, but it turned out, the frown was just him frowning. His nephew was badly depressed and he had to break through him. Through the carapace of pain and resentment. How could he ever face James if he failed again, after not being able to protect Harry, not being able to fight for him...

"Speaking about your old room, in the basement, the training rooms… after all that happened there… We could get rid of it, clear the bad memory. Like we did with Azkaban…"

A red gleam flickered on Sirius Black eyes for a second has memory passed by. During one of their missions, he had learnt first handed the therapeutic quality of fire. A Forbidden spell fueled by years of repressed rage can do wonders.

Once again Harry shrugged. "Wouldn't that be dangerous if that spread? Friendfyre is a very dangerous spell, Sirius. Do you remember when we destroyed Gaunt's ring with it too? You almost lost your moustache!" Harry chuckled on that memory. "I guess you're right though we don't need that anymore. Didn't it used to be a wine cellar before? You could get that back."

"A cellar? Is that what you want? We could get a couple of bottles for sure..." said Sirius feebly.

"Sirius!" exclaimed Harry, "I'm not of age yet! It wouldn't be appropriate."

"But I have to say, Harry, you're more mature than people your age, Harry, even more than many adults," said Dumbledore gravely.

"I don't know anything about wine though. And Sirius always said wine was only good for Muggles and French..."

"Still, we could order a few bottles once I'm rehabilitated," said Sirius, still unsure how he ended up stuck in a conversation about winery because it was clearly not what he wanted to talk about. "Please! Harry!" said Sirius and his voice broke. "I can see something bothering you. Tell me. I can take it. I deserve it…"

Harry looked at him and frowned. "Something is bothering me, as a matter of fact. Are you sure you want to know? I don't want you to take it the wrong way..."

Sirius shook his head.

"Well, then, if you must know… It's about your moustache. I'm not sure you can pull it off. Makes you look like a bad guy. It's not going to help you clear your name with the Ministry of Magic."

Sirius snapped. "Harry! We trained you like a child soldier! It was cruel and inhuman! You're traumatized! And now that Voldemort's gone, you're severely depressed! You've got to want to do something in your life now!"

Harry stopped chewing from a moment, reflecting on the juiciness of the sausage mixed with muffins bits. The mental discipline he had cultivated so far had prevented did not allow him any thought that was not necessary for his mission. Yet there was one thing, so, one desire he could never stifle completely, the one that could finally get out.

He turned to Dumbledore and stared straight into the Headmaster blue eyes. "I want to go to Hogwarts. Starting next September. I want to go to school."