Fiction and reality exist as strange bedfellows, intertwined in ways that would make philosophers weep and madmen laugh. My current existence reads like something ripped from the pages of poorly written fantasy, yet here I stand, spatula in hand, contemplating the nature of my own reality. In my previous life, this would have been nothing more than escapist literature. Now it's Tuesday morning in Little Whinging.
But as Descartes so eloquently put it: I think, therefore I am. The existential crisis was officially postponed until further notice.
"Boy!" Vernon Dursley's voice thundered from the living room, though his face maintained its usual ruddy complexion rather than achieving the dramatic purple hues that amateur storytellers seem so fond of describing. "Cook faster! We're starving in here!"
The knife continued its methodical work on the cutting board, slicing through onions with mechanical precision while I focused my attention on the sizzling pan. No hands required, naturally. One of the more practical applications of wandless magic, even if it did make my uncle's eye twitch whenever he caught sight of it.
"You'll get your damn food when you fix this damn stove," I called back, giving the ancient gas stove a pointed look. The flame had been flickering inconsistently for the past week, and Vernon's solution had been to bang it with a wrench rather than call a repairman.
"What was that?!" His head swiveled toward the kitchen doorway, momentarily abandoning the cricket match that had captured his attention.
Time for damage control. The last thing I needed was another lecture about "gratitude" and "knowing my place."
"I said we're not winning this one." I gestured toward the television screen with my spatula, where England's cricket team was indeed receiving a thorough thrashing. "India's systematically dismantling our batting order. Rather embarrassing, really."
Vernon's glare could have curdled milk, but he eventually grunted and returned his attention to the match. Dudley, sprawled beside his father on the sofa, shot me a knowing smirk. The boy had definitely heard my original comment, but family solidarity only extended so far when breakfast was involved.
Now, any reasonable person might wonder how this domestic scene came to pass. Why wasn't Vernon flying into his characteristic rage? Why did he merely grimace when witnessing my casual use of magic instead of launching into his usual tirade about "freakishness"? And perhaps most shocking of all, why was Petunia actually mending a shirt that would fit me, rather than passing down Dudley's enormous cast-offs?
The answer, as with most complex situations, lay in a combination of stubborn determination, hard-won knowledge, and the beautiful chaos of unintended consequences.
Let me set the stage properly. Upon gaining full awareness of my rather unique circumstances around age four, the revelation that I had somehow become Harry Potter hit me like a freight train carrying a cargo of existential dread. The evidence was undeniable: the Dursleys, the cupboard under the stairs, my own name scrawled in crayon on a kindergarten identification card.
My reaction was, shall we say, explosive.
Literally. I nearly reduced Number Four Privet Drive to a smoking crater.
Consider the psychology at work here: an adult consciousness trapped in the body of a four-year-old, confined to a space barely large enough for storage, suddenly confronted with the reality that death by speeding truck had been the least of my worries. In this world, there were fates far worse than a quick, merciful end.
That particular magical outburst served as a rather pointed reminder to the Dursleys that perhaps they shouldn't poke the emotionally unstable child with supernatural abilities quite so enthusiastically.
But here's the thing that most people misunderstand about the Dursleys: I didn't harbor the burning hatred that you might expect. They weren't monsters, not really. Were they abusers? Absolutely. But they were specific kinds of abusers, operating from fear and social anxiety rather than pure malice.
They weren't serial killers or sadistic psychopaths. They were banal, image-obsessed bigots whose cruelty stemmed from terror of anything that threatened their carefully constructed suburban normalcy. Their abuse was psychological and social, rooted in neglect and resentment rather than active torture. They saw me as a shameful burden, something to be hidden away and punished for the simple crime of existing.
Understanding this distinction became crucial to my survival strategy. I refused to accept their treatment as inevitable. When Dudley threw his first punch, I kicked back. When Vernon attempted his pathetic disciplinary measures, I endured them with the patience of an adult mind while never ceasing my resistance.
And no, before anyone's imagination runs wild, we're not talking about anything particularly dramatic. The worst punishment Vernon could devise was easily manageable when viewed through the lens of adult experience and perspective.
There was no belt involved officers, you got the wrong universe.
Seriously, the creative liberties that amateur writers take with this situation would be laughable if they weren't so disturbing.
But my basic quality of life improved dramatically once I began making myself genuinely useful around the house. Here's the thing that I'm absolutely certain about: I'm bloody good at magic. Not in the "bend reality to my will" sense, but with sufficient emotional investment I could repair broken appliances, incinerate troublesome weeds, levitate heavy objects, and occasionally teleport short distances when genuine fear kicked in.
And yes, I know it's my cheat ability. The mechanism behind it remains frustratingly opaque, but I get the distinct impression that something is granting me these capabilities. It reminds me of those Celestial Grimoire fanfictions I used to write back on Earth, where protagonists received random powers from a mysterious source. Christ, I actually miss those argumentative bastards on QQ and Discord, and that's saying something considering my natural introversion.
The relevant point is that I know this power exists, but it hasn't granted me anything new since I first gained awareness. My working theory is that it enhanced my natural magical potential, making me somewhat prodigious at wandless casting. Whether this advantage would extend to wand-based magic remains an open question.
Despite turning fourteen today, no Hogwarts letter has materialized. Another childhood fantasy thoroughly crushed, though I suppose I should have expected that.
On the positive side, my basic magical abilities make me practically godlike compared to ordinary humans my age. I've tested this extensively. With proper nutrition finally available, I've managed to outperform even Dudley in physical activities, despite his regular gym sessions and school sports participation.
There's actually an amusing story behind our improved relationship. Once I stopped accepting his bullying and began fighting back consistently, we found common ground. I cook meals he actually enjoys, help him navigate his homework assignments, and occasionally assist when older students decide to hassle him and his friends. Our dynamic shifted from antagonistic to genuinely collaborative.
The same principle applied to Vernon and Petunia. After they realized that my magical practice wasn't going to stop regardless of their protests, and that I could actually contribute meaningfully to household maintenance, they developed a grudging tolerance for my abilities. The only condition was absolute secrecy beyond our front door.
Life had become not just bearable, but genuinely pleasant. Better than anything I had dared hope for when I first woke up in this reality ten years ago. Now, on my fourteenth birthday, I was ready to embrace whatever new chapter awaited—
"Shite!" Vernon's bellow erupted from the living room as he launched himself off the sofa, accompanied by the sharp crash of breaking glass.
A distinctly feathery intruder had just made its dramatic entrance through our front window. The snowy white owl landed gracefully on the kitchen counter, extending one leg toward me with unmistakable purpose. A letter was strapped securely to its ankle.
"I realize how this looks," I said carefully, noting the various expressions of shock, suspicion, and outright panic spreading across my family's faces. "But I can assure you that I'm not responsible for this particular incident."
I reached out tentatively for the letter, but the owl simply stared at me with those unnervingly intelligent beady eyes. Right, postal etiquette. I grabbed a small piece of bacon from the pan and offered it up. The bird accepted the tribute with dignified grace before allowing me to untie the letter from its leg. Now that I got a proper look at it, the owl bore a suspicious resemblance to Hedwig, though I kept that observation to myself.
"What the bloody hell is this, boy?!" Vernon's face had achieved an impressive shade of beetroot red. "You promised you'd keep your freak... your abilities under control! Said they wouldn't interfere with our normal lives! What the hell is this then?!"
"Yeah, hold on, I'm looking," I muttered, though my heart was hammering against my ribs because I had a pretty good idea what this letter contained.
"What was that?!" Vernon bellowed from across the room.
"I said I can't hear you properly from down there," I replied with mounting irritation, shooting him a mild glare. The excitement was building despite my attempts to stay calm. Puberty had been uncommonly kind to me, leaving me several inches taller than my uncle and looking like a reasonably fit teenage version of what people might expect of Daniel Radcliffe.
"Speak up, boy! Can't hear you from up there!" Vernon genuinely seemed to have missed my mumbled response.
I turned my attention back to the letter, hands trembling slightly as I unfolded the parchment:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore (Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., 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 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall Deputy Headmistress
I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing like a maniac as I flipped to the second page. The familiar list of supplies spread out before me like a childhood dream made manifest:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM First-year students will require:
Three sets of plain work robes (black)One plain pointed hat (black) for day wearOne pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)One winter cloak (black, with silver fastenings)Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.
COURSE BOOKS All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk.
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot.
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling.
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch.
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore.
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger.
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander.
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand,
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2),
1 set glass or crystal phials,
1 telescope,
1 set brass scales.
Students may also bring, if they desire, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICK
Yours sincerely,
Lucinda Thomsonicle-Pocus Chief Attendant of Witchcraft Provisions
This time I didn't bother keeping my emotions in check. Pure, unadulterated joy erupted from me, triggering a spectacular display of accidental magic. The remaining food finished cooking itself and arranged itself neatly on plates, the broken window reassembled its shattered pieces with crystalline precision, and every light in the room blazed to life with warm, golden radiance.
"I'm a bloody wizard," I declared, grinning so widely my face hurt. "And I've been invited to magic school."
I couldn't bring myself to care about the uncomfortable, fearful expressions that crossed Vernon and Petunia's faces. Dudley, bless him, actually shot me a enthusiastic thumbs up from his position on the sofa. After everything I'd done for him using my abilities over the years, the lad had become something of my only supporter here.
I might do something special for my favorite (only) cousin these days.
Well, this turned into the most awkward breakfast in recent memory.
After finally managing to contain my magical outburst, I'd sent my acceptance reply with the Hedwig-lookalike, confirming that yes, of course I'd be attending. Who in their right mind would pass up the chance to see genuine magic education firsthand?
Surprisingly, my family wasn't immediately opposed to the idea.
"I remember a day just like this as if it were yesterday," Aunt Petunia began, her expression taking on an unexpectedly wistful quality rather than her usual pinched disapproval.
"She got a letter exactly like this one, and off she went to that blasted school."
"Oi, that blasted school sounds absolutely brilliant," I countered with a grin.
"That blasted school got my sister killed," she snapped back with such sudden, raw fury that we all nearly jumped out of our seats. Vernon proved himself a decent husband by immediately moving to pat her back in comfort and reassurance.
"Look, despite our shortcomings, we don't want you dead or seriously injured," Petunia continued, her voice steadying slightly. "You can keep living here just as you have been. You're practically like a son to us now."
Vernon nodded emphatically. "Exactly right. You're already enough trouble as it is, no need getting mixed up with those freaks. It's for your own good, lad."
I could see the genuine panic beneath their words. They'd barely learned to tolerate my magic around the house, and the prospect of me going off to learn even more advanced abilities was clearly terrifying to them.
Though I suspected their concern might actually be genuine, considering how our relationship had evolved over the years.
It struck me that no normal child should have had to work as hard as I had just to earn basic fair treatment. All the cooking, cleaning, problem-solving, and general usefulness I'd brought to this household just to be treated almost like a real family.
But then again, I'd never been a normal child, especially not since gaining full awareness. Sometimes it felt like I'd simply spawned into existence at age four, like some bizarre Minecraft character.
"Do you two even realize what you're talking about?" I asked, studying their faces carefully.
"Have you forgotten all the trouble I caused as a small child? The hair growing back overnight, glass vanishing into thin air, walls exploding when I got upset?" I rattled off several of my more memorable accidental magic incidents.
In my defense, the Dursleys hadn't exactly been the understanding, reasonable people they'd become.
"If I don't get proper training at Hogwarts, my magic will remain wild and completely uncontrolled. That could cause serious harm to me, to you lot, or to innocent bystanders. Hell, their Ministry might need to step in, monitor me constantly, or worse. Worst case scenario? I get properly angry, accidentally blow up a playground full of children, and end up either locked away forever or permanently silenced."
The mental image was genuinely disturbing, especially considering I was fourteen now with hormones running absolutely rampant. Strong emotional outbursts were practically inevitable at this age.
"To be fair," Dudley chimed in helpfully, "he did shatter every single window at school that one time when those Year 11s were giving him grief—"
Knock knock.
The sudden rapping at the front door brought our conversation to an abrupt halt. We all exchanged puzzled glances.
"I'll go see who that is," Petunia said, rising rather quickly and making sure to wash her hands and face before heading toward the entrance.
"We weren't expecting anyone today. Who the bloody hell would be knocking this early?" Vernon grumbled irritably before fixing me with a stern look. "Boy, we're finishing this conversation later. No more magic tricks right now, understood?"
"Yes sir," I shrugged. I enjoyed using magic, but I wasn't exactly addicted to it.
Suddenly I had to resist the urge to cry out as I felt that familiar, crawling sensation inside my skull. The power I'd suspected existed but had remained frustratingly dormant was finally opening its gates again.
Ragebaiter
Origin: Agatha All Along
You possess an exceptional talent for pushing people's emotional buttons and provoking intense anger. Whether through carefully chosen words or calculated actions, you excel at getting under others' skin, often sparking heated reactions or even outright violence. Your ability to incite fury is virtually unmatched, but beware—provoked individuals rarely hesitate to act on their rage. Ensure you're prepared to handle the consequences, as the wrath of your targets can be swift and utterly unforgiving.
Everything snapped back to normal as the information flooded my consciousness. Somehow, I knew with absolute certainty that if I really observed someone, studied their mannerisms and reactions closely, I could determine exactly what to say to make them absolutely livid with rage.
Unfortunately, this ability seemed entirely focused on antagonizing people rather than gathering useful information.
Brilliant.
"AHHHHH! GHOST! THERE'S A GHOST!" Petunia's panicked shriek echoed from the front door as she came rushing back inside, practically diving behind us while pointing frantically toward the entrance.
James Potter and Lily Potter walked calmly through the doorway, wearing matching expressions of apologetic embarrassment and slight grimaces.
I sipped on water like it was vintage wine. Well then. Life had just become significantly more interesting.
This is my experimental story while Hold ON LET ME COOK is running on main course. Not to say I won't focus on this, just not sure if this will soar or fall.
If I mess something up, comment and say so. Likes and comments fuel my motivation, as greedy as it sounds.
Patreon: patreon.com/Heliel43morningstar
Please only join if you want to help because you don't need to join for extra work. I don't believe in Paywall, so there is no extra content locked away. Though I welcome all small or big help with open arms. Since I'm from Nepal, even little help from there would be big help here.
I looked at the man, another awkward situation just after breakfast too. At least Aunt Petunia didn't look scared anymore whilst shouting "ghost" - no, she looked properly pissed off, glaring daggers at these uninvited guests cluttering up her pristine sitting room.
The man on the other side was tall, with a roguishly unshaven appearance, wearing a coat lined with something far too expensive for the sensibilities of Privet Drive. Dragon hide, if I had to guess - the way it caught the morning light suggested scales rather than ordinary leather. He had hair like mine, messy and untameable, and hell, a face like mine too. Not completely identical, but the resemblance was uncanny enough to make my analytical mind start cataloguing similarities. Same jawline, same bone structure around the eyes, same way of holding his shoulders.
The woman was a redhead, and she looked like a prettier, more refined version of Petunia if I'm being brutally honest. But those clear emerald eyes - Christ, they were exactly like mine. Not similar, not close - identical. The same shade, the same intensity, even the same way they seemed to catch and hold light.
Meanwhile, there was a girl who was still hovering near the door, her feet nervously tapping against the hardwood floor as if she was ready to bolt like a startled rabbit at the first sign of trouble. Her entire posture screamed flight response - her shoulders hunched, her weight shifted forward on her toes, and her hands fidgeted with the hem of her jumper.
Why does she look like a PTSD victim, but the vanilla sort? Also, she was exactly a miniature clone version of the red-haired woman, except I reckon she had a bit of my face and the man's mixed in. Hell, she even had exactly the same green eyes as mine - that peculiar shade that made people do double-takes.
Ah, my twin sibling, I deduced with the sort of cold clarity that always settled over my mind during moments like these. What kind of bloody universe have I landed myself in?
"H-Harry," the woman breathed my name like saying it unlocked some great treasure vault of emotions she'd been keeping locked away for years. Her voice cracked on the second syllable, and I could see her hands trembling slightly at her sides.
I didn't answer immediately. Just tilted my head in that particular way I'd perfected - the one that made people feel like specimens under a microscope. Observed. Counted the crow's feet at the edges of her eyes - premature stress lines, definitely. Probably from crying, if the slight puffiness around her lower lids was any indication. Her breathing was shallow, controlled in the way people breathe when they're trying very hard not to fall apart.
She took a step forward, but I backed away instinctively. "Whoa there, ever heard of stranger danger?" I said, already knowing perfectly well who these three were because I have a very overactive imagination and can piece together a bloody obvious puzzle based on their appearance alone. The family resemblance was about as subtle as a brick through a window.
Let's see exactly how much information I can tease out using my considerable talent for winding people up without making them too mad to be useful.
"Who in the bloody hell are you lot anyway? Home invaders with a flair for the dramatic?"
Uncle Vernon looked between them and me like he'd swallowed a particularly large and disagreeable toad. His face was cycling through several shades of purple, which meant his blood pressure was spiking - never a good sign with his constitution.
"Petunia," he hissed through gritted teeth, "please tell me I'm not seeing what I think I'm seeing."
"They're ghosts," she muttered, but there was less conviction in her voice now. "Have to be ghosts. There was no news, nothing at all. The letter said they were dead when they dumped their brat on our doorstep." She hissed the last bit whilst glaring daggers at her sister, years of resentment bubbling up to the surface.
"We had to fake our deaths, at least to the muggle world," the man - James, my mind supplied automatically - said with the sort of desperate urgency that suggested he'd rehearsed this explanation many times. "We barely survived the Dark Lord as it was, and his followers were hellbent on ending all of us, any way they could manage it. So we ran. All across the world, never staying in one place for more than a few months."
I hummed thoughtfully, processing this information whilst settling myself more comfortably on the couch, studying them with the sort of clinical detachment I'd learned served me well in situations like these.
I gave him a slow, deliberate blink, very owl-like, I imagine.
"That still doesn't explain this mess," I said, waving a hand around the room like a disappointed estate agent surveying a property that had failed to meet expectations. "Leaving me here with Muggles, no less. Ah, no offense intended," I added, glancing at the family who'd actually bothered to raise me, even if the arrangement had started on rather poor terms.
"None taken, mate," Dudley replied before his parents could open their mouths to protest. "I'm more of a 'punch your lights out' sort of bloke anyway." He raised his hands and we dapped with a satisfying smacking sound that echoed through the tense sitting room.
"You two are certainly close," Lily muttered, and there was something almost wistful in her voice that made my analytical mind file away another piece of information.
"Of course we are," I said with a smile so perfectly innocent it could have graced a choir boy's face, yet somehow managed to poke them exactly where it would hurt most. Ah, the Gacha hadn't been lying - I really could control precisely how much I could get under people's skin. "He's the only proper sibling I've had, isn't he?"
"We thought since you didn't show any signs of magic, people wouldn't make the connection between you and us," James added hastily, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "The magical world doesn't pay much attention to Muggles, so you'd be safe."
"Didn't show any signs of magic?!" Vernon exploded, his voice hitting a pitch that probably had the neighbors' dogs howling three streets over. "The boy nearly burned down the entire bloody neighborhood because he was having a tantrum! He inflated my sister Marge like a balloon, and her body washed up in the Pacific Ocean! Do you have any idea what we've had to go through because of your son's little magical outbursts?"
And just like that, another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Maybe the Dursleys had been kind to me over the years, but not entirely because I'd managed to win their hearts through hard work and helping around the house. Oh, I had no doubt that had helped, but trauma bonding was probably the main factor here. Fear had a way of forging unexpected alliances.
Everyone turned to stare at me with expressions ranging from horrified to fascinated, depending on their relationship to magical mayhem.
OK, there's more trauma involved than I initially expected. Yes, I like to think I'm pretty chill about most things, but I'm not some passive punching bag either. So I wasn't about to let that bloody dog - spawn of Satan itself - maul me whilst that old cow Marge stood there enjoying the show. What kind of twisted woman gets her kicks from watching children suffer?
"To be fair," I explained with a casual chuckle that suggested we were discussing the weather rather than accidental homicide, "she sicced her dog on me first, and my magic reacted rather poorly to being physically threatened. So perhaps that 'magicless' claim wasn't properly thought through, and you two just jumped to conclusions on your own."
To demonstrate my point, I casually levitated the television around the room for a solid ten seconds, rotating it slowly so everyone could appreciate the complete impossibility of what they were witnessing, before setting it down gently on its stand. They all gawked at me openly - even my apparent twin sister, who still hadn't spoken a single word since arriving, was looking genuinely impressed despite herself.
"Right then," I said pleasantly, "now that we've established I'm not exactly a Squib, perhaps we could move on to more pressing questions. Like, why you've decided to crawl out of whatever hole you've been hiding in after, what, thirteen years of letting me think I was an orphan?"
"I know you're angry—" James started, but I wasn't having any of that patronizing bollocks right now.
"Oh, don't flatter yourselves," I cut him off sharply. "As far as I'm concerned, this is my home, they are my family. So don't expect me to be grateful because you've finally shown up, and God forbid you expect me to love you or hate you."
That summed up my feelings on the matter perfectly. On one hand, my so-called parents made a calculated decision to abandon me with what they knew were Muggles who despised their very existence and might well take that hatred out on their child. They chose survival over keeping their son.
I once again repeat: Dursleys were not as kind and considerate as they are now.
Hell, I'm not even particularly upset that they chose the girl standing over there instead of me. She looks rather cool, to be honest - all aloof expression, medieval-style cloak, and practical boots. Like she'd stepped out of some fantasy novel.
On the other hand, I found myself mentally placing myself in their position. Suppose I had two children and my wife and I were being hunted by a group of magical terrorists who would obviously exterminate my entire family - hell. In that case, they might do far worse to my wife and daughter before killing them.
Now, my daughter is perfectly capable - given enough training, she could fight back, hold her own. But my son? He's essentially a cripple in their world. Through no fault of his own, but because of his apparent lack of magic, there's a genuine chance we're all going to die trying to protect him.
What would I choose in that scenario? I pray no father in this world should ever have to face such an impossible decision.
I mean, I'm no cripple or Squib in reality, but they genuinely thought I was. It's not that they're evil monsters who abandoned me out of malice - it's more that they're obviously traumatized fools who went through war, not in the right headspace, made the wrong decision under extreme pressure and are only now realizing the magnitude of their mistake.
So yeah, it's a proper mess no matter which angle you examine it from.
And no I'm not making excuses for them, it's what I'm guessing, so maybe I'm wrong. But those loving and guilty eyes don't look fake.
"I suppose that's the best we can expect at this point," Lily said, her head lowering in what looked like shame before she turned toward her daughter. "Come on, sweetheart, meet your brother and cousin." Her gloomy expression finally lifted into something slightly more cheerful. "And of course your uncle and aunt."
The girl finally stepped properly into the sitting room, her head bobbing in a shy sort of nod. "Hello," she greeted softly, and bloody hell - she had the infamous lightning bolt scar carved right into her forehead.
I guess she really is the Girl Who Lived in this universe. The chosen one, the prophesied child, all that dramatic nonsense.
Well, you have my sympathy, sister, for all the drama and chaos that'll follow you through the coming years. Fame's a right bastard, especially when it's built on surviving something that should have killed you.
"Come on, boys, why don't you show the young lady around the house whilst we adults have a proper talk?" James suggested, glancing between Dudley and me.
I looked at the terrified yet furious faces of my uncle and aunt, then at the equally uncomfortable expressions on my supposed parents' faces. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"Fine, we'll do it," I said, staring directly at my biological father with the sort of look that could freeze fire. "But understand this - you're in the Dursley household now, so you'll bloody well respect them here, even if you can't manage it outside. They're uncomfortable with magic, so don't show off, don't threaten them, and certainly don't harm them. If you can't even act like proper adults, then we no longer need to have any conversations whatsoever."
I mean I use magic here because I'm trying to prove to them magic is not abominable like they think it is and it can be used for good, but if they used magic to insult or god forbid harm, all of my work will be undone.
I nodded at Dudley, and we both stood up, turning our attention to the red-haired girl who was still hovering uncertainly near the doorway.
"My name's Harry," I said, offering her what I hoped was a reassuring smile despite the circumstances. "It's nice to meet you, even if the situation's a bit mad."
I wasn't entirely sure what to do in this situation, to be honest. Dudley had already abandoned me the moment we reached the second floor - the familiar opening tune of GTA San Andreas and the telltale click of headphones made it crystal clear that my brother from another mother had properly legged it.
Not that I blamed him, really.
Dudley was smack in the middle of his "too shy to talk to pretty girls" phase - that awkward period just before the wannabe playboy phase and well after the "ew, girls are gross" phase. Poor bastard probably took one look at the girl and decided he'd rather deal with virtual gangsters than attempt actual conversation.
"Your room isn't what I expected," she said, glancing around my personal space with obvious curiosity. Her eyes took in the desk, stacked high with books, and the glass cabinet, filled with what appeared to be a collection of small statues and action figures at first glance.
Meanwhile, my old computer sat there looking rather dated - quite up to date for its time period, mind you, but it was still running Windows XP. Practically torture for someone with modern sensibilities like myself.
"What, were you expecting the cupboard under the stairs?" I asked, settling into my spinning chair with wheels that I definitely hadn't nicked from my headmaster's office because he was being a right arse about detention policies.
What was he going to report anyway - that his chair had been stolen by someone who could teleport objects?
"What?! Of course not," she shook her head quickly, looking genuinely appalled at the suggestion. "Mum mentioned that her sister and brother-in-law were hardcore Christians, so I'm rather surprised they let you display all this so openly."
Ah, she'd noticed it then. All those figurines on my display shelf weren't actually action figures or decorative statues. Every single one represented a pagan deity from various pantheons around the world - Zeus, Athena, Thor, Krishna, Quetzalcoatl, Hermes, Odin, Shiva, and countless other gods and goddesses I'd collected over the years.
And yes, Jesus's statue was still up there as well, smiling benevolently down at his pagan neighbors.
"Oh, they reckon these are historical figures like Saint Nicholas or Saint Louis, maybe even Julius Caesar," I explained with a grin. "See, my family are the sort of Christians who don't actually know or care much about anything else - they just know that pagan worship is the Devil's work. So they assume I'm collecting important historical figures for educational purposes."
Rose immediately burst into a proper giggling fit, settling herself on my bed as she looked around the room with renewed appreciation. When she finally calmed down, she wiped her eyes and said, "I haven't actually told you my name yet, have I? I'm Rose. It's lovely to meet you at last, brother - honestly I thought I'd never get the chance."
"Why did everyone assume I was a Squib?" I asked casually, tossing a pillow at her face using wandless magic. To my genuine surprise, it stopped mid-air before floating back to its original position.
Well, well. The girl's got some proper skills and talent.
"Yes," she admitted, her expression growing more serious as she looked down at her hands. "I kept telling our parents they couldn't be completely certain about that. I mean, Squibs are usually determined by whether they receive their Hogwarts letter or not, or if they can't perform magic by the time they should get their wand. But no matter what I said, they wouldn't bloody listen to me."
"Why though?" I studied her more closely, noting the way she fidgeted with the hem of her cloak. "If you were so certain, then it must be common sense to determine whether someone's a Squib or not. What made James and Lily so convinced I was a dud?"
She looked slightly unnerved by how casually I referred to our parents by their first names, but didn't call me out on it.
"It's because of their leader," she said carefully. "I can't tell you everything because even I don't know all the details, but they're part of a group called the Order of the Phoenix, along with loads of our parents' friends. Their leader - who people seem to think is the second coming of Merlin himself and who also happens to be our future headmaster - believed you were a Squib."
"And they just bought that?" I asked incredulously.
"Like a discount dragon hide," she grumbled, crossing her arms in obvious frustration. "It's always 'Dumbledore this, Dumbledore that,' even when it goes against basic common sense. At least they finally grew a spine and had words with the old man when your Hogwarts letter arrived along with mine." She went on to explain how she'd received two letters - one for herself and one for me - and that the Hedwig-looking owl was actually Hedwig, her personal owl, which she'd sent my way before they all came here today.
"Bloody hell," I said, leaning back in my chair with a thoughtful expression. "I think our parents are in a cult."
"What? Of course they're not," she replied instantly, though her voice lacked real conviction. "It's just an anti-terrorism group made up of like-minded people under the leadership of one very powerful and wise man."
"That's exactly what people in a cult call their cult," I pointed out.
"Trust me, I've actually faced people from proper cults during our years on the run," she huffed, her pride showing through a bit more - not in a mocking way, but it was definitely there. "You don't even know what a real cult looks like."
"Right, let me break this down for you then," I said, leaning forward. "People in cults believe they're morally superior to everyone else, convinced they're saving the world, and they dismiss or even threaten anyone who questions their methods or leadership."
"I'm not getting into an argument about this," she said, but there was less certainty in her voice now. "And besides, I've already saved the world from Voldemort - we're just handling the cleanup now." The words came out a bit too boldly, like she was trying to convince herself as much as me.
"See? Moral superiority, refusing to listen to common sense - sound familiar? It might not be as extreme as other cults you've possibly encountered whilst on the run, but think about it for a moment. Our parents abandoned me based solely on one man's word, without any evidence whatsoever, just because they believed in Dumbledore completely."
She stared down at her hands for a long moment before looking back up at me with a genuinely horrified expression.
"Oh, by Merlin's beard," she whispered. "We really are in a cult, aren't we?"
Suddenly I clutched my head, wincing as another bloody wave of information crashed into my skull like a sledgehammer.
Holy Water
Origin: Good Omens*
The very last thing a demon should have, since it tends to melt demon-kind rather effectively. You now possess a bottomless thermos of genuine holy water. Do try to be careful with it.
Just like that, I could feel the ability to summon a thermos of holy water settling into my mind like it had always been there. There was no explanation for where it came from, no manual for why I suddenly had what felt like an inventory system that could only store this one bloody thermos and nothing else.
And why the hell were my powers deciding to jump-start today of all days? For years I hadn't received so much as a parlor trick, but now I'd gained two things in rapid succession - first the rage-baiting ability, and now this holy water item.
This was apparently my life now. Brilliant.
But hang on a minute - would this actually work on Dementors? What about goblins, or other dark creatures from the wizarding world?
I summoned the thermos experimentally, watching as it materialized in my hand. It looked rather ordinary, simple black metal except for the white Cross of Christ etched near the cap. Very understated for something that could supposedly melt demons.
I looked at my red-haired sister, then calmly walked toward her with the thermos in hand. "Do you know what this is?"
"It's a thermos," she said, tilting her head curiously. "Where'd you get it from? It wasn't there a second ago." She was clearly more observant than I'd given her credit for.
"Magic," I deadpanned, then proceeded to sprinkle a few drops of water in her direction. "May the light of Hecate and Jesus guide thee."
"Oi, what's the big idea?" she glared at me, using her wand to flick the water droplets away from her face with practiced ease.
"Sorry, just making sure you're not a demon pretending to be my sister in order to assassinate me, seduce me, or do both," I replied with complete seriousness.
"Where did you even get that mental idea? Some weird Japanese manga?" she asked, and there was another confirmation that she wasn't completely stumped when it came to Muggle culture.
So she had spent considerable time in the Muggle world during their years on the run. Interesting.
I looked away quickly, storing my thermos back into whatever mystical inventory system I apparently possessed, whilst trying very hard to erase memories of a particular anime I'd watched in my previous life. If I remembered correctly, it was called *The Testament of Sister New Devil*, which featured red-headed demons who showed up at the protagonist's house pretending to be step-sisters, complete with succubus maids.
For the next five minutes, I made a point of not looking directly into her eyes whilst we continued chatting.
At least I understood why they were here now. They'd come to personally collect me and escort me back to the wizarding world, rather than waiting for a Hogwarts professor to show up like they would for any other Muggle-raised student.
"By the way, you never explained why you have so many statues of gods here in the first place," she said as we finally moved out of my room toward the porch. I was already dressed in my nicest outfit, preparing for what I assumed would be a trip to Diagon Alley or the wizarding world as a whole.
There wasn't any shouting, yelling, or explosions coming from downstairs where the Potter and Dursley couples were presumably having their discussion. I reckoned my parents had actually listened to my warning about being civil to each other. Miracles never cease.
"Oh, it's because invoking gods' names in magic or spellwork helps with the casting," I explained casually.
"Right," she rolled her eyes, obviously not believing a word of it.
"No, I'm completely serious. When I can perform magic just by believing in myself like this..." I waved my hands, and all the buds and young sprouts in Aunt Petunia's garden instantly bloomed into beautiful flowers. At least she'd appreciate this particular development.
"Imagine what could happen if I channeled the faith of millions of people whilst casting my magic," I continued, letting my hands blaze as a perfectly spherical fireball appeared, demonstrating my sheer control over the elements.
When I was younger and first discovered I could produce bursts of magic by focusing properly, I hadn't stopped practicing. This whole faith-based system I'd developed came about by accident - I'd been healing Vernon's injured foot whilst holding the Bible, and the results were remarkably more efficient than usual.
It wasn't that simply invoking gods' names automatically made my casting more powerful. Rather, it helped with the stamina cost - I barely felt exhausted afterward, and it provided an alternative energy source instead of relying purely on my own emotions.
Though the system had its limitations. I needed to maintain at least a small amount of genuine faith in whatever deity I was channeling. This meant making small food sacrifices at pagan altars, reading various religious texts, and generally doing the sorts of things Percy Jackson's demigods practiced in those books.
Since I could cast magic without getting overly emotional, the method was working brilliantly, even if it was somewhat restrictive. I used Apollo or Jesus when healing, Agni or Shiva for fire and destruction, Hephaestus and Vishwakarma for repairs or creation, and various corresponding gods for their particular domains.
So far, I've managed to learn repairing charms, levitation, healing magic, teleportation to places I'd previously visited, and the ability to conjure fire and lightning from my hands.
That was it, really. Even these abilities had taken years of practice, trial and error, so I was quite satisfied knowing I could survive in the Muggle world if I hadn't received my Hogwarts invitation.
It wasn't my fault this world's Hogwarts started accepting students at age fourteen rather than eleven.
Now I wanted to learn so much more - using wands or other items to boost my power and speed, enchanting, potions, and all the other brilliant stuff proper mages... or wizards, I should say.
"I thought those Greek mystery cults were trying to convert people to their gods," Rose said with a slightly surprised tone as I dismissed the flames.
"That could very well be true as well. Though I discovered this method through personal experience," I shrugged, before we both looked toward the door to see Uncle Vernon walking toward us, his expression frowning yet oddly relieved.
"Boy," he called, eyeing me from top to bottom. "I see you're already in your nice clothes. Off to your freakish little world, then. With your... people."
There wasn't much heat in his voice. No venom whatsoever. Not even his usual grumbling. Just words. Dry, factual statements, like he was checking items off a grocery list and realizing the final item was goodbye.
"That's the general idea," I replied. "I'll be back before nightfall." As much as I was enjoying getting to know Rose, I wasn't particularly ready to play happy families with my biological parents. We'd only just bloody met, for God's sake.
"That won't be necessary," he said, shaking his head firmly.
I paused mid-step, blinking in confusion.
"Pardon me?"
"You're going to live with your parents now," Vernon stated simply. "And your sister. Now that they're back in the country properly."
I stared at him, completely gobsmacked. Just like that? No ranting about bringing shame to the neighborhood? No last-minute warnings about being a disgrace to decent society? After all the years we'd lived together, building some semblance of mutual tolerance, I was being kicked out?
"We'll be moving to America," he continued as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "My boy will study abroad. Me and the wife... we'll enjoy our pension in peace." He didn't look dazed or magically influenced. His gaze was perfectly clear, even bored.
This decision was entirely his own free will.
That wasn't indifference I was seeing. That was genuine relief.
I narrowed my eyes, my brain flicking through the facts like pages in a deduction journal.
"They bribed you, didn't they?"
My tone was completely flat. Not accusatory, just processing information.
Vernon cleared his throat and looked mildly offended - like a man who'd just been politely exposed. Before he could formulate a response, James stepped out from behind the doorway with Lily following close behind, her expression tight with discomfort.
"It wasn't a bribe," James said quietly, his voice carrying genuine regret. "They took care of you when we didn't. When we bloody well should have. So it's... compensation."
He didn't look smug about it. Didn't sound proud of the arrangement. Just honest and humble, as if the words tasted like bitter regret on their way out.
"They lived surrounded by magic because we mistakenly thought you were a Squib and left a wizard baby with them all these years, even though they never wanted that responsibility," he continued. "We're giving them a way out. A proper chance at peace and safety."
I couldn't find the words to respond. Hell, I couldn't even figure out how I felt about this revelation.
I wasn't angry, not exactly. Not even particularly sad. Just... completely thrown off balance. Like something fundamental in my chest had shifted without warning, and I hadn't noticed until it stopped fitting properly.
I'd spent years dragging the Dursleys toward some kind of workable truce - no, genuine tolerance, even developing a brotherly bond with Dudley. It had been earned through cooking meals, healing their injuries, doing household chores, using my magic to help them when needed, and the occasional truly accidental magical incident that reminded them I was still the magic boy who might explode if they pushed too hard.
And Vernon... he had changed over the years. Just a little, but enough to see me as an actual person when all was said and done, despite our ups and downs.
And now?
"So that's it then," I muttered. "A bit of money and you were ready to toss me back like a rented tuxedo."
I wasn't even properly mad at him. I was frustrated that I wasn't angrier about the whole situation.
Because I knew he wasn't wrong to take the deal. Hell, he'd basically secured his family's entire future if the compensation was genuinely substantial, and I suspected it was. It wasn't particularly difficult for wizards to make serious money in the Muggle world, even without resorting to illegal or unethical means.
What was I supposed to do here? Fight this decision? Why would I? I wanted to enter the magical world, but this certainly wasn't how I'd pictured the transition happening.
I took a deep breath, thoughts racing as I studied my parents' faces, noting their genuinely hopeful expressions. God, they were so bloody naive. If I were a normal child my age, I would have exploded in fury, screaming about how unfair it was to make major decisions about my life without my consent.
But my desire to learn proper magic was far too great to waste on wounded pride.
I glanced toward the kitchen, where Petunia was already packing boxes with efficient movements.
I'd caused about as much trouble as I'd solved during my time here. Maybe they genuinely did deserve a clean slate and a fresh start.
Still... the whole situation left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Bitter and metallic, like biting down on a coin someone else had flipped for you.
Fine, Potters. You win this round. You'd all better be grateful your intentions are genuinely pure and beneficial toward me, otherwise this arrangement would have turned very badly indeed.
"Fine, let's go then," I said, trying not to grumble too obviously. "I want books on every single subject of magic that exists, and remember - this was your choice, not mine."
If they are going to use money to solve problems, then that will be the first thing I'll drain dry.
With that, I headed upstairs to collect my belongings and give one final goodbye to my brother... well, cousin, technically, but brother in every way that mattered as far as family is concerned in this life.
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"How the bloody hell are you so composed?" Rose wheezed from the ground as we all appeared in different parts of the countryside with a sharp crack that echoed through the empty field. The sound made me wince slightly, amateur hour.
When I teleport, there's barely a whisper of displaced air, at least that's what Dudley's been telling me whenever I've nipped out of particularly boring Sunday dinners or dodged Aunt Petunia's cleaning marathons.
Speaking of my cousin, I was already missing the great lump. Hopefully he'd find himself some fit American bird at high school. Unlike his canon self…..well, unlike what people might expect, my brother from another mother had transformed into quite the specimen over the years and I heard American ladies like men with a posh British accent, so I have high hopes for my brother from another mother.
"Your weakness disgusts me," I said, hauling Rose back to her feet by her elbow. She stumbled slightly, still green around the gills from the Apparition. "I've been teleporting around the school and house whenever we were running late for ages. Piece of cake, really."
"That's reckless use of magic, Harry," Lily said, her voice carrying that particular blend of worry and barely contained terror that seemed to be her default setting around me. "You could have splinched yourself, or worse."
"Not to mention if Muggles had spotted you," James added, running a hand through that perpetually messy hair of his. "The Ministry would've had our heads. Statute of Secrecy violations are no joke, mate."
The casual way he said 'mate' grated on me. We'd known each other for all of one single hour.
"Oh, brilliant observation," I snapped before I could rein myself in, still feeling properly gutted that the Dursleys had shipped me off so easily. "It's not like I had parents or teachers explaining the finer points of magical law to me, is it?"
The words came out sharper than I'd intended, leaving an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air like a bad smell. Yeah, I got it, probably was the smart move, keeping the Squib son of the Muggle family separate from the wizarding world in their eyes, and I've been perfectly fine with living with the Dursleys too, even after all this mess.
But they sold me out so easily.
But I'd worked my arse off for them, hadn't I? Kept Dudley out of trouble, helped with the books at Uncle Vernon's firm, healed him and repaired his stuff, even learned to cook a proper Sunday roast with magic. And for what? A quick goodbye and a pat on the shoulder?
"Let's just go," I muttered, grabbing Rose's hand and setting off with purpose across the field. No point letting an awkward moment freeze me over like some kind of social invalid.
Rose walked alongside me for a few moments, her boots squelching in the damp grass, before whispering, "We're going the wrong way, you absolute muppet. That pub there, that's our destination."
I stopped dead, following her pointing finger to what looked like the architectural equivalent of a hangover. "Why? I know I'm feeling a bit rough, but that's no reason to start on the drink this early."
"No, you pillock," Rose sighed, and I could practically hear her eyes rolling. "It's the entrance."
I began to observe our destination with the methodical precision that had served me well in less magical circumstances.
The pub looked like the sort of building you'd Photoshop out of a tourist brochure—squeezed between a bookshop that didn't exist and a record store that hadn't flogged a single album since Thatcher was in Number 10.
Faded brickwork held together by what appeared to be equal parts mortar and sheer bloody-mindedness. A rotting wooden sign that creaked ominously in the breeze. The door was so warped I half-expected it to whisper dark secrets when touched, like something out of a particularly unhinged gothic novel.
And yet, pedestrians walked past as if it were invisible.
The infamous Muggle-repelling charms at work, no doubt. Fascinating bit of magical engineering, really.
A couple in matching anoraks approached, paused mid-stride as if they'd suddenly remembered they'd left the gas on, then veered away with the kind of urgent purpose usually reserved for dodging aggressive charity workers. A postman did a complete about-face before reaching the door, whistling tunelessly as he pretended he'd meant to turn around all along. Even the bloody pigeons gave the place a wide berth, fluttering higher as if the building itself radiated something unpleasant.
It wasn't fear, exactly. It was something more primal. Something trained into the very fabric of their consciousness.
"They really can't see it, can they?" I asked, genuinely curious about the mechanics. Was it a direct neural inhibition, a simple perception filter, or something more sophisticated? The applications alone could revolutionize—
"They could, if they really tried," James said, stepping closer and placing a hand on my shoulder in what I supposed was meant to be a paternal gesture. "But magic doesn't much like being noticed by people who don't believe in it."
"That sounds suspiciously like gaslighting with extra steps," I replied, shrugging off his hand and positioning myself beside Rose. A bit presumptuous, wasn't he? We'd barely been introduced, and here he was acting like we were old mates.
Get away you motherfucker…..bit literally on the nose.
James's face fell slightly, taking on that kicked-puppy expression Lily wore earlier when I had given her the cold shoulder. Good. Perhaps he'd get the message.
I approached the pub and pushed open the door, immediately covering my nose as the smell hit me like a physical blow.
Well, my first step into the magical world wasn't quite the glorious moment I'd imagined.
The interior was a symphony of chaos, raucous laughter, pipe smoke, and a color scheme that looked like someone with a personal vendetta against good taste had assembled it. Wizards in robes that had seen better decades clinked tankards over animated conversations. Goblins huddled in shadowy corners, conducting business in hushed tones that suggested either high finance or low treachery. A witch near the window balanced a tabby cat on her pointed hat while reading The Daily Prophet upside down, apparently finding this arrangement perfectly reasonable.
At first, we were just another group of punters. Then my parents walked in behind us, Rose at their side.
The change was immediate and unsettling.
Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned with the synchronized precision of a military parade. It was like watching a room full of people suddenly realize they were in the presence of celebrities.
Which, apparently, they were.
"Lily! James!" A grey-bearded man behind the bar boomed, his voice cutting through the sudden quiet. He reached across to slap my father's shoulder with the enthusiasm of someone greeting a war hero. "Thought you two were still gadding about in Albania or hiding in some rune-warded vault!"
"We were," Dad replied with that casual cheerfulness that seemed to be his default setting. "Only came out once our Rose here learned to cast shields like her mum." The pride in his voice was unmistakable as he ruffled my sister's hair. "And this is my son, Harry. He's been living with Muggles."
*Living with Muggles.* Not *abandoned with Muggles* or *left with Muggles while we buggered off to play hide-and-seek with Dark wizards.* Just a simple statement of fact, as if it had been a perfectly reasonable arrangement all along.
Sometimes I wonder if I should give in to the dark side and start blasting people off.
"Tom Leaky," the barman said, extending a meaty hand. "Pleasure to meet you, lad. Didn't know James had a son, but you've got your mother's eyes, haven't you?"
I shook his hand briefly, noting the calluses that spoke of years behind the bar. "Likewise," I replied with a curt nod, then stepped back as my natural introversion began hammering at my mental door like an unwelcome bailiff.
The stares were becoming more intense, more focused, and I found myself cataloguing exit routes with the automatic precision of someone who'd spent years avoiding unwanted attention.
More greetings followed. More handshakes. Someone raised a butterbeer in what appeared to be a celebration, though of what, I couldn't say.
And then the attention shifted with laser-like precision to Rose.
"Is that—? Bloody hell, it's her!"
"The Girl Who Lived!"
"She's real!"
The crowd surged forward like a tide of robes and pointing fingers. James and Lily tried to intervene, but they were already on the far side of the pub, trapped in conversation with what appeared to be old school friends. By the time they realized what was happening, we were already surrounded.
One witch burst into actual tears at the sight of Rose, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. A man in violently purple robes stumbled forward, hand outstretched as if my sister were some sort of religious relic. The crowd pressed closer, their voices rising in a cacophony of excitement and awe.
Rose went into full panic mode, the classic deer-in-headlights response that seemed entirely at odds with her supposed status as the savior of the wizarding world. Shouldn't the Girl Who Lived have better crowd control skills?
"Give me ten Dark wizards over this lot any day," she muttered, ducking behind me and using my body as a human shield.
Which was a tactical error on her part.
Because in my hand, summoned by will and necessity, appeared my trusty Holy Thermos, all hail the Gacha gods, as I rolled this one just earlier, but I didn't know this was needed this early.
I uncapped it with ceremonial precision, held it aloft like a sacred relic, and intoned in my most serious deadpan: "Back, demons of celebrity worship and heretical idolaters. Back, I say. You'll find no willing sacrifices here."
A priestly wave of my free hand. A flick of the thermos toward the crowd. Someone actually screamed. One particularly enthusiastic witch who'd been reaching for Rose with grabby hands let out a shriek, bolted for the door, and by the time she reached the street, her entire body had dissolved into golden dust that scattered on the wind.
What the fuck was that?!
Curiously, nobody seemed to notice her rather dramatic exit. The panic was focused entirely on my impromptu exorcism performance rather than the sudden and inexplicable vanishing of a patron.
It was a panic of surprise, not a panic of horrified feeling.
The crowd backed away, not because they were hurt, I didn't think the thermos had actually done anything to these people but because nobody could tell if I was taking the piss or genuinely unhinged. Including me, if I was being honest.
"What... what the bloody hell are you doing?" Rose hissed from behind me. "And why do you have that thing? I saw you leave the Dursleys' empty-handed except for the stuff belonging to you, Mum shrunk into her trunk."
"Emergency crowd dispersal protocol," I whispered back, maintaining my serious expression. "You ducked, so I reacted. Chain of command, just like with Dudley when we were about to leg it from trouble."
"You're completely mental," she muttered, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the back of the pub. She pulled up the hood of her cloak, the same one she'd been wearing when we'd first met that morning, I noted.
"I'm prepared," I corrected, dismissing the thermos back to wherever it had come from. At least James was finally managing some crowd control, using what appeared to be considerable charm to redirect the mob's attention.
Meanwhile, Lily looked as if she were reconsidering every major life decision she'd made since 1980.
"I told you not to forget to keep your face covered in public," she said to Rose, her tone carrying that particular brand of maternal exasperation reserved for children who'd just set something on fire. She approached what appeared to be an ordinary brick wall, tapping it with her wand in a quick, practiced sequence.
The wall responded by folding inward with the satisfied rumble of ancient magic, revealing an archway that led to...
I stared, genuinely awestruck for the first time since this whole mad adventure had begun.
Diagon Alley stretched before us like something out of a fever dream—all crooked buildings, impossible angles, and shop signs that moved of their own accord. The cobblestones beneath our feet seemed to hum with residual magic, and the air itself felt different. Thicker. More alive.
"Blimey," I breathed, taking in the impossible vista before us. "This is absolutely mental."
And I meant it, no shame to admit it, no false bravado, just honest wonder. The first proper sight of Diagon Alley hit me like a Football to the chest, knocking every cynical thought clean out of my head.
Cobblestone streets twisted and curved in ways that would make Euclid weep. Shop signs didn't just hang—they floated, pirouetted, and some even belted out advertising jingles about premium cauldron cleaner or fresh dragon liver. Wizards and witches bustled about in robes that belonged in a Renaissance painting, haggling over wand cores or trading literal glowing stones for potion ingredients like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For one brilliant moment, I forgot everything. The Dursleys, the abandonment from what I considered family, the awkward family reunion, all of it evaporated like morning mist. There was just pure, undiluted wonder coursing through my veins.
It was bloody magnificent.
"Brilliant, isn't it?" Mum…no, Lily asked, her smile soft and genuine as she watched my reaction. "I had that exact same expression when I first saw it. Amazing how nothing's really changed."
That comment landed like a bucket of ice water.
Nothing's changed? Really, Mother? You mean to tell me that in twenty-odd years, including a bloody civil war, this place has remained exactly the same? That's not magical preservation, that's stagnation dressed up in fancy robes. Wars were supposed to drive innovation, force adaptation, and push society forward. Instead, I was gawping at what looked like a medieval theme park with functional alchemy and questionable sanitation standards.
Don't get me wrong, it had charm in spades, it's beautiful even. But we were well into the twenty-first century, but it felt like I travelled back in time here.
"Right then," James announced, practically vibrating with enthusiasm as he positioned himself directly in front of me like an overgrown golden retriever. "First things first, we get you a wand! Then robes, books, maybe an owl if you fancy one, and we can—"
"Breathe, James," Lily and I said simultaneously.
She sounded exasperated. I was just irritated. A bit rich, wasn't it, acting all paternal after fourteen years of radio silence?
"Why don't you let Rose and me have a wander on our own?" I suggested, nodding toward my sister. "I'm sure you two haven't had much quality time together lately, what with all the running about, training Rose, and suddenly remembering I exist."
I even managed what I hoped was an understanding smile. Polite, mature, reasonable. The very picture of a well-adjusted teenager.
Truth was, I couldn't stand looking at their faces right now. They were walking on eggshells around me like I might explode at any moment. The tension radiating from them was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife, and frankly, it was doing my head in.
Maybe if they buggered off for a bit, found a quiet corner to work through whatever guilt or obligation was eating at them, by trying to create new siblings for Rose and I, we could all stop pretending this wasn't the most awkward family reunion in wizarding history.
"I could show him around," Rose offered eagerly, practically bouncing on her toes. "I've memorized the whole layout already. Piece of cake!"
"Hold on there, princess," James interjected, wagging a finger like a disapproving headmaster. "Did you forget what happened not five minutes ago? Half the pub wanted to shake your hand and the other half looked ready to genuflect. God knows what'll happen if we leave you wandering about unchaperoned."
"Daaaaad," Rose groaned, drawing out the word like it physically pained her. "I'll keep my hood up, I swear on Merlin's saggy left—"
"Language," Lily warned automatically.
It took some doing, a bit of emotional manipulation, strategically deployed sighs, and what I liked to think was some impressive passive-aggressive staring—but we finally wore them down. I think they got the message loud and clear: I wasn't ready for family bonding time, and judging by their body language, neither were they.
"Fine," James relented, but his expression shifted to something unexpectedly serious. "But if trouble starts brewing, you know what to do, yeah?"
"I know, I know," Rose muttered, waving him off with the practiced ease of a teenager who'd heard this lecture before.
I glanced between them, frowning. What exactly was she supposed to know? And why did James look like he was discussing battle strategy rather than a shopping trip?
Finally, we were alone. I turned to my cloaked sister, relieved to be out from under the weight of parental expectations. "Right, what's the plan? Please tell me you've got some cash on you, because we were so eager to get rid of them that we forgot to ask for pocket money."
Rose shook her head, completely unconcerned. "Don't worry about it, I've got you sorted." She set off with purpose, and I fell into step beside her. "First priority is getting you some proper robes. You're sticking out like a sore thumb in those Muggle threads."
"What's wrong with my clothes?" I asked, genuinely defensive. I'd thought I looked rather smart in my button-down shirt and pressed trousers.
"Nothing's wrong with them," she said quickly, "but not everyone's going to see it that way. Trust me, in proper wizarding robes, you'll blend right in. No one will give you a second glance."
It made sense, I supposed. Camouflage was always the first rule of intelligence gathering.
I nodded and followed her deeper into the alley, but then another wave of information crashed into my consciousness like a freight train. The bloody Gacha system was stirring again, flooding my brain with new data.
Christ, what was with this thing? Three abilities (two abilities, one item) in one day? Even the most overpowered fanfiction protagonists I'd read about didn't get power-ups this rapidly. This was getting ridiculous.
Immune
[Epic Ability]
Complete immunity to all negative status effects. While active, the user cannot be poisoned, cursed, diseased, or subjected to any form of debuffing magic or mundane affliction.
I nearly tripped over my own feet as the implications hit me. Complete immunity. No getting pissed on alcohol, no succumbing to magical diseases or mundane ones, no curses, no paralysis, no blinding hexes, nothing. According to the Gacha system, if it was negative, it simply couldn't touch me.
I was becoming remarkably difficult to kill through anything other than direct physical trauma. And even then, I suspected I'd have advantages most people lacked.
Still, I wasn't about to test the limits of magical immunity by volunteering for someone's experimental hexes. I wasn't completely mental, after all.
"You alright?" Rose asked, noticing my momentary stumble. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Just taking it all in," I replied smoothly, filing away the new ability for future consideration. "Lead on, sister mine. Let's see what passes for fashion in the wizarding world."
I'm not a picky person. Really, I'm not. I didn't moan about wearing Dudley's hand-me-downs when I was still a scrawny runt, did I? I only started getting proper new clothes when I was around eight, and got my own room around the same time.
That was a necessity, not a luxury. So I had no problem trying on whatever robes Rose picked out, even modeling them like I was on some bizarre wizard catwalk, much to her obvious embarrassment, judging by how many people stared, even with her anonymous getup keeping her face hidden.
The brilliant thing about magical clothing? It practically wore itself. The fabric shifted and adjusted to fit my frame perfectly, resizing automatically as I moved. Bloody convenient, that.
Which made me wonder: why did Madam Malkin, esteemed proprietor of this fine establishment, still bother with measuring tape? Even if it did move about on its own like a trained snake, what was the point if the robes were going to fit themselves anyway?
"So, how do I look?" I asked, striking what I hoped was a suitably wizardly pose with a stray broomstick I'd found near the changing area, now doubling as my makeshift staff.
"Brilliant... like a proper wizard," Rose said, though her voice carried the strained tone of someone trying very hard not to cringe.
See, here's the thing about me—I might be an introvert by nature, but only until I get comfortable. Once that barrier drops, I tend to get a bit too relaxed. And for some reason, I felt more at ease around Rose than I had with anyone in years, even Dudley or a few of my friends from school. Like my very bones were humming with contentment.
...Which was concerning.
I'd had the same reaction to Lily and James earlier, so I suspected it was just my monkey brain releasing happy chemicals in response to genetic familiarity. Evolutionary biology at work. Nothing deeper or profound than that.
"You were quick enough to ditch the Muggle gear," Rose observed, waving her wand at the pile of discarded clothes. They vanished instantly, dissolving into nothing, like they'd never existed. Banishing charm, most likely.
"Look, I like plenty about the Muggle world," I said, adjusting the sleeves of my new robes. "Television, computers, all the tech that's going to explode over the next decade. But these magical clothes? They're actually brilliant."
I wasn't about to become one of those reverse snobs, complaining about every aspect of the magical world and insisting the Muggle version was always better. That sounded exhausting.
So far, some things worked better in the Muggle world, others in the magical. I wasn't going to judge either without proper exploration and analysis.
Rose paid Madam Malkin a small handful of Galleons and Knuts for my new wardrobe, casual robes, formalwear, and the standard Hogwarts uniform. It looked like she'd already done her own shopping and was just retracing her steps for my benefit.
"You know," she said as we walked back onto the main street, passing shops and vendors, "you're really quite confusing."
I glanced around as we strolled, noting the Slug & Jiggers Apothecary and its jars of creepy, floating... things. I couldn't help but wonder if potion-making violated any sort of health codes.
"How so?" I asked.
"You're amazed by the magical world, that much is obvious but you're not actually surprised by any of it. Like you already knew what a Squib is, or all the other magical terms you keep dropping. This is supposed to be your first time seeing any of this."
Smart girl. She'd been cataloguing my reactions, picking apart the inconsistencies. I suppose living on the run teaches you to read people fast.
"That's an excellent question, Rose," I said, meeting her gaze despite the hood. "Why don't you try working it out? I might tell you eventually."
I kept walking while she groaned, then hurried to catch up.
"Fine. I suppose I can't be a hypocrite and demand answers when I've got my own secrets," she said, surprisingly even-toned. "But I will figure it out eventually."
"I'm sure you will," I replied with a slight grin.
"Right then," she said, her voice noticeably more cheerful. "Let's get you sorted with a wand. It's the best part of this whole trip."
Rose Potter didn't understand her brother as much as she thought she would.
She'd expected many things when they finally met but somehow, every single one of those expectations had been thoroughly snogged and tossed out the nearest window in one dramatic sweep.
This morning, she'd expected him to be furious and shouty, or perhaps quiet and awestruck by her presence, or maybe have his entire worldview shattered by the existence of magic.
Instead he could match or possibly surpass her in his magical powers without using a wand or any foci. Those displays of magic Harry showed to her have been eye opener even if she didn't react to him at the time.
Instead, he'd just nodded like it all made perfect sense and rolled with it. Fair enough, he'd given Mum and Dad the cold shoulder, but that was completely justified, wasn't it? The family he'd lived with his entire life had essentially abandoned him, and suddenly his supposedly dead parents, whom he knew absolutely nothing about, had turned up on his doorstep like some bizarre Christmas surprise.
Bloody hell, he hadn't even known she existed until this morning, so yeah, most of her expectations had already gone up in flames.
She'd heard about her younger twin brother all her life before actually meeting him. (She'd been born first, thank you very much, so she got the privilege of being the elder sibling.) That idealized version of him—perfect, imaginary, heroic—had become her refuge from everything else.
Not because he was supposed to be powerful or the vanquisher of Voldemort like her, but because Harry represented safety to her. A life away from magic, Dark wizards, and all the other unpleasant business that came with being the Girl Who Lived.
He was meant to be normal, perfectly safe, living the life she thought he deserved, because she'd never wanted him to endure what she'd been through.
Ever since she could remember, all she'd done was run. Never rest, never settle, never truly have a home. Always run, train, hide, repeat.
From one country to the next, city to town, constantly on the move like some sort of magical refugees. Learning new languages and accents had become second nature. Her parents insisted on using Translation Charms, but she'd refused unless absolutely necessary. She needed to connect, to learn, to remember the places they'd been forced to leave behind.
She remembered changing schools like changing socks. One month here, two weeks there, never long enough to put down roots or form proper friendships. Eventually, she'd stopped trying. What was the point of making mates only to abandon them before their names could properly settle in her heart?
Her parents didn't understand the cruelty of it all. In their desperate attempt to give her glimpses of a normal childhood, they couldn't see how they were essentially teasing a caged dog with meat it could never reach.
And so Harry, her twin, her other half, had become her sanctuary, at least in her mind.
In a world that bent over backwards to worship her like some sort of goddess for supposedly vanquishing the Dark Lord Voldemort... maybe she had defeated him. Perhaps she'd keep fighting his remnants and face down every last Death Eater crawling out of the woodwork.
But not for the cowards who'd dumped all their hopes on a bloody toddler.
She'd do it for Harry. For people like him.
For Squibs and muggles born wizards like she'd thought her brother was, who were cast aside or treated very poorly by a world that only valued magical power. Even her own parents had believed that particular lie.
Or so she'd thought.
Until the Hogwarts letters arrived and shattered everything.
Two letters.
One for Rose Potter.
One for Harry James Potter.
The lie had cracked wide open like a rotten egg. All the excuses, why she'd never been allowed to see her other half, why they couldn't contact him, had fallen apart like wet parchment.
It had all been lies.
Lies from a man she'd never met but was absolutely going to hex or curse the first chance she got, Headmaster of Hogwarts or not.
"Blimey, look at that. Flying broom."
Harry's voice cut through her brooding thoughts. His eyes tracked a high-speed Nimbus zipping past the shop window in a blur of polished wood and bristles. He sounded amused, even intrigued—but not remotely surprised. Just like always.
Muggle-raised kids were supposed to gape and stammer in shock at their first sight of magical transportation.
Harry just raised an eyebrow and nodded, as if it confirmed something he'd already suspected.
"Oh, you should've seen the flying carpets," Rose said, stepping beside him and casually resting a hand on his shoulder.
He didn't flinch or tense up. Didn't look uncomfortable like he did around their parents.
That was... rather nice, actually.
"Whole flocks of them over the Egyptian deserts," she continued, smiling faintly at the memory. "The sand looked like liquid fire at sunset, and the sky was full of glowing carpets. They shimmered like fireflies against the stars. We camped in midair one night, and I swear the constellations were so close I thought I could pluck them right out of the sky."
Of course, the Muggles down below had been protected by Muggle-repelling charms. When the occasional one slipped through the magical barriers, they'd rationalize it away as a mirage or heat distortion. Muggles would explain away practically anything, rationalizing everything unless magic smacked them directly in the face.
"Now that sounds considerably more majestic than a broom," Harry admitted, genuinely interested.
"Shame flying carpets are banned in Britain," she said, clicking her tongue in annoyance. She'd have loved to show her brother some of the beautiful sights she'd witnessed over the years.
They'd been in Egypt years ago, running yet another errand for Dumbledore because of course the old codger had her parents wrapped around his crooked finger. The Arabian Ministry of Magic, buried deep beneath Alexandria, surrounded by ancient spells and cursed scrolls that hummed with barely contained power.
It had been absolutely terrifying.
And absolutely beautiful.
The memory dissolved as they approached their destination. Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 BC.
The door creaked open with a ghostly groan that made both twins jump slightly.
And then—
"Ah, Miss Potter," came a soft, dreamy voice like cobwebs floating in moonlight.
Mr. Ollivander was every bit as unsettling as Rose remembered from her own wand selection. Wild white hair that looked like he'd been struck by lightning, pale skin that seemed almost translucent, and those bloody eyes that saw far too much, far too deeply.
She stiffened under his penetrating gaze, fighting the instinct to step behind Harry for protection.
"Eleven inches, holly and phoenix feather," he murmured, as if reciting from memory. "A sister wand to another... terrible, but great wizard."
"Yes, terrible but great, I remember the speech," she cut in quickly, not wanting to rehash that particular conversation. "But we're here for him."
She gave Harry a gentle nudge forward.
Her brother stumbled slightly into the wandmaker's direct line of sight, and Rose watched as those unsettling pale eyes fixed on him with laser-like intensity.
Ollivander tilted his head, studying Harry like he was examining a particularly fascinating specimen.
"How very unexpected," he whispered, and there was something almost reverent in his tone.
"Mr. Potter. You have your mother's eyes... just like your sister."
Of course he bloody well knew who Harry was. Somehow, some way, the old wandmaker always seemed to know everything about everyone who walked through his door.
Rose decided she didn't want to know how he managed it. Some things were definitely better left unasked.
Beta'ed by: @Darklord331
Beta note: Hahahah! What would you expect guys? You wizard folks never saw something like an exorcism? Please your wizards and witches for crying out loud! How are you not suppose to know these stuff?