The wand shop reeked of ancient timber, melted candle wax, and something indefinable that made the air itself feel heavy with centuries of accumulated enchantment. Dust motes danced in the amber light filtering through grimy windows, and the narrow boxes stacked floor to ceiling seemed to pulse with their own restless energy. Each shelf groaned under the weight of slumbering magic, creating an atmosphere so thick you could practically taste the residual spells clinging to the walls.
Ollivander shuffled about in the depths of his shop like some decrepit librarian who'd forgotten the difference between books and dangerous artifacts.
It's not like wands are the magical equivalent of guns or anything.
His papery fingers traced along box edges with the reverence of a man cataloguing his life's work, each movement accompanied by soft wheezes and muttered observations that might have been directed at the wands themselves.
Rose had claimed a spot near the front counter with the kind of calculated casualness that suggested she was always ready to bolt or pounce, depending on circumstances.
Damn, what kind of childhood did she really have? Because I'm one hundred percent sure, a spoiled princess is not.
The way she held herself reminded me of those street cats back in Little Whinging, deceptively relaxed but coiled with potential energy. We'd only properly met a few hours ago, yet somehow the word 'sister' rolled off my tongue without the slightest hesitation. Too natural, that.
The sort of detail that should have my mind throwing up red flags, but instead got filed away under 'useful information, investigate later.'
The parents' situation, however, remained a bloody nightmare I'd rather not contemplate. Nothing quite like discovering your family had been running around, pretending to be dead, and suddenly appearing out of nowhere and pretending it's all fine and dandy.
"What's your wand made of?" I asked, genuine curiosity threading through my voice despite my best efforts to maintain conversational distance.
Rose's entire face lit up like someone had just offered her a particularly entertaining explosion. She spun her wand between her fingers with the fluid grace of someone who'd been practicing the movement for years, the polished wood catching the dusty light. "Feast your eyes on this beauty," she said, voice brimming with obvious pride.
Spinning her wand around her finger like some witchy nunchuck. Show-off. Where did she learn that? Tibetan monks?
"Eleven inches of prime holly, phoenix feather core straight from Fawkey the Phoenix himself. This little wonder can fire off charms and hexes faster than Mum's old willow swishy wand ever managed."
My left eye developed a subtle twitch. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches. In any reasonable universe, that would have been my wand. The Chosen One's wand. Which meant Rose really was the Girl Who Lived, the child of prophecy, the one marked by Voldemort as his equal.
Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.
Bad thought, Harry. Down boy. You've got the Gacha in your soul and RNGesus at your back. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let her be the prophecy. Let Rose play the role of destiny's darling. I'd rather learn magic in peace.
"You've been practicing with Lily's wand then?" I asked, keeping my tone light and conversational. "What about James' wand?"
Rose's nose wrinkled in distaste, as if she'd just caught a whiff of something particularly unpleasant. "That mahogany monster? Bloody temperamental piece of work, that one. Misfires every time I so much as breathe on it wrong. Nearly singed off my eyebrows last summer trying to transfigure a teacup."
Her fingers traced along her wand's length with obvious affection, the gesture unconsciously possessive. "This one, though? Perfect match from the moment Ollivander placed it in my hands. Said it was an unusual combination, phoenix feather from Dumbledore's own familiar." Her expression darkened slightly at the headmaster's name, lips pressing together in a way that suggested less than charitable thoughts.
Alright. Not a Dumbledore fangirl. Good. Makes two of us. That bearded bastard's been my personal boogeyman since the cradle—my biggest opp. No contest.
What's his obsession with my family anyway? In one way or another, Dumbledore was the source of all drama if you squint enough.
Perhaps I was being somewhat unfair, considering I'd never actually met the man face to face, but fuck it. He'd earned my resentment through this cluster fuck of a situation I'm in right now.
"Indeed," came Ollivander's reedy voice from somewhere in the maze of shelving, the old wandmaker materializing from the shadows like some sort of benevolent wraith with breathing problems.
Rose actually flinched at his sudden appearance, while I maintained my composure through sheer bloody-mindedness.
Self-control, baby. Physical and magical. Accidental magic is a bitch when it lashes out unexpectedly. I've been training not to suppress it, but to own it. Better to channel that energy deliberately than let it explode outward in a moment of surprise. I'd been working on that particular skill set since my magic first manifested, focusing on control rather than suppression.
Suppressed magic had a nasty habit of building pressure until it found its own outlet, usually at the worst possible moment.
After nearly burning down the house I was living in, I learned my lesson very thoroughly. Smoking is bad for your health, both from cigarettes and house fires.
Ollivander examined Rose's wand with the sort of reverent attention usually reserved for religious artifacts, his pale eyes gleaming with professional fascination. When he turned that unsettling stare on me, I noticed he was already holding a fresh box, lid open to reveal dark wood nestled in faded silk.
"That wand holds remarkable potential," he said, glancing between Rose and her holly wand before extending the new box toward me. "Its creation was quite extraordinary, as I suspect its destiny shall be. But now, young man, let us discover what chooses you."
I accepted the offered wand and gave it a casual flick, more curious than hopeful after the previous five had either sparked pathetically or attempted to electrocute me. Golden sparks erupted from the tip like miniature fireworks, cascading through the dusty air with obvious magical enthusiasm.
Ollivander's hands came together in a sharp clap of pure delight. "Fascinating! Eleven inches, yew wood with a dragon heartstring core. Quite rare, that combination. Yew has long been associated with powerful wizards, though many fear its reputation. The wood of transformation, of death and rebirth, is often found growing in ancient graveyards. A wand of considerable legacy has chosen you and—"
"No thanks," I said flatly, sliding the wand back into its silk-lined box and snapping the lid shut with decisive finality.
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear Rose's breathing and the distant tick of some hidden clock. Even the dust motes seemed to pause mid-dance.
"I beg your pardon?" Ollivander blinked rapidly, his mustache twitching as if he'd misheard something fundamental about the nature of reality.
"I said, No thanks. That wand practically has 'future dark wizard' carved into its handle. I'm allergic to unnecessary drama, and that thing would attract trouble like Dudley attracts cake."
"But it chose you," Ollivander protested, his voice rising slightly with what might have been panic. "The wand chooses the wizard, young man. This is not a selection process where personal preference—"
"Watch me," I interrupted, reaching over to gently pluck Rose's wand from her startled fingers. "Hey!" she yelped, but I was already giving it an experimental wave. More golden sparks, just as enthusiastic as before.
"Twin privileges," I informed her with raised eyebrows. "What's yours is mine, and what's mine is also mine."
"That's not how it works, you absolute prick," Rose complained, snatching her wand back with a scowl that could have frozen over Sahara. "It might produce sparks, but it won't bond properly. The magical resonance will be all wrong."
Ollivander nodded emphatically, apparently grateful for any support in his increasingly surreal afternoon. "Miss Potter is quite correct. The core resonance, the wood's natural affinity, the length proportions, all carefully calibrated for optimal magical conductivity. A secondary match will never achieve the same—"
"Don't give me those mystical bollocks," I said, irritation creeping into my voice. "What happens if a wizard's wand breaks? Or gets stolen? Do they just give up magic entirely?"
"Well, no," Ollivander admitted reluctantly. "But the replacement will never perform with the same efficiency or power as the original perfect match."
"Right, so we have a saying back in the Muggle world—'one piece of paper doesn't decide my future.' Same thing, different stick."
The truth was, I didn't actually need a wand at all. The Gacha had already granted me a few interesting abilities and items, Immunity, and that holy water which dusted some poor creatures earlier.
I really hoped that it was a bad vampire or something equally dark or evil, as I didn't want to be burdened with the guilt of killing innocent people.
And speaking of not needing it.
Besides, I already developed my own version of prayer-based magic that worked quite well. Even if it was just a burst of my accidental magic that was using faith as fuel rather than my own emotions. So I really don't need a Wand, especially when Gacha could give me something better in the future. But showing up to Hogwarts without a wand would cause exactly the sort of attention I was trying to avoid.
"Look, I don't want dark power or great destiny," I continued, noting how both Rose and Ollivander were staring at me like I'd just declared my intention to juggle fire-breathing chickens. "I just want to learn magic without getting targeted by the next aspiring Dark Lord who recognizes my wand's reputation."
What followed was a parade of increasingly ridiculous options. Ollivander seemed determined to foist every dramatically significant wand in his collection onto me, starting with something he claimed contained a splinter from the Elder Wand itself.
"If the Elder Wand is supposedly unique and all-powerful," I said skeptically, "how exactly do you have pieces of it lying about? That seems like the sort of thing that would be either impossible or headline news in the magical world."
Then came a wand he swore had been crafted personally by Merlin during Arthur's reign, apparently sitting unclaimed for the better part of a thousand years.
"Let me guess," I deadpanned, "Excalibur's tucked away in your sock drawer as well?"
Rose snorted with barely suppressed laughter, while Ollivander maintained his completely serious expression.
After rejecting what felt like half his inventory, each piece more legendarily significant than the last, I was beginning to think the old man was either completely barmy or running some sort of elaborate prank. Every wand that produced decent sparks came with a backstory involving ancient curses, legendary battles, or previous owners who'd gone spectacularly evil.
Finally, almost by accident, I picked up a rather ordinary-looking piece that immediately burst into enthusiastic golden fireworks.
"Right then," I said, examining the plain brown wood. "What's this one's tragic backstory? The previous owner sacrificed virgins to dark gods? Made from a tree that witnessed the crucifixion?"
"Ah," Ollivander perked up considerably, apparently relieved to discuss something that didn't involve rejecting priceless artifacts. "Quite interesting, actually. The wood comes from a weathered fig tree, specifically one that grew outside Jerusalem."
"Fig tree?" I raised an eyebrow, though something about that detail was tickling the back of my memory.
"Indeed, a Ficus carica that experienced rather unusual circumstances. I doubt many of your age would recognize the significance—"
"I've read the Bible, thanks," I interrupted, pieces clicking into place. "The cursed fig tree. Jesus cursed it for not bearing fruit out of season."
"Precisely!" Ollivander's face lit up with scholarly enthusiasm. "Twelve and a half inches, surprisingly rigid flexibility, as if its spine is absolutely in order. Most curious property, though: while crafted from a tree touched by the curse of Messiah, this wand shows remarkable difficulty with curses. Quite excellent for curse-breaking and revealing spells, but utterly hopeless at casting anything genuinely malicious."
For the first time all afternoon, I was looking at a wand that wouldn't immediately paint a target on my back. No dark legacy, no previous owners who'd terrorized half of Europe, just poor timing with biblical agriculture. I mean, yeah, Olivander knew about the bible or any myth due to his own profession, but I doubt every wizard is complicit in the mythology or religion of Muggles.
"You know what?" I said, giving the wand another experimental flick to confirm the continued golden sparkles. "I accept. Thanks for choosing me, you innocent tree that had the misfortune of encountering the Son of God who probably woke up that morning on the wrong side."
I mean, come on, J-man, seriously cursing the out-of-season tree for not giving fruit when you're hungry? I get that he was probably showing some figurative lessons of that fig tree representing Israel or something, but that still was a dick move.
Rose finally released a long-suffering sigh, digging into her robes for the appropriate coins. "I really hope you're not this bloody picky about everything, brother dear," she said, counting out the galleons onto Ollivander's counter.
"Hey, I let you dress me up in this wizard cosplay," I said, tugging at the collar of my robes. "That was me being cooperative."
She snorted.
Ollivander seemed to recover his equilibrium as he processed our payment and added a wand holster plus cleaning kit to my purchases. When we finally made our way toward the door, he called out behind us with obvious amusement.
"A most curious pair, you two. Very curious indeed."
As we stepped back into the bustle of Diagon Alley, Rose shook her head with a mixture of exasperation and fondness. "You realize you just spent two hours rejecting some of the most powerful wands in existence because they might cause drama?"
"Damn right," I replied cheerfully, tucking my new fig wood wand into its holster. "Drama's for people who don't have enough actual problems to deal with." And I have more pressing issues to deal with, like learning magic and not dying.
Suddenly, I froze over as I could feel Gacha stirring once again.
Volition
Elite Trait
Origin: Disco Elysium
You are unnaturally connected to your own inner morale. The voice that pushes you to move forward, your determination, and your will to keep going. Honing this sense can allow you not to lose your will even against extreme adversity and pull off feats of tremendous willpower with ease. But losing control over your volition can also lead to overconfidence.
I walked once again, feeling this eerie sense of calmness settling over me, and my anxiety dissipated…or rather, being calm allowed me to fight these feelings I've hidden by letting myself be distracted by this magical world.
"Harry, are you okay?" Rose asked, seeing me standing still for a moment.
Despite the circumstances, the girl is genuinely concerned for you, almost as if you've known each other all your life.
Who said that?! Am I being possessed? No, this unnatural deep voice, and this trait Gacha just gave me, Volition? Like from that crazy game Disco Elysium?
Must protect her, for you are her light. So maybe protect yourself equally.
The voice replied, but not the answer I was looking for. So I can't hold a conversation with voices in my head? Or is my own Volition ignoring me?
No matter, at least I got an indomitable Human spirit out of this.
James and Lily Potter sat together at a corner table in The Three Sheets, a weathered little pub tucked deep in Diagon Alley. The place was made up to look like the inside of a pirate ship, its walls paneled in dark oak, lanterns swaying gently from the ceiling as though stirred by an unseen tide. A battered signboard swung outside, painted with a sailing ship braving a storm. Over the door, a black pirate flag flapped lazily beside a gleaming unicorn crest, and at the very peak of the roof, some eccentric craftsman had bolted a full statue of a unicorn, rearing as if to challenge the sky.
It had always been one of James's favourite haunts since his school days, not because of the drinks, but because, in his words, it "looked bloody sick." The Marauders had practically adopted it as their private port of call, swapping stories over Butterbeer and daring each other into trouble.
James had been coming here since his fifth year at Hogwarts, initially because Sirius had dared him to try their infamous "Kraken's Revenge" cocktail, but eventually because the place felt authentically mental in a way that appealed to his Marauder sensibilities. The proprietor was a former curse-breaker who'd lost his left leg to a particularly vindictive Egyptian tomb guardian, and his stories were worth the price of admission alone.
Now, decades later, he sat there with his beautiful wife, watching her cradle a cup of tea between pale hands while he nursed his own pint of Butterbeer.
The day had gone exactly as he'd expected—and yet, nothing could have prepared him for the shock of those letters. Two Hogwarts owls arriving together, bearing news that shattered years of stubborn belief: all this time, they'd thought their son was a Squib.
Harry Potter was not a Squib. Harry Potter was, in fact, magical enough to warrant personal attention from Hogwarts like any other wizarding child. The implications of that discovery were still settling into James's consciousness like stones dropped into deep water, each realization creating new ripples of guilt and confusion.
Merlin, how many times had he shut down Rose's tantrums when she'd begged to see her brother? How often had he told her it was "too dangerous," or that knowing might harm Harry's mental state? Looking back, it all seemed painfully foolish now.
The boy's words from their first meeting and every word shared between them today still echoed in James's memory with uncomfortable clarity. No tears, no pleading or blaming, anger or tantrums, just cold analysis delivered in a voice that belonged to someone much older than fourteen.
Aren't teenagers supposed to be walking-talking balls of anger issues?
"Our son's grown up so much," Lily murmured, her gaze fixed far beyond the pub's windows. Outside, the alley teemed with families shepherding their children between shops, stocking up for the new term at Hogwarts and other magical schools. The air was alive with chatter, the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting through the crowd.
"That he has," James replied, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. "A little too much, if you ask me. Enough to think he doesn't need or want to see us." There was no blame in it, not for Harry. The frustration was reserved for the tangle of circumstances that had brought them here.
"What did you expect? Petunia's been telling him we died in some ridiculous Muggle accident, drunk and crashing through a stranger's house like common criminals. Years of that poison, and we thought he'd just forgive and forget because we showed up with apologies and explanations?"
Lily snorted softly, using humour to mask the weariness in her tone. Years of running from one enemy to the next had burned away the innocent, wise-eyed girl she'd once been, leaving something sharper, harder.
The war had burned away much of Lily Evans's youthful optimism, leaving something harder and more pragmatic in its place, though the core of fierce protectiveness remained unchanged.
"Dumbledore has a lot to answer for," she muttered, and this time the humour was gone. The anger beneath her words was a steady, simmering thing. "His greater good and manipulative bloody chess games. Leaving our son with those people, letting us believe he was better off without magic, without us. Making us run from one country to another, making contact with his sources, delivering, as if we were his personal spy. Don't we deserve to have a happy family, a stable home for once? He denied us by saying our daughter is some child of destiny, using Harry as proof. Well, bloody good that turned out. Harry is a Wizard, and Dumbledore was wrong. Now imagine James, how many times Dumbledore was wrong but we didn't ask questions and followed blindly?!"
They both had admired the old man since they were children. He was Dumbledore, the man who vanquished Gellert Grindelwald and led the Order of the Phoenix to fight off Voldemort and his legion of Death Eaters.
So yeah, they admired him, but admiration and obedience had a cost.
James sighed, his thoughts straying to their children. Rose, at least, he trusted to take care of herself. He and Lily had trained her in everything they knew, and her stubborn streak made her as unyielding as tempered steel. Even without Hogwarts, she'd be working at a fourth-year level, if not better. And she had the sense to know when to fight and when to run.
Harry… Harry was different. From what James had learned from the Dursleys, the boy's raw magical talent was absurd. No wand, no formal instruction, and still he'd managed feats most fully trained wizards couldn't pull off, accidental magic so controlled it might as well have been deliberate.
"Still can't figure out how Harry got so powerful," James said at last, frowning into his drink. "I mean, lifting a television, repairing a window, no wand, no incantation, not even a burst of accidental magic from some emotional outburst. Just… doing it."
Lily blinked, coming out of her thoughts to look at him. "You think there might be something behind those 'demon worship' accusations?" she asked suddenly.
James nearly choked on his Butterbeer. "Really?" he coughed, eyes wide. This from the same woman who had once politely threatened the Dursleys with toad transfiguration if they dared badmouth her son again? Despite what Harry believed, the Dursleys were not ignoring his pagan demon statue, or thought they were historical figures.
They were just too scared to bring it up.
"Not like that, obviously," Lily said quickly, waving away his shock. "But I did see those so-called 'demonic idols' Petunia was ranting about. They were just carved representations of various monotheistic deities, hardly satanic. But what if Harry's been teaching himself magic through alternative traditions? Like the wandless practitioners in Uagadou, or the prayer-based systems used by the Cult of Cosmos, or even the ritual magic favored by traditional Hecate covens?"
"Possible," James conceded reluctantly. Academic theorizing had never been his strength; he preferred problems that could be solved with quick reflexes and a well-aimed hex. "But where would he have learned about any of that? It's not like Petunia keeps magical textbooks lying about."James grimaced.
Before either could say more, a familiar voice cut through the low hum of the pub.
"James, Lily, you're here."
Both Potters looked up sharply. A man with long, tangled black hair stepped through the shimmering dome of a Muffliato charm Lily had cast for privacy. He slid into the empty chair opposite them with the easy familiarity of someone who had never once asked permission.
"Sirius…" James said slowly, his body tensing out of instinct.
"Lily. Prongs," Sirius greeted with a crooked grin. "Good, you're both here."
The casual way he'd penetrated their privacy charms suggested this wasn't a social call, and the deliberate timing of his arrival indicated he'd been watching them for some time before making his presence known. James felt his jaw tighten reflexively, old patterns of friendship and suspicion warring in his chest."What do you want, Padfoot?" he asked, using the old nickname out of habit rather than affection.
It was still surreal, seeing Sirius like this, sitting across from him with something that almost resembled emotional stability. In their Hogwarts days, Sirius Black had been the human equivalent of a lit firework: brilliant, unpredictable, and guaranteed to explode spectacularly when you least expected it. "Responsible" was the last word anyone would have applied to him, yet here he sat, apparently managing both a marriage and a godchild without burning down half of London.
The years had changed all of them, though not always for the better. Remus remained in hiding somewhere; Merlin only knew where the poor bastard had ended up this time.
Meanwhile, Peter Pettigrew continued his impressive streak of not dying in Azkaban, which frankly defied all reasonable expectations for someone of his particular brand of sniveling cowardice. The treacherous little rat had served as their Secret Keeper while Sirius played decoy, drawing Voldemort's attention away from the real target. The moment Pettigrew had been captured, he'd sung like a bloody canary, leading the Dark Lord straight to James's children and destroying any hope of a normal family life.
The hardest thing was losing both of his parents, as they sacrificed themselves for their grandchildren, triggering some ancient magic charm that acted like an equivalent exchange, for their own lives, the lives of their grandchildren will be spared, even again, Killing Curse.
Voldemort learned that hard way.
Even now, eleven years later, James still wakes some nights in cold sweats, reliving those final moments when everything had gone to hell.
If only he didn't chase after Pettigrew ... .no, no, that would have led Sirius to Azkaban, his parents wouldn't want that. Sirius was just as their son as he was to them.
Ironically, Pettigrew's betrayal had backfired in the most spectacular fashion possible. A tracking jinx James had cast on him years earlier, originally intended as harmless Marauder mischief to monitor their friend's whereabouts during particularly elaborate pranks, especially to see if he could hook up with some witch or not, had led the Aurors, led by him and Lilly, directly to the traitor's hiding spot.
By pure grace of the Lady Luck, it had also delivered James straight into what was being generously called Sirius Black's "trial," though the proceedings had more in common with a public execution than actual jurisprudence.
Barty Crouch Senior's expression when his title was stripped, after being caught red-handed attempting to send an innocent man to Azkaban without so much as a pretense of evidence, had been worth every minute of the chaos that followed.
Life had actually been decent for a while after that. They'd returned to Britain, started rebuilding their lives, and began to believe they might actually have a future that didn't involve running from one safe house to the next.
Then the attacks had resumed with renewed viciousness. First came the subtle attempts, poisoned letters, cursed objects left where the children might find them, anonymous threats delivered by untraceable owls. When those failed to achieve the desired effect, their enemies had abandoned subtlety entirely. Professional killers and Hit Wizards, Dark Wizard, began operating in broad daylight, some not even bothering to wear masks or conceal their identities.
That was when Dumbledore had appeared with his solution: leave Britain entirely, seek safety on foreign shores where Voldemort's remaining supporters supposedly couldn't reach them. The old man had been convincing, painting pictures of peaceful exile while the dark factions exhausted themselves fighting over the scraps of their master's empire. With their absence, he'd assured them, the Ministry's "questionable officials" and "Imperius victims" would be free to pursue justice without fear of retaliation.
Most crucially, that was when Dumbledore had convinced them to leave Harry with the Dursleys. A Squib, he'd declared with absolute certainty, gesturing to various magical tests and theoretical frameworks that James had been too worried about Rose's safety to properly examine. Better to leave the boy in obscure Muggle safety, the headmaster had argued, rather than drag him along with Rose, whose growing magical power and reputation made her a target for anyone seeking leverage over the famous Potters.
The single worst decision of James's life, as it turned out.
Even in exile, danger had found them with depressing regularity. Voldemort's international supporters had proved far more extensive and better organized than Dumbledore's intelligence had suggested.
Foreign dark wizards with their own grudges against the famous Girl Who Lived's parents. Ambitious wannabe dark lords who thought eliminating the Potters might enhance their own reputations, and many more strangers who were out to get them.
The promised protection had been utterly worthless, leaving them to fight for their lives in unfamiliar territory with minimal support and no real understanding of local magical politics.
In hindsight, Harry had been the safest of them all during those years, hidden away from the magical world, unknown and unremarkable to everyone who might wish him harm.
Unfortunately, their son didn't see it that way, judging from the glacier-cold reception and shoulder he'd given James during their reunion shopping trip.
"Are you even listening to me, Prongs?" Sirius's voice cut through James's brooding with characteristic bluntness.
"Of course I am," James lied smoothly, meeting his oldest friend's skeptical grey stare. "But no, we're not going anywhere near Dumbledore. That's final."
"Come on, mate, it's an important meeting. As members of the Order of the Phoenix, you both have obligations—"
"Fuck the Order of the Phoenix." The words exploded from James's lips with enough force to make his palms slam against the table, the sharp crack mercifully absorbed by Lily's Muffliato charm. Several other patrons glanced in their direction anyway, responding to the obvious body language if not the actual sound. James forced himself to breathe slowly, deliberately, until his voice steadied.
"Sirius, that manipulative old bastard fed us lies for eleven years. We were never actually safe out there, no matter what his grand strategy supposedly required. Do you have any bloody idea how exhausting it was, dragging a child from one end of the world to the other, always looking over our shoulders, never knowing if the next safe house would actually be safe?"
"You know a direct confrontation wasn't possible back then," Sirius protested, though his tone lacked its usual conviction. "They would have targeted you specifically, used the children as leverage. Dumbledore was trying to protect—"
"Don't." Lily's voice sliced through the air like a blade, cold enough to freeze the words in Sirius's throat. "Don't you dare lecture us about protection when you stayed right here in Britain, got married, raised a child, built a career, and faced exactly the same enemies we were supposedly running from. Meanwhile, we spent a decade taking compromise after compromise, following orders, cleaning up the old man's messes in foreign countries, making deals with people who owed him favors, all in the name of his precious 'greater good.' And for what? So he could waste our lives playing puppet master while our son grew up thinking we were dead?"
"That's not fair, Lily," Sirius shot back, his famous temper finally flaring to match hers. "It hasn't exactly been a holiday for me either. You think I enjoyed watching my best friends disappear while I stayed behind to clean up the aftermath? And what lies are you even talking about? Every mission Dumbledore assigned was essential to preventing another war. He's spent his entire life fighting dark wizards; he wouldn't deliberately hurt allies, especially not you two. He's a great man who's made difficult choices for the greater—"
"Your godson is a wizard." James cut across the brewing argument before it could escalate into the sort of shouting match that would destroy their friendship permanently.
Sirius froze as if he'd been hit with a full-body bind. "What did you just say?"
"Harry is a wizard," Lily repeated with deadly precision, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "A remarkably powerful one, actually, not the helpless Squib we were told to abandon. Our entire life since the war, every mission, every exile, every bloody sacrifice we made, was built on a lie Dumbledore told us because it served his purposes. He used our trust and our love for our children to turn us into his personal international agents. So, no, Sirius Orion Black, he is not a great man, making hard choices. He's either completely delusional about his own infallibility, or he has a disturbingly unhealthy interest in my family."
Whatever defense Sirius had been preparing died unuttered. He knew the public story about why James and Lily had gone into hiding, Rose's safety as the Girl Who Lived, and the need to protect the famous child from revenge-seeking Death Eaters.
But he'd also known the private truth: that Dumbledore had specifically convinced them Harry would be safer in the Muggle world, away from the dangers that surrounded his magical sister. Now, hearing that foundation crumble, guilt settled in his stomach like a stone. He found himself thinking about Rose, growing up under the constant shadow of threat, never knowing if the next day might bring another attack, another frantic relocation to yet another temporary safe house.
The silence stretched uncomfortably until Lily pushed back from the table with barely controlled fury. "I need some air before I do something we'll all regret," she announced, sweeping toward the exit with the kind of contained violence that had once made Death Eaters reconsider their career choices.
"So Harry really is...?" Sirius asked quietly once she was gone.
"Yeah." James's tone was flat, emotionally exhausted. "Two Hogwarts letters arrived last week, one for each child. We spent a few days shopping for Rose's supplies, cleaning up the old Godric's Hollow cottage, and moving our things back from the Cardiff manor we'd been using as a staging area. Then today, on their birthday, the twins finally met each other properly. Bloody marvelous reunion, as you can imagine."
The sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a knife, and Sirius winced at the obvious pain underneath it.
"You don't sound particularly thrilled about getting your son back," he observed carefully.
"I'm grateful to have met him," James corrected, staring into his Butterbeer as if it might contain answers to questions he didn't know how to ask. "But I can't shake the feeling that we've already missed the most important parts. I'll never have the kind of relationship with Harry that my father had with me, that easy trust or bond. At least the twins clicked immediately, though. Like they'd never been separated at all, joined at the hip just like when they were toddlers."
Sirius downed the rest of his drink in one long swallow, processing the implications. He'd spent years telling himself Harry was better off in the Muggle world, safely ignorant of the magical conflicts that had claimed so many lives. It had been easier to focus on his own responsibilities, his marriage, his career in the Auror Office, rather than dwell on the godson he'd been advised to avoid contacting.
Especially by a man who's considered one of the greatest of this era.
But if Harry was magical, if he'd always been magical, then every justification Sirius had used to stay away crumbled to dust.
"Look, Sirius," James continued, his voice gaining strength as he worked through his thoughts aloud. "Don't take this the wrong way, but we're done with the Order. This revelation about Harry was just the final straw in something that's been building for years. Dumbledore has lost all perspective, and he'll keep ruining lives in the name of his greater good unless someone has the backbone to tell him to stop."
"I know you're angry, mate," Sirius said carefully, "but I've worked alongside him for over a decade now. Whatever his faults, he's not the villain you're painting him as. Every decision he's made has been in service of preventing another war—"
"Whatever helps you sleep at night," James interrupted with a tired wave. "We're not declaring a blood feud or anything that dramatic. We just want to be left alone to raise our children without interference from well-meaning manipulators. I'll still send Harry and Rose to Hogwarts; it's probably the best magical education available, and despite everything, we all grew up there successfully. As long as Dumbledore doesn't try to drag my children into his games the way he did with Lily and me, I'll tolerate his presence and even forgive past mistakes. But that's the extent of it."
After everything they'd sacrificed for the Order's missions, after all the gold they'd contributed to fund operations, after all the favors they'd called in on Dumbledore's behalf, James had no intention of giving the man another knut or another ounce of loyalty.
"I'll pass that along," Sirius muttered, clearly recognizing defeat when it stared him in the face.
James studied his oldest friend's expression and decided to change the subject before the atmosphere became completely poisonous. "What's your boy been up to these days? You mentioned him in a letter a few years back, but I never got the full story about how Sirius Black ended up as a family man."
That, at least, managed to coax a genuine smile from Sirius's face. "Canopus, call him Poe, eleven now, constantly pestering Susan to let him tag along to Hogwarts this year, even though he's still got years before his own letter arrives. I've been looking after Susan like she was my own daughter since Amelia's brother and his wife were killed by those Death Eater holdouts back in '83. The boy drags her into more elaborate mischief and pranks than I ever managed with you lot. It's simultaneously terrifying and deeply impressive."
That explained quite a lot about how Sirius had ended up married to someone as strict and stickler for rules as Amelia Bones,
James reflected. Mutual enemies have a way of creating unexpected partnerships.
It also explained why Sirius had accepted the position of Assistant Commissioner in the Auror Office while Amelia ran the entire Department of Magical Law Enforcement; they'd become a formidable team both professionally and personally.
True power couple, one might say.
"Well, mate, you'll never guess what Poe managed last week," Sirius launched into a story about his son's latest magical mishap, and for the first time in what felt like years, the two Marauders simply talked. The tension didn't disappear entirely, too much had been said, too many wounds reopened, but it settled into something manageable, at least for now.
Outside, Lily stood in the afternoon bustle of Diagon Alley, watching families prepare for the new school year and trying to decide whether she wanted to hex Dumbledore or simply disappear entirely. Either option held considerable appeal. Maybe she should find her son. She wanted to see his face, even if it was set on indifference and slight dislike ever since they met.
A mother could endure a lot more than if he thinks she will back off now.
@Darklord331 Note: The wand chooses its owner eh? Well bullshit if anyone beats you in a duel your wand leaves you in favor of another big dick than yours~.
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Diagon Ally -July 31/2005
At Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, I was in absolute heaven. Muggle ice cream didn't even come close to this….this was a symphony of sugar, cream, and probably some magical ingredients. Every spoonful felt like fireworks bursting across my taste buds, each flavor richer than the last. The magical confection seemed to shift and evolve with each bite, caramel notes giving way to hints of crystallized ginger and something that tasted suspiciously like bottled sunshine.
Across from me, Rose wasn't faring much better. She tore into her sundae with the single-minded determination of a starving ghoul. However, her ridiculous hood made her look more like an incognito criminal than a girl enjoying dessert. The heavy fabric cast shadows across her face, but I could still catch glimpses of her green eyes darting about nervously whenever someone passed too close to our table. The fact that she kept trying to hide her face only made her stand out more, a textbook example of drawing attention by trying to avoid it.
"Why the hood, anyway? You know it makes you look twice as suspicious, right?" I asked, scraping my spoon along the glass and savoring another bite of what the menu had cheerfully labeled 'Exploding Bonbon Surprise.'
Despite what Assassin's Creed might have promised gamers everywhere, covering your face doesn't make you invisible. Quite the opposite, actually. Humans are hardwired to notice what doesn't fit, a survival instinct that stretches back to when our ancestors were dodging sabertooth tigers and competing with other tribes. Hooded figures trip mental alarms because we're naturally social animals. When something looks out of place or deliberately concealed, warning bells start clanging in people's heads. It's an instinct developed during the Stone Age, essential for survival back when spotting the unusual could mean the difference between life and becoming something's dinner.
So no, wearing a hood and covering your face only gains more attention, and not always the good kind.
"I never said it was for stealth," Rose replied, her voice carrying that particular brand of calm smugness that suggested she knew something I didn't. Her green eyes flashed beneath the shadow of her hood, and despite the ridiculous assassin cosplay, there was genuine calculation behind that gaze. "It serves a different purpose entirely."
"Then what's the point?" I pressed, raising an eyebrow while mentally cataloguing the way she held herself, confident, alert, but not paranoid. Interesting.
"It's a signal," she explained, her tone taking on the patient cadence of someone tutoring a particularly dense first-year. "The hood isn't about hiding, it's about communication. It says, 'I don't want to speak to you or acknowledge your existence, so sod off and find someone else to bother.' It's sending people a message: you don't bother me, I don't bother you." She paused to glance around the parlour again, noting the families chattering over their treats, the couples sharing elaborate sundaes, the lone wizard in the corner reading a copy of the Daily Prophet. "Simple social contract, really."
"And why exactly would people follow this unspoken philosophy or unwritten rules?" I pushed further, genuinely intrigued. "It's not like there's some universal handbook of 'How to Interpret Mysterious Hooded Figures in Public Spaces."
"Because, my dear brother," Rose replied smoothly, spooning up another mouthful of her sundae with practiced ease, "dealing with an unknown witch or wizard is rarely worth the potential trouble. People instinctively avoid risk; it's basic self-preservation. Better to leave the mystery figure alone than poke at something that might turn out to be dangerous. Most folks would rather not discover whether that hooded person is just having a bad hair day or plotting to curse someone into next Tuesday. As long as you're not committing crimes or causing a scene, you can travel relatively undisturbed."
It sounded like a massive hassle for minimal gain, honestly. "Or — and hear me out here — why not just change your appearance entirely? You're a witch, aren't you? Few charms, maybe a glamour, a completely different face. Problem solved, and you wouldn't have to cosplay as Budget Ezio Auditore."
Rose looked confused at my reference, but didn't push on.
One thing I genuinely didn't understand about the Wizarding world was this bizarre tendency to mirror Muggle solutions rather than innovate with magic. I knew I'd only been exposed to this world for a day, and most of my knowledge came from my previous life's memories, but the pattern was everywhere once you started looking.
Why did wizards have buses that happened to be magical? Why use a train to get to Hogwarts when Apparition or Portkeys existed? Why were they still relying on owls for communication when they had magic that could presumably do so much more? And don't get me started on the fashion choices; everything looked like Victorian-era Muggle clothing with a few magical flourishes thrown in as an afterthought.
Not to mention that most magical innovations lag about one or two centuries behind their Muggle counterparts. Where was the magical equivalent of modern technology? Instead of playing catch-up with the non-magical world by slapping enchantments on existing concepts, why hadn't wizards used their supernatural abilities to reach for the stars, to push boundaries that Muggles couldn't even dream of?
I knew I was probably just a fourteen-year-old kid talking out of his arse, lacking the context and experience to understand the complexities involved truly. But still, these thoughts nagged at me.
Rose gave me a look that was half exasperated, half amused, as if I'd just suggested we all start flying around on enchanted tea trays. "Polyjuice Potion costs a fortune and requires ingredients that are either rare, illegal, or both. It's not something you casually brew up for a shopping trip to Diagon Alley. And human transfiguration?" She shook her head emphatically. "Beyond dangerous. The kind of magic that can leave you permanently disfigured if you mess up even slightly. It's heavily regulated, illegal without proper mastery credentials and Ministry approval."
"Then invent a new spell," I suggested, making an airy gesture with my spoon. "Wand out, clever incantation with butchered Latin, wave it about dramatically, and poof! Instant disguise. Problem solved."
"That's not how magic works, Harry," Rose sighed, though there was fondness beneath the exasperation. "New spells don't just materialize out of thin air because someone thinks they'd be convenient. If creating magic were that simple, our textbooks would be ten times thicker and we'd all be walking around looking like completely different people every other Tuesday." She paused, looking slightly uncertain for the first time since we'd started this conversation. "Spell creation is probably incredibly difficult and complex; otherwise, there would be new magic appearing constantly. There must be good reasons why most of what we use was developed centuries ago."
"Or maybe," I countered, setting down my spoon with a definitive clink against the now-empty glass, "wizards have just gotten comfortable being magical traditionalists. Here, let me prove my point about innovation."
After I'd committed what Rose declared was the absolute sacrilege of purchasing a second sundae, apparently, there were unwritten rules about ice cream consumption that I'd cheerfully violated, so I convinced her to guide me somewhere more private. She led me through several winding side streets I hadn't noticed during my earlier exploration, past shops that grew progressively shabbier and less frequented.
I'd seriously underestimated the sheer scope of Diagon Alley. What appeared to be a cozy shopping street from the main thoroughfare was actually more like a sprawling magical district, complete with residential areas, forgotten corners, and abandoned infrastructure. The crowded main area had given me the impression of something compact and contained, but the reality was far more complex.
"How did you even know about this place?" I asked as Rose stopped in front of what looked like a derelict bus station, but full of chimneys and Hearth rather than buses. The building was clearly abandoned, paint peeling from the walls, windows either boarded up or missing entirely, and a general air of neglect that spoke of years without maintenance. "I thought you were new to Britain yourself?"
"Our father brought me here once, on our first time here, a few days ago," Rose replied, her voice taking on a harder edge. She pushed open the warped door, which creaked ominously on its hinges. "This used to be working on dad's time, favourite Marauders, that's our dad's gang name, hangout spot. It was a precious place for him." She said softly, like retelling a story she had heard a thousand times before.
And I have a feeling this story doesn't have a happy ending.
"Voldemort's followers killed several people in this station during the war, so instead of cleaning up the mess and moving on, the Ministry decided it would be easier to simply build a new terminal in the opposite direction. Ever since then, everyone has avoided this place like it's cursed. The government refuses to repair it; it's easier to let it rot than deal with the bad memories."
The interior was worse than the outside suggested. Dust motes danced in the weak afternoon light that filtered through the grimy windows, and the air carried the stale scent of old magic mixed with decay. Soot stained the walls around what had once been a functioning Floo network connection, and spider webs draped across the rafters like tattered curtains.
"Well, that's certainly cheerful," I observed, stepping carefully around debris scattered across the floor. "Nothing like a good old-fashioned massacre to really kill the property values." I gestured toward the least damaged hearth. "Mind doing me a favor and lighting a fire in there?"
Rose gave me a confused look but drew her wand with practiced efficiency. "Sure, but why exactly? You do realize this won't work for actual Floo travel, right? The network connection was severed years ago; this is basically just a fancy fireplace now."
Wait, how could the Floo network malfunction? From what I understood, the system worked through the Floo powder itself, not the physical hearth. The fireplaces were just convenient connection points, not integral components of the magic. But then again, I was hardly an expert on magical infrastructure, so perhaps there were complications I wasn't considering.
"Just light it, please. I promise this will be educational." I grinned.
Rose hesitated for another moment, then pointed her wand at the hearth with a fluid motion. "Incendio." Flames immediately leaped to life, flickering cheerfully against the blackened stone and casting dancing shadows across the abandoned station.
"Perfect," I said, pulling out my newly purchased sundae. Without any further explanation, I unceremoniously lobbed the entire glass dish directly into the fire. The ice cream hissed and bubbled violently as it met the flames, creating a rather pathetic sizzling sound as cold met hot.
"Blimey!" Rose yelped, staring at me as if I'd completely lost my mind. "What was that for? Harry, you just wasted perfectly good ice cream! Do you have any idea how much—"
"Shh," I cut her off gently, raising one hand while keeping my eyes fixed on the flames. The fire was already beginning to die down as it struggled against the cold desert, exactly as I'd expected. I took a deep breath and spoke clearly: "Please accept my offering, Lady Aphrodite."
The words felt natural, almost instinctive, as if I'd spoken them a thousand times before. My thoughts turned inward, carrying a familiar tone of respectful communication.
Despite not one of the gods answering my prayers, I wasn't once dissatisfied or distracted from my rituals. Gods don't need to speak to me or interact with me to be real, not when they accepted my offering and gave their blessings in return.
So the least I could do is sacrifice some things that won't cost too much from time to time and gift them some goodies; in this way, I didn't feel like a leech, depending on the Divine to help me with my magical arts.
'Sorry, goddess. It's been far too long since I've properly acknowledged your assistance. Please forgive the neglect. I haven't forgotten your help, just gotten caught up in the chaos of this new life."
The response was immediate and unmistakable. The struggling fire suddenly roared back to life with renewed intensity, the flames burning bright enough to make both Rose and me instinctively step back. The ice cream didn't just melt; it was utterly consumed in seconds, leaving not even a trace of the glass dish behind. A thin stream of golden light rose with the smoke, so brief I might have imagined it if not for the familiar sensation that followed.
Magic tingled across my skin like electricity, the same feeling I got when holding my wand earlier or during moments of accidental magic or when gods answered back to my prayers. Like always, this was warmer, more personal, like a gentle hand resting briefly on my shoulder in acknowledgment.
Rose's eyes had gone wide as dinner plates, her gaze darting between the now-normal fire and my face. "What the bloody hell—"
I caught my reflection in the soot-stained bricks surrounding the hearth, watching as the changes began. My unruly black hair lengthened and smoothed itself, falling in waves past my shoulders, while every trace of facial hair or every hair below my eyebrows simply vanished. My eyebrows and eyelashes grew longer and more defined, framing features that were shifting subtly but dramatically. My face slimmed, jawline sharpening into something more delicate, while my overall bone structure turned into something distinctly androgynous, too graceful to be called purely masculine, but not quite feminine either.
"Ta-da," I announced cheerfully, running a hand through my transformed hair. "Wandless transformation magic."
"No, it bloody well isn't," Rose shook her head firmly, though she couldn't seem to stop staring. "That's Metamorphmagus's ability, Harry. Extremely rare, practically unheard of except that one girl, Nympho-something." She paused, tilting her head as she studied my new appearance. "Though I have to ask, why the sacrificial ritual? That was definitely not normal Metamorphmagus behavior like I've read about."
Urgh, these wizards and their bad habits of assuming everything based on their knowledge instead of acknowledging new things. I mean, it could be semi-metamorphmagus like canon Harry too, but that didn't explain why I could control this much once I prayed to Aphrodite, did it?
"That's something I developed myself," I explained, unconsciously adjusting to the slightly different vocal cords that came with my altered appearance. Even my voice had shifted, becoming more melodious without losing its essentially male character.
"Sacrificing to gods in exchange for wandless casting, no new knowledge or spell though, just like I told you back in my room earlier. Normally, I don't need to offer something every single time I want to cast a spell, but it had been way too long since I'd properly acknowledged the goddess. It didn't feel right to ask for her assistance without giving something in return first, basic courtesy, really."
"That's absolutely brilliant," Rose said rapidly, her curiosity clearly overriding any concern about the unconventional nature of what she'd witnessed. "Blimey, even your voice changed, the transformation is solid too, not smoke and mirrors. I don't pretend to understand whether gods are real or if it's just your magic acting like this, but what you've just shown looks like a classical equivalent exchange: sacrifice something of value, receive something of equal or greater value in return. Though I have to warn you," her expression grew more serious, "sacrificial magic is heavily regulated here in Britain. Depending on how the Ministry interprets what you're doing, it could be considered dark magic. That's a straight ticket to Azkaban if you're not careful."
"Well," I shrugged, not particularly concerned about Ministry classifications, give them more time and they will brand Patronus as forbidden because someone fought off Dementors on their payroll....or soulroll you might say, "I can only speak from personal experience, but I genuinely believe someone is listening up there and responding to my prayers. The results speak for themselves."
I thought back to the first time I'd discovered these particular bits of magic, back at the Dursleys' house. Krishna had been the first deity to respond to my desperate prayers, transforming the barely edible slop the Dursleys called food into something resembling actual butter sweet rolls, at least on my portion of the plate.
For one horrifying moment, I thought it was Daedric Prince of madness, Sheogorath, but nah, that sudden peacock feather in my bed proved otherwise.
Vernon and Petunia never noticed, too absorbed in their own complaints to pay attention to what the freak was eating. And yeah, at this time, I was still a Freak, only getting called Harry once I began to attend church with them, or read the bible.
So from that point on, my life was a mass crossover of religion, praying to everything and everyone. Except for Demons, because fuck demons. Not going to pray to someone or something that was actively hostile to humanity.
No sir, I'm not getting to the end of the raining fireball because I worshipped Bael or other demons.
So I began to pray to different gods, meanwhile selecting whose god's domain my spell was falling into before praying to them. It was hard to create spells like that, especially when I was using knowledge and reference from past life to do it, but I've managed to learn a few spells all by myself, so I count that as a victory.
But this specific transformation ability had developed under rather different circumstances. After the school had sent a letter to Vernon complaining that my hair was "unkempt and inappropriately long, reflecting poorly on both the institution and the neighborhood," he'd decided to take matters into his own hands. Instead of doing what any reasonable parent would do, take me to a proper barber like he did for Dudley, Vernon had simply grabbed a pair of electric clippers and shaved my head nearly bald, claiming he was "destroying the source of the problem."
The only issue with his brilliant solution was that my hair grew back overnight. Completely. By morning, I had the same wild, unruly mop I'd started with, as if time itself had reversed the previous day's scalping.
Vernon had not taken this well. He'd shaved it again. It grew back again. This almost comedic routine continued for an entire week, with both of us growing increasingly frustrated. I was approximately one day away from setting something on fire, again, possibly Vernon himself, when I remembered how the gods had actually responded to my previous offerings.
So I'd tried the same approach with a different deity. I'd prayed to Aphrodite, goddess of beauty and reflection or transformation, offering her the one decent meal I'd managed to scrounge that week. Ever since then, I'd maintained a form of limited Metamorphmagus control, though it was restricted primarily to hair manipulation. Nothing else worked consistently, which was disappointing.
It looks like no matter the universe, Harry Potter has only hair manipulation as a natural shapeshifting ability. Even with this blessing, I can control all the hairs around my body, of course as long as I let the blessing grant a few other side effects when I'm using it, such as being a little too beautiful like in those magazines
The catch was that I had to maintain regular contact with the goddess to keep the blessing active. If I went too long without acknowledging her assistance, the ability would fade until I renewed the connection. It was more practical in the long run to learn proper spells for cosmetic changes rather than relying on divine intervention for basic grooming needs.
Hopefully, Aphrodite wouldn't take offense if I eventually developed more conventional alternatives.
Goddess Aphrodite came in clutch like always, as Rose and I walked hand in hand through the bustling streets of Diagon Alley.
We looked properly like twins now, her hair transformed to match my black locks, falling in the same unruly waves that seemed to defy both gravity and common sense, somehow still beautiful because of Aphrodite. Her bright green eyes, so similar to my own, were now framed by the same dark hair that had become something of a Potter family trademark.
At least according to my knowledge from my past life.
I absolutely detested this form, though. It was one of those situations where you could admire the technical craftsmanship while simultaneously hating everything about the result.
I looked like a damn twink. Or worse, a trap, one of those anime trap characters that confused the hell out of everyone's sexuality.
But it was either that or deal with my hair defaulting like some magical Saiyan with a one-style-for-life curse. Aphrodite gave me the choice between femboy chic or eternal "just woke up" anime hair.
So this form is for disguising, nothing else, not in the thousand years.
Rose's temporary black hair transformation had been achieved through the same method I'd been using blessing as it basically acts same as what my accidental magic could have, like back when I did achieve the same result but it was through an uncontrollable burst of magic.
My first major success had been with a teacher who'd been particularly enthusiastic about screaming at me for something I don't remember when I think about it, it's been years after all.
I'd managed to turn her hair completely blue with silver glitter that sparkled like disco ball fragments every time she moved. The effect had lasted for weeks, much to her horror and my delight, probably because she kept yelling at me and punishing me for the "vandalism," which Dudley and his gangs did before becoming my bros.
It had been the magical prank of the century, at least from my seven-year-old perspective. Ever since then, hair color and length within my general vicinity had been somewhat subject to my conscious will and burst of magic. Aphrodite's blessing had simply given me much finer control over the process, particularly when it came to my own appearance.
With her rules, I can make myself pretty or other people pretty, but I can't make people actively ugly. That blue-haired Karen incident had been a complete accident and with my own magic.
Other gods I've worked with were more flexible; I could bend their domains, tweak their gifts, make the magic more suited to my preferences. Aphrodite? Absolutely not. It was her vision or nothing at all.
'I will not be your femboy mascot, Lady Aphrodite,' I thought with determination, clenching my jaw slightly. 'I am the manliest man to ever engage in manly activities of manliness.'
Adonis was not the giga chad we thought he was. I'm absolutely sure he was also femboy because why would Aphrodite always keep turning me into this when I specifically pray for peak male physique?
"What's bothering you?" Rose asked, noticing my internal struggle. She'd ditched the ridiculous hooded cloak somewhere during our walk, and now moved with the easy confidence of someone who no longer felt the need to hide from every passing stranger. Her transformed hair fell naturally across her lightning bolt scar, rendering her completely unrecognizable to the casual observer.
"Nothing important, just—" My teeth ground together as I felt the divine blessing snap back like a rubber band, the transformation dissolving as beard stubble or at least outline of it materialized along my jaw and my features returned to their normal, decidedly more masculine configuration. "—I just realized that after all that showing off, I don't actually need the disguise. I'm not famous here."
The change back to my original appearance happened with my conscious decision to release the magic. There was no point in maintaining the femboy form any longer than absolutely necessary, and right now, it definitely didn't qualify as necessary. Unlike Rose, I wasn't a celebrity whose face appeared on Chocolate Frog cards and front pages of newspapers.
"How wonderfully convenient for you," Rose drawled, though there was a distinctly mischievous glint in her green eyes. "Though I have to say, I rather liked your transformed look. You were quite cutie."
"I am not cute," I protested immediately, crossing my arms and doing my best impression of wounded masculine pride. "I am dashing, handsome, devastatingly attractive, possibly even breathtaking, depending on the lighting. But definitely not cute."
Perhaps showing her this had been an error. But what else was I supposed to do? She'd been skulking around in cloaks like some budget medieval assassin, and I'd simply been trying to demonstrate that she should be utilizing her magical abilities like a proper witch rather than relying on intimidation through mysterious fashion choices.
"There you two are."
Both Rose and I jumped at the unexpected voice, her wands and spark of lightning appearing in my hands with the kind of synchronized precision that spoke to excellent reflexes and possibly too much shared paranoia.
We relaxed immediately upon recognizing the speaker, though our hearts were still racing from the surprise.
"Blimey, Mum!" Rose complained, her voice taking on the particular whiny quality that daughters seemed to reserve exclusively for their mothers. "I told you not to sneak up on me like that! You nearly gave me a heart attack!"
Lily smiled with the fond indulgence of a parent who'd heard similar complaints approximately a thousand times before. "Sorry, darling. I couldn't resist."
"How did you even find us?" I asked, genuinely curious about the tracking method involved. We'd literally just met this morning, and I wasn't exactly the only black-haired teenager wandering around Diagon Alley. Thanks to my impromptu magical makeover, Rose's appearance now matched mine perfectly, which should have made identification considerably more difficult.
"Elementary detection charm," Rose answered before Lily could respond, pointing to a tiny gem that glinted in her earring. The light emanating from it definitely wasn't natural reflection, there was something distinctly magical about the soft glow.
"Magical GPS tracking? That's brilliant," I muttered, my mind immediately jumping to the technical implications. "But how does it transmit your location back to—"
"Because I'm the one who cast the original charm, silly," Lily interrupted with a knowing smirk that suggested she was rather pleased with her magical prowess. "The connection works both ways when you're the caster."
We all exchanged smiles, and then I realized with some annoyance that I was supposed to be irritated about this whole family reunion situation. Instead, I was getting genuinely excited about magical technology and geeking out at its practical applications. Which was completely typical of my priorities because I do want to learn magic rather than focus on other drama, but also rather frustrating when I was trying to maintain emotional distance.
Lily seemed to interpret my momentary distraction as acceptance of the situation, as she looked at Rose with the teasing expression that mothers seemed to perfect through years of practice. "I have to say, I love what you've done with your hair, sweetheart. Got tired of looking like your mum and decided to embrace your daddy's genetic contribution instead?"
"Hey!" Rose protested, puffing up with indignation. "This is purely for disguise purposes, and you know it perfectly well. Everyone knows I'm proud of my natural hair." She paused, tilting her head with a thoughtful expression that suggested an uncomfortable realization. "Though now that you mention it... Why didn't we just do this from the beginning? You know dozens of cosmetic charms that could have achieved the same effect without all the cloak and dagger nonsense."
"Huh." Lily blinked several times, her expression shifting to one of genuine confusion as she processed this entirely reasonable question. "You know what? You're absolutely right. Why didn't we think of that earlier?"
The answer was blindingly obvious to anyone with half a brain cell. Wizards, as a demographic, were complete dumbasses. I said this with the authority of someone who was now technically part of their ranks, so I felt qualified to make such sweeping generalizations without being a racist.
Maybe it was something in the magical bloodlines, maybe prolonged exposure to magic fried neural pathways like long-term drug use, or maybe the education system just encouraged people to stop thinking critically once they learned to wave sticks around and make things happen. But the evidence of widespread stupidity was pretty much undeniable at this point.
"Let's just go," I muttered, striding off in what I hoped was the direction of somewhere else, anywhere else. "I honestly can't process any more."
"Oh, I completely understand how overwhelming the first day can be," Lily nodded sympathetically, not knowing I was referring to being tired of dealing with her and James, not the magical world, however stupid it was.
But the woman did not take the hint and started rambling.
"I remember when my parents first brought me to Diagon Alley. I was so excited I could barely contain myself, and my teacher was trying to explain everything at once while my parents kept getting distracted by all the fascinating magical items or beings they had on display, like fairies or pixies, and—"
While I don't know about James and Lily, you should look into your family history; the magic is in the blood, and whose blood it is may play a vital role.
The voice in my head, Volition, spoke and disappeared back of my head before I could reply.
I began tuning out with a resigned sigh. This woman was getting entirely too comfortable around me, entirely too quickly for my emotional comfort zone. Though, like Volition said, some part of my brain wouldn't mind hearing stories about my grandparents, people I'd never had the chance to meet, but definitely not here in the middle of a crowded street where anyone could overhear personal family details.
I huffed under my breath and attempted to walk away from the impromptu storytelling session, only to come to an abrupt halt when Rose's hand clamped down on mine with the grip strength of someone who'd been wrestling dragons for fun. Bloody hell, what were they feeding her? Steel cables instead of tendons?
"Wrong direction, Harry," Rose's voice carried a tone of dry amusement. "The exit is back that way, unless you're planning to walk straight into Knockturn Alley and see how long it takes for someone to curse you."
I sighed deeply, watching the sun slowly bleed into the horizon as evening shadows lengthened across the narrow streets of Godric's Hollow. The sky had transformed into a canvas of dusky hues, deep purples, and burnt oranges that would have been beautiful under different circumstances.
People from my last life, fans and those Potterheads on the internet liked to romanticize this place because of its historical significance of this world. "Birthplace of Godric Gryffindor," or "resting place of the ancient Peverell family," as if speaking the names would somehow make the very ground beneath our feet more sacred. They treated it like some mythical shrine where pilgrims came to experience magical enlightenment.
But what I actually saw wasn't some mystical wonderland. It was simply a village in the West Country of England, quiet and unremarkable in the way that only small communities could manage. The kind of place that organized itself around a central square containing the essential pillars of rural life, a stone church with its weathered bell tower, a pub with hanging flower baskets, a post office that probably doubled as the local gossip headquarters, and a handful of small shops that served the basic needs of the residents.
Quaint cottages lined the winding streets in neat rows, their gardens filled with late summer flowers that added splashes of color to the otherwise muted landscape. A weathered signboard marked Church Lane, its painted arrow pointing up the gentle hill toward the cemetery that crowned the village's highest point.
We'd finally finished our expedition through Diagon Alley after meeting with Lily, James, who was shortly joining us on our way. And we called it a day since there was nothing else to do.
My school supplies were sorted, and my wand was selected. I have some new clothes and a few magical candies I bought. I plan to try it this coming night.
James and Lily had suggested purchasing a pet, an owl for mail delivery, perhaps a cat for companionship, but I'd firmly refused the offer.
I wasn't about to drag some innocent creature into the absolute chaos that currently passed for my mental state. Owning a pet when my emotional landscape resembled a battlefield seemed not just irresponsible, but actively cruel.
Not only am I getting tired because of this insane day, but I'm also getting actively more irritable now that I've processed the fact that Dursley basically abandoned me, and my parents are alive, not drunk and dead.
So no, I don't need animals to take care of, no, I needed someone to take care of me instead.
"Why are we here, Dad?" Rose asked, genuine confusion in her voice as she looked around the quiet village streets. Her hair had shifted back to its natural, vibrant crimson after my temporary transformation magic had worn off, though interestingly, the style that Aphrodite's blessing had created seemed to have stubbornly remained. The goddess's blessings are absolute as long as the connection remains, as I can tell from the very embarrassing experience."I thought we were heading home after shopping."
"There's someone I thought should meet Harry before we return to Potter Manor," James replied, his expression taking on a quality I couldn't quite decipher. It wasn't negative, exactly, but there was a weight to it that suggested this wasn't a casual social visit. His tone carried the kind of seriousness that made my instincts prickle with exhaustion.
I don't need more meetings, man, meeting you all has been more than enough.
Who the hell wanted to meet me? Here in Godric's Hollow? I mentally catalogued the notable residents I could remember from my previous life's canon knowledge. The Dumbledore family had lived here once, though Albus had moved on decades ago. Bathilda Bagshot, the magical historian, maintained residence somewhere in the village. Neither seemed like the type to arrange impromptu meetings with confused teenagers, though stranger things had certainly happened in the wizarding world.
Wait, hold on, Dumbledore does look like he would meet with confused teenagers, so never mind that thought. Though who else could it be?
Godric's Hollow had historically been home to a number of prominent magical families, which made sense given its significance as both Godric Gryffindor's birthplace and the location where several important wizarding events had unfolded.
We continued walking in contemplative silence, our footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestone paths as James led us through increasingly familiar streets. It wasn't until we approached the wrought iron gates of the village churchyard that realization struck me like a physical blow.
The cemetery. Of course.
The gravestone came into sharp focus as we approached, its weathered marble surface catching the last rays of dying sunlight:
Heroes of Wizarding World
*Fleamont Potter*
1909-1994
Beloved Husband and Father
*Euphemia Potter*
1911-1994
Beloved Wife and Mother
"My grandparents," I murmured, the words feeling strange and unfamiliar on my tongue. I stared at the carved inscription, trying to process the information.
"Were they... heroes?" I asked James uncertainly, because honestly, dying of old age or Dragon Pox, at least that's how they died in Canon, didn't exactly suggest the kind of epic saga that warranted legendary status.
Though I suppose I shouldn't make assumptions based on what I thought I knew from my previous life's incomplete information. That knowledge was proving increasingly unreliable as time went by.
"Eleven years ago, the wizarding world was very different from what you experienced today," James began, his voice taking on the measured tone of someone recounting difficult history. "The Dark Lord Voldemort had escalated from a decade of cold war and subtle manipulation to ordering all-out attacks against anyone who dared oppose him openly. Your mother and I were members of an organization called the Order of the Phoenix, dedicated to fighting against his regime."
Fought a terrorist and a Dark Lord while raising two babies? My mind spat acid. Do you people have the survival instincts of capybaras? If it were me, I wouldn't even have kids in a world burning around me. But no, James and Lily had gone full horny Gryffindor.
Mixing parenthood with active combat against magical terrorists. Horny idiots with a death wish.
"And I suppose Voldemort came after your family because of your involvement?" I asked, though my tone conveyed more judgment than sympathy even without trying.
"Yes, when you and your sister were still babies," Lily continued, her voice growing quieter as she relived painful memories. "A person we trusted completely, someone we considered a dear friend, betrayed us to the Dark Lord. We had to leave immediately to confront both the traitor and Voldemort himself alongside other Order members, but the bastard had set a trap. While we were dealing with what we thought was the main threat, Voldemort had already moved against you two at our cottage just down the lane."
That all sounds good and dandy, but I'm not hearing why I was left to Dursles? Especially when they know their relative hates magic, that means me.
I'm not buying that you were Squib things. I wasn't a Squib even before I had Gacha giving me abilities; hell, I could remember having magic as long as I could remember, which is around four or five years old, like a normal child.
"Since we obviously survived," I said, looking back toward the gravestone with new understanding, that means my grandparents basically replaced the original fate of James and Lily from the canon timeline.
Did they survive Dragon Pox, old age, basically fill this James and Lily Potter live troupe? I'm not trying to see the world around me as reality or fiction, but it's becoming more and more difficult with this stupidity and troupe occurring around me.
"They sacrificed themselves to protect us," Rose said softly, taking my hand in hers with a gentle squeeze. "All the nonsense about me being the Girl Who Lived, or prophecies marking me as Voldemort's equal, it's all complete rubbish. They were the real heroes, the ones who actually saved the wizarding world. Not some babies who couldn't even speak properly, much less cast magic."
At least you know that, and not riding high into the whole Girl who lived agenda like I expected you to. I thought, looking at the redhead, feeling some amount of respect rising at her words.
Also, she knows about prophecy? Of course, since James and Lily are still alive, Dumbledore probably told them about the prophecy, and Rose somehow managed to get that info out of them.
I looked down at the weathered gravestone again, trying to process the emotions churning in my chest. These people were strangers to me, just as James and Lily and Rose were all strangers. We'd literally met for the first time this morning, and despite my whining, my obvious distaste for the situation, and my generally antagonistic behavior throughout the day, I couldn't honestly say I hated any of them.
What I hated was the fact that they'd just barged into my carefully constructed life and completely demolished the precarious stability I'd been building with the Dursleys. It hadn't been a good situation by any stretch of the imagination, but I'd been making gradual progress, slowly improving my circumstances through careful manipulation and strategic behavior modification.
Hell, I've had them getting comfortable around magic, using it for their benefits and greed, making them see it in a good light.
Dudley had been the first person to show me I was heading in the right direction.
Now all of that effort was simply gone. Wasted.
It felt like being robbed of something precious, though I struggled to articulate exactly what had been taken from me. Being accepted by the Dursleys would have represented a genuine victory, proof that all the damage I'd endured over the years had ultimately served some purpose. That the suffering had meant something in the end, had led to something better.
Now? None of it mattered, did it? All the pain I'd absorbed was just pain, without any redemptive narrative to give it meaning. Just damage for the sake of damage.
The thought process sounded disturbingly like Stockholm Syndrome when I examined it objectively, but that didn't make the feeling any less real or valid from my perspective.
I sighed again, letting my gaze rest on the simple granite marker. My grandparents might be complete strangers to me, people I'd never have the chance to know or understand, but they had also quite literally saved my life. If not for their love and sacrifice, I wouldn't be standing here having this existential crisis in the first place.
That had to count for something.
'So thank you,' I thought toward the grave, hoping that wherever they'd gone after death, they could somehow sense my gratitude. 'Thank you for this life and these opportunities, however complicated they've become. I hope you're enjoying peaceful rest or good health in whatever comes next.'
I'll probably pray to Hades, Yama, Jesus, and Izanami after I'm alone and have some privacy for them; it was the least I could do.
"I think this is about all I can emotionally process for one day," I said aloud, my voice barely above a whisper. "Could you please take me somewhere I can sleep? Preferably for several days straight without interruption."
The exhaustion was finally catching up with me, not just physical tiredness from a long day of walking and shopping, but the deeper emotional fatigue that came from having your entire world fundamentally restructured in the space of twelve hours. I needed time to think, to process, to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with all this new information about my life.
I just want to learn magic, bro! Not to deal with whatever mess that is my life.
@Darklord331 note: Better hope its not too late Harry, either you can learn magic now or get fucked later in the future
AN: As we can see, intentionally or not, this was a little manipulative move by James, after an exhausting day, he brought Harry where there might be emotional significance to him since he's been not that good at responding to them.
So he brought Harry to someone who actively saved his life, sacrificed themselves for him even.
No matter how much James or any other people blame Dumbledore for his manipulation, other people aren't so innocent in that regard as people manipulate each other all the time..
Perks So far.
Active Slots: 2/5
1 Ragebaiter (Active)
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.
2 Holy Water (Item)
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. It looks rather ordinary, simple black metal except for the white Cross of Christ etched near the cap.
You have the ability to summon the thermos of holy water and have an inventory-like system that can only store this one thermos and nothing else.
3 Immune (Active)
[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.
4 Volition (Passive)
Elite Trait
Origin: Disco Elysium
You are unnaturally connected to your own inner morale. The voice that pushes you to move forward, your determination, and your will to keep going. Honing this sense can allow you not to lose your will even against extreme adversity and pull off feats of tremendous willpower with ease. But losing control over your volition can also lead to overconfidence.
No Rolls on this chapter because come on, this day has gone long enough.
If I mess something up, don't hesitate to comment and let me know. Likes and comments fuel my motivation, greedy as that may sound.