Harry Potter was ten years old, built like a scarecrow that had discovered the concept of dieting and taken it way too seriously, and currently engaged in the most perilous mission of his Tuesday morning: delivering breakfast to his cousin Dudley without accidentally triggering the Third World War. The plate in his hands trembled like a leaf in a hurricane—eggs that could feed a small village, enough bacon to clog the arteries of a rhinoceros, and toast stacked higher than his own meager height balanced precariously as he crept through the hallway of Number Four Privet Drive like a particularly undernourished ninja.
One false move, Harry thought grimly, and this breakfast becomes ground zero for Operation: Dudley's Nuclear Meltdown.
"Alright, listen up, my severely malnourished young apprentice," rumbled a voice inside his head that sounded like someone had gargled with gravel, swallowed a motorcycle engine, and decided to become the world's most sarcastic life coach. "Before we dive headfirst into whatever magical boarding school circus is about to crash into your pathetic excuse for a life, we need to establish some ground rules for this beautiful partnership of ours."
Harry nearly launched the entire breakfast into orbit. Drakor. His cosmic roommate slash alien life coach slash the single most dangerous entity ever to take up residence in someone's brain pan. The symbiote had apparently decided that Harry's head was prime real estate, despite being located in what was arguably the most depressing suburb in the known universe.
"Can we maybe have this conversation when I'm not performing breakfast delivery services for Dudley the Destroyer?" Harry whispered, shooting nervous glances at the kitchen door like it might explode at any moment. "You know what happens when his food reaches anything below volcanic temperatures."
"Oh, trust me, I've witnessed that boy's tantrums," Drakor replied, his mental voice dripping with enough disdain to power a small city. "I've seen supernovas with more self-control. But this is non-negotiable, Harry. We're talking about my dietary requirements, and they're what you might call 'mission critical.'"
Harry's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline—which, given his perpetual bedhead situation, was quite a journey. "You have dietary requirements?"
"Of course I do! What do you think I am, some bargain-basement parasite surviving on your emotional trauma and those pathetic bread crusts they throw at you? I'm a highly evolved symbiotic organism with very specific nutritional needs that would make a Michelin-starred chef weep with admiration."
"Which are...?"
"Phenethylamine, primarily."
Harry paused mid-step, nearly losing his grip on the plate. "That sounds like something that should come with a hazmat warning."
"It's a neurotransmitter, you delightfully ignorant specimen of humanity," Drakor explained with the patience of someone teaching quantum physics to a particularly slow goldfish. "Found in chocolate—specifically the good stuff, not that waxy garbage they sell at gas stations. Also happens to be abundant in human brains, but we'll file that under 'Emergency Protocols' for now."
The plate developed a sudden case of earthquake syndrome in Harry's hands. "You want to eat my brain?"
"Relax, kid! Your brain is like... emergency rations. Last resort. 'The nuclear apocalypse has happened and all the chocolate factories have been destroyed' level of desperation. Honestly, your frontal lobe probably tastes like disappointment mixed with math homework. No offense."
"None taken?" Harry said weakly, though he wasn't entirely sure how to respond to someone critiquing the flavor profile of his gray matter.
"Now, if we're talking premium brain cuisine," Drakor continued thoughtfully, "your cousin Dudley presents some interesting possibilities. All that processed sugar and artificial flavoring? His brain's probably been slow-marinating for years. Like Wagyu beef, but you know... brain-ier."
Harry made a sound somewhere between a laugh and someone choking on their own disbelief. "Please tell me you're not serious about eating Dudley's brain."
"Who said anything about eating it?" Drakor's mental voice carried the innocent tone of someone who definitely had not been thinking about brain consumption for the past five minutes. "I was merely conducting a hypothetical culinary analysis. Very scientific. Very professional. But if we're being honest, the boy's skull probably contains enough processed chemicals to fuel a rocket ship."
"Drakor."
"Fine, fine! I prefer the civilized approach anyway. Dark chocolate. Ninety percent cocoa minimum. I want chocolate so bitter it makes dentists have existential crises just thinking about it."
"And exactly how much of this magical chocolate do you need to function?"
"Two bars daily for basic operations. Three if we're doing anything more athletic than your current 'professional doormat' routine. Four if I need to enter what I like to call 'creative problem-solving mode.' Five if we encounter interdimensional threats, your relatives during holiday gatherings, or anything involving public speaking."
Harry stared at the cracked ceiling of Privet Drive and wondered if this was what having a nervous breakdown felt like. "Drakor, the Dursleys don't even let me eat regular breakfast most days. Where exactly am I supposed to acquire artisanal dark chocolate that meets your cosmic standards?"
"I've been conducting surveillance on your nutritional situation," Drakor said grimly, "and it's more tragic than a Shakespeare play performed by accountants. That woman—Petunia—looks like she hasn't experienced joy since the invention of emotions. And Vernon... sweet cosmic chaos, if aggressive stupidity were an Olympic sport, that man would have more gold medals than Michael Phelps."
"You're not wrong."
"I'm never wrong. It's one of my most endearing qualities. Seriously though, where did they find him? The Discount Bin of Human Evolution? The Clearance Rack of Basic Decency?"
As if the universe had a twisted sense of comedic timing, Vernon Dursley exploded into the hallway like an angry walrus that had been stuffed into a business suit by someone with a grudge against both walruses and fashion. His mustache quivered with the righteous fury of a man who had just discovered that gravity still applied to him personally.
"BOY!" Vernon's voice achieved frequencies that probably violated several noise ordinances and definitely confused every dog within a three-mile radius. "Where in blazes is Dudley's breakfast?!"
Harry held up the plate like it was a peace treaty with a particularly unreasonable nation. "Right here, Uncle Vernon."
Vernon snatched the plate with all the grace and subtlety of a bulldozer operated by someone having a seizure, nearly separating Harry from several fingers in the process. A piece of bacon went airborne, performing what could generously be called an interpretive dance before landing somewhere near Harry's feet like a greasy casualty of war.
Petunia Dursley swept into the hallway next, her neck craned forward like a disapproving giraffe who had just spotted something personally offensive in her pristine suburban kingdom. She possessed the remarkable ability to look down her nose at people even when they were taller than her, which Harry had always considered an impressive if somewhat terrifying talent.
"I heard him talking to himself again," she announced, her voice sharp enough to perform emergency surgery on unwilling patients. "Muttering and mumbling like some sort of... of..."
"Freak," Vernon supplied helpfully, glaring at Harry like he had personally invented everything wrong with modern society. "Probably practicing dark magic. Gets it from them."
"You know," Drakor mused conversationally in Harry's head, his mental voice carrying the tone of someone who had just spotted an opportunity for creative mischief, "I could possess Uncle Walrus for about thirty seconds. Make him perform interpretive dance. Maybe something from 'Swan Lake.' Really lean into this whole 'dark magic' narrative they've got going."
Harry coughed violently, trying to disguise what was definitely not a snort of laughter. Vernon interpreted this as a sign of defiance, rebellion, or possibly the onset of plague.
"Get outside this instant and weed that patio until every blade of grass trembles with fear!" Vernon roared, his face achieving a shade of purple that probably required its own entry in the medical textbooks. "And scrub the bathroom floor until it's clean enough to perform surgery on! No lunch until both tasks are completed to my satisfaction, which, let me be clear, is a very high bar!"
As Harry slunk toward the back door like a beaten dog that had learned the hard way not to make eye contact, he muttered under his breath, "Sure. Who needs food? Or basic human rights? Or any acknowledgment that child labor laws exist?"
"You know," Drakor said thoughtfully, "have you ever considered just eating Vernon?"
"Drakor."
"I'm not suggesting we consume the entire man! Just maybe a leg. Possibly an arm. He's got plenty to spare, and honestly, it might improve his personality. Less mass equals less gravitational pull for bad attitudes."
"DRAKOR."
"Alright, alright! But I'm just saying, Dudley's looking more appetizing by the minute. Kid's basically a walking, talking processed food buffet. I bet his brain tastes like cotton candy mixed with artificial flavoring and existential dread."
Harry settled under the dying rose bush in the backyard, drawing his knees up to his chest like he was trying to become one with the concept of invisibility. The morning sun was already promising another scorcher, and he could feel sweat forming under his oversized hand-me-down shirt that had previously belonged to someone approximately three times his size.
"So," Drakor said, suddenly switching to his chipper, 'I have a plan that will probably get us arrested' voice, "new operational strategy. We're going to execute the greatest chocolate acquisition mission in suburban history."
"I'm ten years old," Harry pointed out, as if this might somehow discourage his cosmic partner from whatever scheme was currently brewing in his alien brain.
"Age is just a social construct! Besides, I can smell Dudley's secret chocolate stash from here. Kid's got enough candy hidden in his room to stock a small nation's strategic sugar reserves. It's calling to me, Harry. Literally calling. Very loudly."
"And if he doesn't have enough chocolate to satisfy your cosmic sweet tooth?"
"Then we get creative. Side hustles. Entrepreneurial ventures. Pet-sitting for the neighbors. Lawn maintenance services. Professional brain extraction consulting."
"Hard pass on that last one."
"Your loss, kid. The pay is excellent, the hours are flexible, and the work really stimulates the mind. Literally. But fine, we'll stick to legal methods for now. Though I reserve the right to revisit the brain option if our chocolate situation becomes truly desperate."
Harry stood up, brushing dirt off his ragged jeans that had seen better decades. The rose bush looked about as healthy as Harry felt most days—barely clinging to life and definitely not thriving under current management.
"We'll figure something out," Harry said, trying to inject some confidence into his voice while sounding about as convincing as someone trying to sell ice cubes to penguins.
"That's the spirit! And if all else fails, I'm not above conducting strategic raids on Dudley's Halloween reserves. Sometimes justice requires sacrifice, and his sacrifice shall be chocolate. Glorious, dark, bitter chocolate."
"You're completely insane."
"I prefer 'creatively motivated with flexible ethical boundaries,'" Drakor replied smugly. "Also, just putting this out there for future reference—if we do end up in a brain-eating situation, I call dibs on Dudley's liver. I hear it's the most nutritious part, and given his diet, it's probably well-preserved in high fructose corn syrup."
Harry groaned like someone who had just realized their life had become a particularly bizarre sitcom. "You're the absolute worst."
"Correction: I'm the best worst you'll ever have. It's an important distinction."
From inside the house came the sound of Dudley's voice reaching frequencies that probably violated several international treaties regarding noise pollution: "MY TOAST IS COLD! AND THERE'S NOT ENOUGH BACON! AND THE EGGS LOOK AT ME FUNNY!"
Petunia's gasp of horror could have powered a small wind farm. "Vernon! Do something! Our precious Dudley is suffering!"
Vernon's responding roar shook the windows and probably registered on seismographs in neighboring counties. "BOY! GET IN HERE THIS INSTANT!"
"You know what?" Drakor said, and Harry could practically feel the symbiote rolling up his metaphysical sleeves. "Let me handle this. Just give me five minutes of possession. I promise I'll be gentle. Mostly."
"Absolutely not."
"Come on! I'll make Vernon do the chicken dance! Maybe throw in some jazz hands! Think of it as performance art with educational value!"
As chaos erupted inside the house—Dudley shrieking like a banshee with abandonment issues, Petunia wailing like she'd just witnessed the end of civilization, and Vernon bellowing like a wounded rhinoceros who'd been personally insulted by gravity—Harry stood in the backyard, staring at his reflection in the sliding glass door.
His green eyes looked tired beyond his ten years, like they'd seen too much and expected too little. His hair stuck up in approximately seventeen different directions, as if it had given up trying to follow the basic laws of physics and had decided to pursue a career in abstract art instead.
His life had officially become a circus. A circus featuring brain-eating aliens, chocolate addiction, relatives who made cartoon villains look reasonable, and the growing suspicion that normal people didn't have voices in their heads planning elaborate snack food heists while providing running commentary on the nutritional value of family members' organs.
Normal, Harry thought with the weary wisdom of someone far too young to possess such insights, was definitely for people without symbiotic life coaches who considered human brains an acceptable menu option.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Drakor was already sketching out their first chocolate acquisition mission with the thoroughness of someone planning to rob Fort Knox.
This was going to be a very long summer.
"Hey Harry," Drakor said conversationally, "just one more tiny suggestion about the brain consumption thing..."
"NO."
"But I haven't even explained the cognitive enhancement benefits yet! Think of it as... intellectual nutrition!"
"Still no!"
"What about just a small bite? For science?"
"ABSOLUTELY NOT!"
"Fine, but when the zombie apocalypse happens and brain-eating becomes socially acceptable, don't come crying to me about missed opportunities."
Harry walked back toward the house, ready to face whatever fresh disaster the Dursleys had cooked up, while his alien roommate continued providing detailed analyses of the neighbors' potential brain flavors.
It was, Harry decided with the grim acceptance of someone who had recently learned that his life was far stranger than he'd ever imagined, going to be a very interesting decade.
"Oh, and Harry?" Drakor's voice took on a more serious tone, like someone about to deliver news that would fundamentally rearrange the entire foundation of everything. "There's something else we need to discuss. Something rather important about your parents."
Harry froze halfway through the back door, his hand gripping the frame. "My parents?"
"Yeah, about that whole tragic narrative the Dursleys have been feeding you. The 'died in a car crash because they were drunk and jobless' story? Complete and utter fabrication. Your relatives have been lying to you your entire life with the dedication of professional con artists."
The world seemed to tilt sideways, like someone had just informed him that gravity was actually optional and had been this whole time. Harry gripped the doorframe hard enough that he heard the wood creak ominously under his enhanced strength.
"What do you mean they've been lying?"
"Your parents were James and Lily Potter," Drakor said gently, his mental voice carrying the careful tone of someone handling explosives while performing brain surgery. "They were wizards, Harry. Not just any wizards—good ones. Really good ones. And they didn't die in any car accident involving alcohol and poor life choices. They were murdered by a dark wizard named Tom Marvolo Riddle, though he preferred the dramatically pretentious pseudonym Lord Voldemort."
Harry's legs gave out entirely, and he slumped against the doorframe like someone had just told him that everything he'd ever believed about reality was actually an elaborate practical joke.
"Murdered?" The word emerged as barely a whisper, like saying it too loudly might make it more real than he was prepared to handle.
"October 31st, 1981," Drakor continued, accessing the absorbed memories with the efficiency of a cosmic filing system that had been organized by someone with severe OCD. "Halloween night. Voldemort showed up at your house in Godric's Hollow like the world's worst trick-or-treater. He killed your father first when James tried to hold him off, then your mother when she refused to step aside and let him murder you. Then the psychotic bastard tried to kill you, but something went catastrophically wrong from his perspective. The Killing Curse—Avada Kedavra, if you're keeping track of magical murder methods—rebounded like a cosmic boomerang. It destroyed his physical body and left you with that lightning bolt scar as a souvenir."
Harry's hand automatically went to his forehead, tracing the familiar raised skin that had been with him as long as he could remember. "This... this is from...?"
"From the most powerful dark wizard in centuries trying to murder you as a baby and failing more spectacularly than a rocket scientist who forgot to carry the one," Drakor confirmed with grim satisfaction. "You're famous in the wizarding world, Harry. They call you the Boy Who Lived. There are probably chocolate frog cards with your face on them, which, given our current dietary crisis, seems oddly appropriate and potentially profitable."
Harry sat in stunned silence for a moment, his ten-year-old brain attempting to process this information while simultaneously trying not to short-circuit entirely. His parents hadn't been drunk failures. They hadn't been worthless. They'd been heroes who died protecting him.
"But wait," Harry said slowly, his voice carrying the careful tone of someone trying to solve a puzzle while the pieces kept changing shape, "if they were wizards, and I'm supposed to be famous, why am I here? Why am I living with the Dursleys instead of... I don't know, somewhere that doesn't involve cupboards and starvation?"
"Now that," Drakor said, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone who'd just discovered a particularly interesting mystery that might involve several crimes against common sense, "is exactly the right question to be asking. According to the memories I absorbed—and don't ask me how I acquired those, it's a long story involving soul fragments, cosmic indigestion, and what I can only describe as psychic housekeeping—your parents named Sirius Black as your godfather. Legally speaking, you should have gone to him."
"So where is he?"
"That, my magically gifted young friend, is what we need to find out. Something happened between Halloween 1981 and you ending up on this doorstep of domestic dysfunction. Something that involved the most famous wizard child in Britain being placed with relatives who've spent ten years treating you like their personal punching bag while telling you that your heroic parents were worthless drunks."
Harry felt anger building in his chest—not the usual helpless frustration he was accustomed to, but something brighter and significantly more dangerous. Like someone had just lit a fuse that had been waiting his entire life to explode.
"They knew," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying an edge that would have made smart people step back slowly. "The Dursleys knew who I really was, what my parents really were, and they've been..."
"Systematically abusing the most famous child in the wizarding world while feeding him lies about his heritage," Drakor finished grimly, his mental voice radiating the kind of cold fury that made stars go supernova. "Oh yes. And when we get to the bottom of this mystery, we are going to have very serious words with whoever decided this was an appropriate living situation for the Boy Who Lived. Very serious, very creative, and very memorable words."
"How do we find out what happened to my godfather?"
"Simple, really. We take a little field trip to London. Specifically, to a establishment called the Leaky Cauldron."
Harry blinked, his brain struggling to keep up with the rapid-fire revelations. "The what now?"
"It's a pub that serves as the entrance to Diagon Alley—think of it as the wizarding district of London, hidden right in plain sight and invisible to non-magical people. It's the perfect place to start asking pointed questions about what happened to Harry Potter's godfather and why the most famous wizard child in Britain ended up in a cupboard instead of a proper magical household with adequate nutrition and emotional support."
The idea of actually leaving Privet Drive, of finding answers about his parents and his real family, made Harry's heart race with something that might have been hope if hope weren't such a dangerous emotion in his experience.
"But how would we even get there? I don't have money for train tickets, and the Dursleys would never—"
"Kid," Drakor interrupted, his mental voice suddenly bright with the kind of excitement that usually preceded either brilliant discoveries or spectacular disasters, "I just remembered something very important from those absorbed memories. Something that might solve both our travel problem and our chocolate crisis in one magnificent swoop."
"What?"
"Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Your parents almost certainly left you money there—probably substantial amounts of money, given that they came from old wizarding families with more wealth than several small countries. And if you're the account holder, which you would be as their heir, then you have legal access to it."
Harry's mouth fell open like someone had just informed him that Santa Claus was real, lived next door, and wanted to discuss his Christmas list in detail. "Money? Like, actual money that belongs to me?"
"We're not talking pocket change here, Harry. We're probably talking about enough gold to buy your own chocolate factory and still have sufficient funds left over to purchase a small nation with decent educational standards. The Potter family was wealthy, and the Black family—that's your godfather's lineage—was one of the richest in the wizarding world. Old money. The kind that comes with property deeds and investments that have been accumulating interest since before electricity was invented."
For a moment, Harry couldn't speak. The idea of having enough money to buy food—real food, not just scraps and leftovers—seemed as impossible as flying had seemed before yesterday's cosmic encounter.
"So we go to this Leaky Cauldron place," Harry said slowly, testing the words like they might explode if pronounced incorrectly, "find out what happened to my godfather, and check if I actually have access to this mysterious inheritance?"
"Exactly. And then we buy enough dark chocolate to keep me satisfied for the next century, acquire you some proper clothing that wasn't previously worn by someone who weighs more than a small elephant, and start planning our response to whoever thought it was acceptable to stick the Boy Who Lived in a storage closet."
Harry stood up, feeling something he'd never experienced before: a genuine sense of purpose. For the first time in his life, he had a plan that didn't involve avoiding his relatives or trying to achieve perfect invisibility.
"How do we get to London?"
"Ah," Drakor said, his mental voice carrying the satisfied tone of someone who'd just figured out all the angles and was rather pleased with his own cleverness, "that's where things get interesting. I think it's time you learned about one of the more exciting aspects of our partnership."
"Which is?"
"Flight, my magically gifted young friend. We're going to fly to London. Tonight. Through the air. Like a cosmic missile with navigation problems but excellent intentions."
Harry grinned—the first real, genuine smile he'd had in months, possibly years. "Now that sounds like a plan worth executing."
"Oh, it gets significantly better," Drakor chuckled, the sound echoing through Harry's mind like rolling thunder mixed with the purring of a very large, very satisfied cosmic cat. "Because once we get to Diagon Alley and you access your inheritance, we're going to show the wizarding world exactly what happens when you mess with Harry Potter and his extremely creative cosmic partner."
"But wait," Harry said, his practical ten-year-old brain catching up with his excitement, "how exactly do we navigate to London? I mean, I've never flown before yesterday, and I don't exactly have a GPS system designed for cosmic symbiote flight patterns."
"Leave the navigation to me," Drakor said confidently. "Let me think about this for a bit. I need to access some absorbed memories about London's layout, calculate flight paths that avoid radar detection, and figure out the optimal approach to the Leaky Cauldron that won't result in us becoming front-page news in both the magical and mundane newspapers."
"That... actually sounds like you know what you're doing."
"Kid, I've been around the cosmic block more times than you can count. Trust me, getting from Surrey to London without being spotted by various government agencies is practically a hobby of mine. Just give me a few minutes to crunch the numbers and plot our course."
As Harry headed back into the house to endure the rest of the day, he carried with him the knowledge that everything was about to change in ways he couldn't even begin to imagine. His parents had been heroes, not failures. He had family somewhere—a godfather who should have been taking care of him instead of leaving him with the Dursleys. And he was potentially rich enough to buy solutions to problems he'd never dared dream of solving.
Tonight, he was going to start getting answers.
And tomorrow, the wizarding world was going to meet a very different Harry Potter than the one they expected—one with a cosmic partner who had very strong opinions about proper nutrition, very creative approaches to problem-solving, and an apparent fascination with brain consumption that was probably going to make their first day in magical society extremely memorable.
For better or worse.
---
By the time eleven o'clock rolled around, Harry was pretty sure Drakor was about thirty seconds away from staging a hostile takeover of the entire Dursley household just for the therapeutic value.
The day had been, in Harry's professional opinion as someone who'd survived ten years of Dursley-related disasters, spectacularly awful even by their impressive standards. Dudley had thrown no fewer than four separate tantrums—one involving the toast being "too toasty," another because his orange juice had pulp (which he'd apparently forgotten he liked), a third because Harry had looked at him wrong while delivering lunch, and a fourth because the clouds outside were shaped like things Dudley didn't approve of.
Vernon had bellowed at Harry approximately seventeen times for various infractions including: breathing too loudly, existing in Vernon's general vicinity, failing to read Vernon's mind about which chores needed doing, and the particularly heinous crime of "standing there like a freak while normal people are trying to live their lives."
Petunia had managed to find fault with literally everything Harry had touched, including several items he was absolutely certain he hadn't been within ten feet of. She'd also made three separate passive-aggressive comments about "ungrateful boys who don't appreciate the sacrifices decent people make for them," which had made Drakor's mental presence feel like a barely contained supernova of rage.
"I swear on every star in the galaxy," Drakor had muttered around the sixth hour of continuous Dursley nonsense, "if that woman makes one more comment about your 'ingratitude,' I'm going to possess Vernon and make him do naked interpretive dance on the front lawn while singing show tunes. Very loudly. At three in the morning."
"Please don't," Harry had whispered while scrubbing the bathroom floor for the second time because Petunia had decided it wasn't "sparkly enough."
"I wasn't asking for permission."
Now, finally, mercifully, the house had settled into its nightly routine of blessed unconsciousness. Vernon's snores could be heard through three walls and probably registered on earthquake monitoring equipment. Petunia slept the sleep of someone who'd spent the day finding creative new ways to be disappointed in the universe. And Dudley was unconscious in his bedroom, surrounded by enough electronic devices to power a small city and probably dreaming about new ways to make other people miserable.
Harry lay in his cupboard, staring at the darkness and listening to the familiar sounds of the house settling around him. This was it. Tonight, everything changed.
"Alright, kid," Drakor said, his mental voice carrying the focused intensity of someone about to pull off the heist of the century, "time for your first lesson in practical criminal skills."
"Criminal skills?"
"Lockpicking. And before you get all moral about it, just remember that technically, they've been holding you prisoner in this cupboard for ten years. I think a little breaking and entering is justifiable under the circumstances. Plus, you'll never guess where I learned this particular skill."
Harry sat up carefully, trying not to bump his head on the low ceiling. "Where?"
"Tom Riddle's memories. Turns out the future Dark Lord was quite the little delinquent in his youth. Kid could pick a lock faster than you can say 'morally questionable life choices.' Makes sense, really—you don't become a dark wizard overnight. You start with petty theft and work your way up to attempted infant murder."
Despite everything, Harry found himself grinning. "You're going to teach me lockpicking using techniques learned from the most evil wizard in history?"
"Kid, when life gives you absorbed memories of a homicidal maniac, you make homicidal maniac-ade. Now, let's start with the basics."
What followed was the most surreal ten minutes of Harry's already considerably surreal life. Drakor guided him through the fundamentals of lock manipulation with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before—which, technically, he had, just in someone else's body about fifty years ago.
"Feel for the pins," Drakor instructed as Harry carefully inserted two thin pieces of metal he'd fashioned from a broken coat hanger. "There's a sweet spot where they catch. Tom was actually quite good at this—natural talent for getting into places he wasn't supposed to be. Probably should have been a career criminal instead of a dark lord. Better hours, less chance of being defeated by babies."
Harry felt the lock's mechanism respond to his careful pressure. There was something oddly meditative about it, like solving a puzzle where the answer was freedom instead of just another math problem.
"That's it," Drakor said approvingly. "You're getting it. Who knew child abuse could be so educational? Now, just a little pressure on the tension wrench and—"
The lock clicked open with a sound like the universe saying "yes" to everything Harry had ever wanted.
"Beautiful," Drakor breathed. "Tom would be either proud or horrified, and honestly, either reaction would be satisfying at this point."
Harry carefully opened the cupboard door, wincing at every tiny creak and groan the old hinges made. The hallway stretched before him like a pathway to freedom, dimly lit by the streetlight filtering through the front window.
"Now comes the fun part," Drakor said, his mental voice taking on the tone of someone about to do something that would either be brilliant or spectacularly stupid. "Time to see what this cosmic partnership can really do."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean it's time for me to take the wheel, so to speak. Don't worry—I'll be gentle. Think of it as cosmic rideshare, except instead of going to the airport, we're flying to London under our own power while avoiding detection by multiple government agencies."
Before Harry could ask what exactly that meant, he felt Drakor's presence surge forward in his mind like a tide of liquid starlight. The symbiotic material that had been dormant under his skin suddenly activated, flowing over his body like armor made of midnight and possibility.
His reflection in the hallway mirror showed him transformed. The symbiote covered him from head to toe in sleek, dark material that seemed to absorb light and radiate power. His eyes—already an unusual shade of emerald—now glowed with inner fire that would have made traffic lights jealous. Most dramatically, the magnificent wings sprouted from his shoulder blades, unfurling to their full span with a whisper of displaced air.
"Now this," Drakor said through Harry's mouth, his voice a perfect blend of cosmic authority and barely contained excitement, "is more like it."
Moving with fluid grace that was definitely not Harry's usual coordination level, the symbiote-enhanced boy glided toward the front door. Harry felt like a passenger in his own body, watching in amazement as Drakor manipulated the complex lock system Vernon had installed—apparently, his uncle's paranoia about break-ins had resulted in enough security hardware to protect Fort Knox.
"Honestly," Drakor muttered as he worked, "you'd think the man was guarding government secrets instead of a collection of motivational golf trophies and whatever passes for Petunia's cooking."
The locks yielded to Drakor's ministrations with the resignation of security systems that had just met their cosmic match. The front door opened silently, revealing the sleeping suburban street beyond.
"And now," Drakor said, stepping out into the cool night air, "we fly."
The wings beat once, powerfully, and suddenly they were airborne. Harry's perspective shifted from ground level to rooftop level to cloud level in a matter of seconds that felt like falling upward through liquid starlight.
"Holy—" Harry started to say, his own voice mixing with Drakor's in a harmony that somehow sounded completely natural.
"Language," Drakor chuckled, though his mental tone suggested he was impressed by the trajectory as well. "Though I do appreciate the sentiment. Now, let's see... London is approximately forty-three miles northeast of Little Whinging. At our current speed, factoring in altitude adjustments to avoid commercial air traffic and the occasional military patrol, we should reach the Thames in about thirty-seven minutes."
"You've really thought this through."
"Kid, I've been planning this flight since approximately the fifteenth time Vernon yelled at you today. Which was around lunch, if I'm keeping track correctly. I've calculated wind patterns, mapped radar coverage, and identified no fewer than six different emergency landing sites in case we encounter unexpected complications."
They soared over Surrey like a shadow with attitude problems, staying well above the treeline but below the altitude where commercial aircraft might spot them. The symbiotic wings moved with perfect efficiency, each beat carrying them farther from Privet Drive and closer to answers.
"This is incredible," Harry breathed, watching the landscape roll by beneath them like a living map. Towns appeared as clusters of light connected by ribbons of illuminated roads, and the whole world looked like someone had scattered diamonds across black velvet.
"Just wait until you see London," Drakor said, banking left to avoid what looked like a police helicopter in the distance. "The city at night is something else entirely. Like someone decided to build a monument to human ambition and then covered it in electric lights."
As they flew, Harry found himself relaxing into the rhythm of flight. It was like being carried by controlled lightning, powerful and precise and somehow completely natural. The symbiotic material responded to every shift in air current, every change in direction, as if it had been designed specifically for this purpose.
"Drakor?"
"Yeah, kid?"
"Thank you. For all of this. For getting me out of there, for telling me the truth about my parents, for... everything."
"Don't thank me yet," Drakor replied, his mental voice warm with something that might have been affection if cosmic entities were capable of such emotions. "We haven't even gotten to the good part yet. Wait until we hit Diagon Alley and you see what real magic looks like. Wait until you access your inheritance and realize you're rich enough to buy your own chocolate factory. Wait until we track down this godfather of yours and start getting real answers about what happened to your family."
"And then?"
"And then," Drakor said, his mental voice taking on a tone that suggested very interesting times ahead, "we're going to have some serious conversations with whoever decided the Boy Who Lived should grow up in a cupboard. Very serious, very educational conversations."
Below them, the suburbs gave way to the sprawling complexity of Greater London. The Thames appeared like a silver ribbon cutting through the heart of the city, and suddenly they were flying over one of the largest cities in the world.
"There," Drakor said, adjusting their flight path toward a particularly unremarkable section of London that looked like any other collection of shops and pubs. "Charing Cross Road. The Leaky Cauldron should be right... there."
They descended toward what appeared to be an empty lot squeezed between a bookshop and a music store, but as they got closer, Harry could see something shimmering in the air like heat waves.
"Magical concealment," Drakor explained, settling them gently onto the pavement in an alley that definitely hadn't been there a moment ago. "Clever bit of spellwork, really. Makes the whole place invisible to anyone without magical ability."
As the symbiotic material retracted, leaving Harry in his regular clothes but still feeling charged with cosmic energy, he stared at the building that had just materialized before them.
The Leaky Cauldron looked like it had been built by someone who'd heard a description of what a pub should look like but had never actually seen one. It leaned at angles that shouldn't have been structurally possible, its windows were grimy enough to serve as abstract art, and the whole place radiated an aura of "abandon hope, all ye who enter here, but the beer is surprisingly good."
"Well," Harry said, staring at his first glimpse of the magical world, "this is definitely not Surrey anymore."
"No," Drakor agreed, his mental voice carrying satisfaction and anticipation in equal measure, "it definitely is not. Welcome to your real life, Harry Potter. Try not to get too overwhelmed by the awesome."
Harry took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and walked toward the door of the Leaky Cauldron, ready to start getting some answers.
Behind them, London slept on, completely unaware that the Boy Who Lived had just arrived in the magical world for the first time—accompanied by a cosmic entity with very strong opinions about chocolate and an apparently inexhaustible supply of sarcastic commentary.
This was going to be interesting.
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