In early March 1991, Harry sat with Lena and Jasper in the derelict shed near Little Whinging's docks. The shed's splintered walls creaked in the spring breeze, and a lantern cast flickering shadows, the river's murmur a steady drone. Lena sat on a crate, her scarred knuckles tapping rhythmically. Jasper leaned against the wall, his intense gaze on Harry. Their bond, built over a year of mentorship, was a partnership of trust, and Harry valued their insight. He raised a critical issue, his voice low but firm.
"Petunia knows about magic," he said, green eyes steady. "Vernon and Dudley don't. Hogwarts is coming, and I'll be gone most of the year. How do I handle Petunia to keep it smooth without them digging?" he sought a plan to preserve his cover as the Boy Who Lived, a secret shared only with Lena and Jasper. Petunia's awareness of the wizarding world, (which he learned one day when he asked some question while suggesting for truthful answer with magic) however resentful, was his leverage, but a wrong move could draw muggle or magical scrutiny.
Lena's eyes narrowed, her ex-military precision cutting through. "Petunia's your key. She wants magic buried. Nudge her to see your absence as her win, keeps her life tidy." Jasper nodded, his voice a rasp. "The wizarding world's got eyes on you, Harry. Push her too far—complaints, legal action—and it'll echo. Muggle records might ping the Ministry, or worse, Death Eaters. That house, with your magical protection, hides you. Stay there." Their caution matched Harry's distrust of authority, the wizarding hierarchy—purebloods, Ministry, dark forces—making anonymity vital.
Harry agreed, the logic clear. The Dursleys' home, despite its cruelty, was predictable, its protective pulse a shield. Petunia could shape Vernon and Dudley's acceptance, framing his absence as normal. "I'll steer her to set it up," he said, resolute. "Make her think it's for her image." Lena suggested a subtle, layered suggestion, backed by magic: "Plant that a boarding school's high-class, gets you out of her way. She'll sell it to Vernon." Jasper added, "Use the house's magic to seal it, but don't overdo it—she'll sense something off."
Over weeks, Harry targeted Petunia alone. In the kitchen, as she peeled carrots, the air sharp with onion, he lingered. "I got into a posh boarding school," he said softly, words woven with magic. "It's far, looks good for the family, keeps things quiet, yeah? I'll write now and then, show we're proper." Petunia's hands stilled, her eyes glazing briefly, the suggestion sinking in. She nodded, muttering about "reputation." At dinners, she began hinting to Vernon, calling the school "elite," a way to "impress the neighbors." Vernon, ignorant of Hogwarts, grunted approval, liking the prestige. Dudley, focused on his comics, didn't care. By April, Petunia had cemented the narrative: Harry's absence was a social coup, needing only letters or a rare visit.
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In July, as Little Whinging sweltered under a summer haze, Harry's Hogwarts letter arrived. The thick parchment envelope, sealed with a wax crest—lion, eagle, badger, snake—landed on the doormat, addressed to "Mr. H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive." Petunia, spotting it, paled and shoved it into a drawer, muttering about "drivel." Vernon and Dudley, clueless about its meaning, ignored it. Harry retrieved it that night, the crest's weight grounding the wizarding world's reality.
He met Lena and Jasper in the shed, under the lantern's steady glow. Showing the letter, he said, "It's time. Diagon Alley for supplies, but I'm Shade, not Harry Potter." Lena's eyes glinted, her military mind engaged. "Diagon's behind the Leaky Cauldron in London. You're Shade—hood up, stay tight. We'll cover you." Jasper sketched a route on a scrap of paper, marking the pub and the brick pattern to enter the alley. "It's a circus—good cover, but watch for Ministry agents or purebloods."
They crafted a cautious plan with backups. The main route was a train to London, Harry blending with commuters in a hooded jacket to hide his scar. Lena would pose as his aunt, Jasper as a friend, their muggleborn senses alert for trouble. Backup one: if followed, they'd split, Harry taking a mapped side street, reuniting at a café. Backup two: if Diagon felt unsafe, they'd abort, returning later. Harry memorized it.
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In late July, they executed the plan seamlessly. The train to London was packed, Harry's hood shadowing his face as Lena and Jasper flanked him. The Leaky Cauldron, a dingy pub unseen by muggles, pulsed with magical energy. Jasper tapped the bricks, the wall parting to reveal Diagon Alley—a vibrant chaos of shops, their signs touting robes, wands, and owls. The air was rich with parchment, potion fumes, and the hum of haggling witches and wizards. Harry, as Shade, kept his head low, senses sharp.
They began at Gringotts, the goblin bank, where Jasper's modest vault from his muggleborn days yielded galleons. Harry memorized the currency—gold galleons, silver sickles, bronze knuts—as they exchanged coins. At Madam Malkin's, they bought black robes, Lena suggesting hidden inner pockets for stashing tools, a trick from her underground days. "Hogwarts is a game," she said. "Keep your edges close." The robes were tailored to Harry's wiry frame. At Flourish and Blotts, they purchased textbooks, Jasper adding a used herbology guide for its potion annotations. "Plants are power," he said. "Master them." Harry included it.
They acquired a pewter cauldron, a telescope, and potion ingredients at the Apothecary, Lena advising clear vial labels to avoid errors, a medic's lesson. "Precision's your lifeline," she said. Harry organized the supplies in a charmed satchel from Jasper, its interior magically expanded. At Eeylops Owl Emporium, they skipped an owl—too noticeable—but Lena suggested a charmed journal from a side stall, its pages readable only by him. "Secure your thoughts," she said. Harry tested it, his notes invisible to others.
The wand selection at Ollivanders was pivotal. The shop was dim, shelves stacked with wand boxes, the air heavy with dust and magic. Mr. Ollivander, frail with silvery eyes, studied Harry—hood up, scar hidden—and paused, his gaze sharpening. "Harry Potter," he murmured, his voice soft but certain. "The Magic reveals you, my boy. Your aura—unmistakable, tied to great sacrifice." Harry tensed, but Lena's hand on his shoulder steadied him. Ollivander's eyes held no malice, only curiosity, and he turned to his shelves. "Let us find your wand."
Ollivander offered several wands, each trial a test. A cedar and dragon heartstring wand sparked weakly, fizzling out. A willow and unicorn hair wand vibrated but produced no light. A holly and phoenix feather wand, 11 inches, felt promising—Ollivander noting its "rare core, tied to rebirth"—but when Harry waved it, the wand lay inert, no warmth, no spark, as if rejecting him. "Curious," Ollivander muttered, setting it aside. A maple and veela hair wand shot errant sparks, nearly singeing a shelf. Harry's frustration grew, but Ollivander's eyes gleamed, undeterred.
Finally, he retrieved a dusty box from a locked cabinet, its label nearly illegible. "This is… exceptional," he said, voice hushed. "Crafted by my great-uncle, a visionary lost in a strange calamity. The woods are known—ebony and yew—but the cores… only two are documented: a thunderbird feather and a basilisk fang, infused with its venom. A third component remains a mystery, its records lost. Experimental, dangerous, but perhaps…" He handed it to Harry.
The wand, 11 inches, was a masterpiece, its ebony shaft, dark and sleek, channeling precise, powerful magic, mirroring Harry's unyielding will. The yew, pale and supple, was linked to life, death, and rebirth, resonating with his survival of Voldemort's curse and his mother's sacrifice. The thunderbird feather, vibrant and tempestuous, tied to storm-born power, echoed Harry's raw, defiant magic. The basilisk fang, laced with venom, carried lethal potency, aligning with his ability to face dark forces. The unknown third core hummed faintly, its mystery amplifying the wand's aura. When Harry gripped it, a surge of warmth erupted, silver and gold sparks cascading, the air thrumming with energy. The wand felt like an extension of his soul, its dual woods and potent cores binding to his unique destiny.
Ollivander's breath caught. "Remarkable. Ebony and yew, thunderbird and basilisk—this wand chooses a wizard of extraordinary fate, marked by survival and power. The third core… a riddle, but it suits you." Harry, heart pounding, nodded, hiding his awe. Lena whispered, "Guard it, Shade. That's a weapon."
Lena and Jasper shared final Hogwarts advice, drawn from their muggleborn days. Lena stressed subtlety: "Hide your wandless tricks. Purebloods'll challenge you, teachers'll snoop. Learn fast, stay quiet." Jasper urged connections: "Seek loyal friends—Hufflepuffs, maybe Gryffindors. Map the castle—passages, exits. Slytherins are tricky; read them first." Their hard-earned wisdom shaped Harry's plan: enter as Shade, build allies, master magic discreetly.
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Harry's eleventh birthday, July 31, 1991, was a quiet triumph. He celebrated with Mick's crew, Lena, and Jasper in The Rusty Anchor's back room, the air warm with smoke and laughter. Sarah's lumpy cake sparked grins, Mick gifted a sleek switchblade, and Lena and Jasper gave a charmed bracelet that warmed when wearer faces hostile intent towards him. The crew toasted Shade, their off-key singing a rare comfort. His underground family—crew, mentors—was his anchor.
Needing solitude, Harry wandered to a secluded park near the docks, a grassy clearing ringed by willows, the air cool with dew and pine. The sunset bled orange and purple, and he lay on the grass, his wand in his jacket, the charmed coin in his pocket. A strange hum stirred, wilder than the house's magic, rising from the earth, trees, and air. The magic surged, a torrent prickling his skin, racing his heart. He sat up, pulse hammering, as the energy peaked, flooding his body. His vision blurred, the world spinning, and he collapsed, consciousness slipping.
When he woke, stars glittered above, the park silent. Something shimmered before his eyes, inches away—a translucent veil of light, pulsing with intent, waiting for him to unravel its purpose.
[Word Count: 1654]