#Softly Sinister Slytherin
By Riddell Lee
To satisfy my own curiosity as well as test out a new medium, this is how things are going to work:
There are many directions for this tale to take and you, my reader, are the one who will decide how it will all play out. There is only one chapter at the moment, but it has several unique endings.
This is a <i>fanfiction</i> of Harry Potter. Here's an Obligatory Disclaimer:
All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and creative liberties are the property of Riddell Lee. Riddell Lee is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.
[[Let's Begin]]
[[Authors Note]] #The Girl Who Lived
Let’s say you wanted to enroll your kid at Hogwarts, how’d you do it?
Minerva McGonagall received a handful of letters every year from graduated students, concerned parents, and secretive children posing the question. Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy operated as an independent entity for over two hundred years, the Headmaster an elected president or tyrannical dictator depending on who filled the seat. But times changed, society blossomed, and Ministry Oversight became a thing.
These days, you just have to live within the boundaries of the Ministry and be a member of the magical world. The Ministry of Magic operates as efficiently as any local government. Keep the mailing address that’s on file up to date and just wait for the owl—you already paid for it in taxes. Ah, but what about those rare few with non-magic parents?
Well, there isn’t a singular spell that detects the use of magic. Back in the day it was up to rumors and old-fashioned detective work. Muggleborn students were few and far in between, and always controversial. Then, the practice of employing a verified seer came into practice. Originally headed by the Department of Mysteries, a seer—whose identity remains undisclosed by order of the Ministry—was tasked with finding the names of orphaned witches and wizards. By happy happenstance, they were also able to find muggleborns this way, and the ongoing Muggleborn Debate was born.
As Deputy Headmistress, Minerva preferred to introduce new muggleborns personally. Parents seemed to take it better after she transformed into a tabby cat in their living room. While she signed each letter, the quill dancing before her in a flowing emerald green script, a second quill copied out addresses. She knew of two muggleborns this year so far — she had set aside the envelopes to Miss H Granger and Mr. J Finch-Fletchley for personal delivery.
She knew many of these surnames, rising like ghosts from the sea. They drew from her the savage wrecks of time, the coffins a decade buried. Did they know the weight of their names? Her hand hesitated as she finished signing a letter and glanced at the name. It struck her like a whisper on the wind. Miss H Potter, the Girl Who Lived.
Ten years ago she survived a curse no one else had. While muggles argued over liquid gold buried in desert sands, the magical world fought a war of ideologies. The Muggleborn Debate. And the loudest voice in opposition belonged Tom Riddle and to the nationalist group he inspired, the self proclaimed Death Eaters and the monster that led them—He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, a necromancer who boasted he had conquered death. Lily and James Potter were vocal activists in support of muggleborn rights, Lily herself a muggleborn discovered by the Prince family. James leveraged his pureblood status to provide credibility. Muggleborns had a right to Hogwarts too, they explained to anyone who would listen. A proposition got drafted. Someone snitched. And He-Who-Must-Be-Named hit the Potter residence personally. He murdered his political opposition, but when he turned his wand on their child—the curse rebounded and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named vanished. Tom Riddle never came back to the Ministry and folks put two and two together.
She was the Girl Who Lived.
Minerva hardly glanced at the envelope as it sealed itself and floated over to the pile awaiting a trip to the Owlery. Miss Potter had been registered from birth to attend Hogwarts; her movements kept under careful observation. You might call it Witness Protection; after all, the Death Eaters would just love a chance alone with her, though in recent years they had faded from the media. Minerva was one of the select few who knew where the celebrity resided.
Minerva had never liked the Dursleys. She knew from the beginning that they didn’t have a high opinion of magic. But the Headmaster was right — in a politically turbulent landscape it was still the safest place for her. Perhaps it will have been better that she didn’t grow up coddled and worshipped. She didn’t know how much the Dursleys would have told her. Petunia had kept her distance of all things magical. Still, Minerva let herself hope they did something special for the girl. It’s not everyday you find out you’re a witch.
[[Prologue]]
The story here can be read several different ways and will have different endings depending upon the decisions you make.
The premise was originally for a fanfiction novel, depicting a female slytherin take on Harry Potter. It was a personal choice to still have her go by Harry. I got lost in all the different directions the story could go, and thus an interactive narrative was born.
Right now, this project only covers Chapter One. Depending on how this is recieved, I may drop narrative pathways in the next chapter or focus on others. I would love feedback!
You can find me at www.riddelllee.com
[[Let's Begin]]
#The Girl and the Snake
She listened to the heartbeat of the house. The soft vibrato that traveled through floorboards and into sheetrock, the echo of voices that blended into footsteps and swelled into a pulsing, living thing. She clung to that sound, alone in the dark. She had nothing else, except the shadow puppet show beneath the crack in her door, the kaleidoscope of color behind her eyes. She had feared it once. It meant hunger, isolation, holding it or ruining her bed, it meant the closest thing to abandonment the Dursleys were able to do. But it also meant escape. Safety, away from the cruel eyes and snide remarks, the hands that flew and left bruises in their wake.
Potter closed her eyes. She knew Aunt Petunia stood in Dudley’s bedroom. She could hear the pleading croon of her voice as she begged him to turn off the computer and get into bed. She could feel the weight of Uncle Vernon in the living room, the dull chatter of the evening news report dissipating into the air like static. Then, one by one, the sounds morphed and faded. Dudley turned off the computer, Aunt Petunia turned down the sheet and Uncle Vernon shut off the TV. She heard every one of his heavy steps resound in her tiny space as he went up the stairs, every part of her listening for the moment he crawled into bed. She listened, until she heard the sound of his rumbling snores—distant like a rolling thundercloud.
And finally, she could relax. Her breathing evened out, her eyelids fell shut and though hunger clawed at her belly she told herself maybe tomorrow. Instead, her mind drifted to the reason for her incarceration, the trip to the zoo and the boa constrictor. None of it made sense. It was magic, she told herself — wanting, needing to believe. The glass had magically disappeared. How else to explain the sudden vanishing act?
<i>Potter was talking to it, weren’t you Potter?</i>
Her jaw clenched, balling blankets in her fists until her knuckles bleached. She hadn’t known Pierce had watched her. That small sentence, uttered during the tense drive home — she blamed those words for her current predicament more than the missing glass. After all, how could the Dursleys even hold her responsible? She hadn’t yanked the windowpane out of the terrarium and tossed it in the bin when no one was looking. She had blinked, and it was gone. But speaking to a snake? What manner of devilish unnaturalness was that!
She hadn’t told anyone how it spoke back to her.
Maybe that’s what happened to Eve, she mused, rolling over in bed and pulling the torn blanket tighter about her shoulders. She knew the story—the Dursleys dragged her to church on Sundays. “You’ll get a proper Christian education,” Uncle Vernon had snarled, defiant to some power pulling strings behind the scenes.
In the Garden of Eden, humanity could partake of any of the fruits of the trees except the Tree of Knowledge. Eve stumbled upon the tree one day and found a serpent suspended in the branches. Maybe it told her how much it would like to see the world — maybe it told her what power knowledge possessed.
She should have asked the boa constrictor what fruit of knowledge would she need to partake?
[[Chapter One: The Witch]]
She dreamed about running away.
She’d fantasized about it for as long as she could remember. Sometimes she would imagine a wealthy businessman stopping her on the street as she walked back from school. He would claim she looked just like the heiress to some fortune and find herself whisked away to a penthouse in the city. Then she’d reach number four Privet Drive and wish she had the courage to keep walking, find someplace new. Chances were, she’d be kidnapped by a nondescript van driven by man in a leering mustache. She told a counselor at school once she wanted to leave. He had pointed out that she didn’t have anywhere else to go.
She hated that he was right.
Even though her limbs shook with weakness, Aunt Petunia put her in charge of breakfast. Not that she had expected any different. She dished everyone up and took a seat. She began to nibble on a piece of toast.
“Ah, mail should have arrived by now,” Uncle Vernon said as he began to fold his newspaper. He was a large beefy man, a towering heavy-set figure, with a walrus mustache.
Dudley turned his piggy little eyes on her and sneered, “Go get the mail, freak,” he said, jabbing his fork at her.
[[Say Nothing]]
[[Argue]]His words rankled beneath her flesh, searching for the moment when ice begins to burn.
“Get the mail, girl,” her Uncle said above her, the rumble of a warning in his throat. She swallowed.
[[Go get the mail]]
[[Talk Back]] "Why don't you get it for a change," she snarled back, glaring at her cousin from across the table as he shoved back and eggs into his gullet.
“Get the mail, girl,” her Uncle said above her, the rumble of a warning in his throat.
[[Go get the mail]]
[[Talk Back]]Hunger clawed at her stomach but she knew better than to argue. She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet.
She was honestly relieved Dudley had gotten into that smarmy private Christian school. Maybe without her cousin punching everyone she tried to talk to, she might actually make some friends.
Clenching and unclenching her fists, she walked down the hall. On the floor mat she found a few letters: a bill, a postcard from Aunt Marge and - a letter for her? She inspected the envelope.
Miss H Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
It was made of a much heavier paper than the others, yellowish in color. No stamp, no return address—she turned it over and saw a red wax seal along with a crest depicting a badger, an eagle, a snake, and a lion all around a large letter H.
“You checking the letters for bombs, or something?” called Uncle Vernon from the dining table.
[[Bring Uncle Vernon the Mail]]
[[Hide the Letter]]
[[Open the Letter]]"It's not fair," she pushed, hands clenching, nails digging into her palms. "How come—" her sentence ended with a slap across the face. Aunt Petunia had managed to stand without her noticing. Startled, she looked up into her Aunt's furious face, touching the red welt on her cheek.
"You will do as your Uncle says or you'll go back in that cupboard and starve, you understand?" She hissed at her through gritted teeth.
From the look on her face, Aunt Petunia meant it too. Hunger clawed at Harry's stomach and she swallowed. "I understand." She pushed back her chair and rose to her feet.
She was honestly relieved Dudley had gotten into that smarmy private Christian school. Maybe without her cousin punching everyone she tried to talk to, she might actually make some friends.
Clenching and unclenching her fists, she walked down the hall. On the floor mat she found a few letters: a bill, a postcard from Aunt Marge and — a letter for her? She inspected the envelope.
Miss H Potter
The Cupboard Under the Stairs
4 Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
It was made of a much heavier paper than the others, yellowish in color. No stamp, no return address — she turned it over and saw a red wax seal along with a crest depicting a badger, an eagle, a snake, and a lion all around a large letter H.
“You checking the letters for bombs, or something?” called Uncle Vernon from the dining table.
[[Bring Uncle Vernon the Mail]]
[[Hide the Letter]]
[[Open the Letter]] Look, if you bring Uncle Vernon the mail pretty much the same scenario as in the original books will begin to play out. You know, with a bunch of letters coming, and let's just accept that Harry will eventually take one of those letters and... [[Hide the Letter]]. Or, you could have her [[Open the Letter]] in the hallway.
Or, you know, just go read Harry Potter.
The Dursleys would never let her read it.
As she walked past her cupboard, she slipped the letter through the crack in her door, careful to make sure no one from the kitchen saw her pause. Then, she handed the letters wordlessly to Vernon and sat down to eat.
[[Later, in the cupboard]]Later, when banished to her cupboard for the remainder of the evening, Harry curled up against the door and used the sliver of light from the kitchen to read the letter.
<center>HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
Order of Merlin, First class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards</center>
Dear Miss Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Her eyes traveled over the message and when she reached the end, she stopped. She stared blankly at the document, at the ink that shimmered in fluorescent lighting. She read it again, squinting at the words. Then, she leaned back in her cupboard and closed her eyes.
Her first impulse was to crumple the paper and throw it away, reject all of it as a cruel joke. But — she picked up the envelope again, her fingers tracing over her name. She had never received a letter before. The windowpane vanishing beneath her fingers tapped against her mind. And the Dursleys were so terrified of the word magic—
They knew.
They knew what she was. That’s why they hated her. This was why she wasn’t allowed to be a little girl with long flowing hair rather than this chopped mop barely long enough to cover her scar. To know that there was in in fact a reason—sweet relief. Validation. She had someplace else she could go—there were others like her. She had to contact them somehow.
She had somewhere to run now.
Harry perused the list of schoolbooks and equipment and the need to make contact increased. She had no idea where to acquire some of these things. She nearly laughed at the idea of asking her Uncle to drive her to a store that sold wands. He might just take that final step and snap her neck at the word. She would have to contact this Minerva McGonagall and ask her for help. But there was no return address.
She picked up the letter again. Her lips formed the phrase, we await your owl, and she frowned. No one had ever told her owls could deliver post. Where was she supposed to get one? How do you contact someone without their address?
The easiest way to find any information on Hogwarts was of course to use the Internet. The conundrum came when trying to find out a way to access it. She would either have to ask or sneak onto Dudley’s computer.
No easy task.
She could also just ask her Aunt Petunia. If she wanted to go to Hogwarts she would have to tell her Aunt and Uncle eventually. Either that or run away to some magical version of social services — the Dursleys would probably be grateful.
While she was outside pruning the hedges she would crane her neck up to the trees, just in case she found an owl waiting there—no such luck. But she had to do <i>something</i>. The end of July was coming and she was no closer to getting to Hogwarts than when she started.
[[Ask Aunt Petunia]]
[[Ask the Mailman]]
In the end, Harry steeled her nerves and approached Aunt Petunia one morning while she folded dishtowels. Uncle Vernon had taken Dudley out for ice cream with his friends. She cleared her throat. “I got a letter.”
Aunt Petunia looked up at Harry, freezing halfway through folding a baby blue dishtowel. Harry pulled out the acceptance letter from her pocket and handed it to Aunt Petunia to read. She saw her Aunt’s nostrils flare white, a maddening panic popping in her eyes.
“I want to go,” Harry said still casual.
Her Aunt didn’t reply for a long minute. Then she scoffed, “You believe this? It’s obviously a scam. Magic isn’t real.” Harry watched her move to throw the letter away.
“Then explain why the glass vanished at the zoo—”
<i>SMACK!</i>
Aunt Petunia had whirled around, slapping her across the face. Harry touched the red welt with her hand, ignoring the furious tirade spewing from Aunt Petunia.
“—absolutely ungrateful! And after everything we’ve done for you—”
“I don’t get it,” Harry interrupted, tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “If I’m such a burden why don’t you let me go? At least I won’t be <i>here</i>. Just get rid of me already.”
Her Aunt raised her hand again and Harry flinched, but the slap didn’t come. Instead Aunt Petunia turned away from her and put a folded pile of towels into a kitchen drawer. She shut the drawer with a snap. Harry saw her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath and then she turned around. Harry hadn’t seen that expression before — a grudging decision born of inner turmoil.
“Fine. I suppose it’s pointless now—” Aunt Petunia grumbled and she shoved the letter back into Harry’s hands. “You can go to this stupid school. You’ll stay there for all the major holidays, and under no circumstances will you practice anything you learn there inside this house.”
Harry stared at her. “You already knew.”
Aunt Petunia gave a harsh bark of mirthless laughter. “How could I <i>not</i> know?” she said, folding her arms. “What with my sister coming home with pockets full of frogspawn, hanging out with that awful boy — Vernon and I wanted nothing to do with it."
The only thing she had told Harry about her mother was that she and her husband, James Potter had died in a drunk driving incident.
“My mom was a witch?” she said faintly.
“And so was her good for nothing husband,” Aunt Petunia snarled. “But they had to go get themselves blown up, and we got landed with you.”
“Blown up—”
“Or murdered, I never cared enough to find out more,” Aunt Petunia went on savagely.
Harry’s head was spinning. Her parents had been murdered? She wanted to ask a million more questions but the Dursleys had never been good with curiosity. She had asked too many already, but—
“How do I contact them to tell them I’m coming?”
Aunt Petunia stared at her, and in the silence Harry continued, “I don’t have an owl.”
“Don’t say that in the house!” Aunt Petunia snapped, her eyes glancing around them as if expecting the neighbors to burst in suddenly and accuse them of witchcraft. “Wait here.”
Perplexed, Harry stared as Aunt Petunia briskly left the kitchen. She heard her Aunt’s footsteps disappear upstairs. Just when she had started to wonder how long she would take, her Aunt returned. She pushed a sticky note into her hands and a stamped envelope.
In her Aunt’s unmistakable scrawl, was written an address.
Minerva McGonagall
Box #17 High Street, Hogsmeade
Highlands, Scotland
Harry opened her mouth but her Aunt held up her finger, a panicked glint in her eyes. ““And not a <i>word</i> of this to Dudley,” she hissed, and she turned back to her pile of laundry. Harry slowly backed out into the hall and then into the confines of her cupboard.
Why did Aunt Petunia have this Minerva McGonagall’s address? Maybe it was left over from when Lily had gotten her letter, Harry wondered. Way she said it, Lily found out she was a witch with a letter like hers. However Aunt Petunia had found the address, Harry was relieved.
She scribbled a response on a piece of printer paper, folded it best she could and stuck it into the envelope. She wrote the address as legibly as she could. On the way to school the next day, she dropped it into one of the outgoing letterboxes.
[[Letter to McGonagall]]
Without much else to go on, she scribbled a response on a stolen piece of printer paper, folded it best she could and stuck it back in the envelope. She wrote in a large scrawl, RETURN TO SENDER, across the address. Then, she woke early and went outside to wait for the mailman to arrive. To settle her nerves, she watered the flowerbeds.
“Harry?”
She turned to see the neighbor, Mrs. Figg peering at her through her kitchen window. For a moment, Harry froze. She often got left at her house while the Dursleys went out, but aside from watching distinctly old cinema and looking at albums of cats—she hadn’t been too cruel.
[[Ask Mrs. Figg]]
[[Wait for the Mailmain]]
“Ms. Figg, Good Morning,” she said turning to her.
“You’re out early, aren’t ya?”
Harry hesitated. And then she withdrew the letter from her pocket. “I—well, I was hoping to talk to the mailman. I’ve got a letter that I’m not sure how to—”
“One moment,” and then next thing she knew, Ms. Figg had vanished from the window. Harry waited, uncertain, and then the cat lady appeared at the front door, pulling a tasseled beige shawl about her shoulders. “Let me see,” she said as she strode over to the hedge that separated their properties.
Harry handed the letter over and watched as Ms. Figg appraised it. She gave a brisk nod, “I can get this where it needs to go.” Harry stared at her.
“You’ve got an owl?” she questioned.
Ms. Figg’s gaze darted to the houses around them before she answered. “Not exactly, but I know how to get one.” She offered Harry a rare smile. “Do the Dursleys know about—?” she gestured to the letter.
Harry bit her lip. She shook her head.
Ms. Figg didn’t seem too surprised by that though. “I’ll take care of it, dear,” she said and then she had disappeared back inside her house.
That night in her cupboard, Harry wondered if she’d done the right thing. All day she waited for the phone to ring, for the Dursleys to confront her with her crime. She sat at the dinner table, palms sweaty, waiting for someone ask her about the letter, about Hogwarts, about talking to Ms. Figg in the morning. But the Dursleys never asked her anything. She curled up in her dark space and wondered what the Deputy Headmistress, Minerva McGonagall would make of her letter.
[[The Letter to Minerva McGonagall]]Dear Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall
I got your letter, and I would very much like to attend Hogwarts — but I do not think my Aunt and Uncle will let me. You see, they despise all things magical. I’m not sure they’ll believe me either. Can you please send someone to talk to them? Otherwise, I don’t think I’ll be able to come.
P.S. Where would I purchase my equipment list and where exactly is Hogwarts?
Harry Potter
As far as responses go, this wasn’t one she had expected. Minerva McGonagall frowned down at the untidy scrawl, and then at the name beneath it. Harry. She picked up the envelope and surveyed the address again. She had cast a spell to auto-address all of the envelopes, not having time to write one out to every student of Hogwarts. Which meant that this was the letter to Henrietta Potter, the Girl Who Lived.
<i>The Cupboard Under the Stairs</i>
Why would the girl be sleeping there? She was less surprised by the explanation that the Dursleys despised magic — she could have guessed that. Still, it was clear she would need to treat this like a muggleborn situation.
The Head of Gryffindor House leaned back in her chair, pulling her hands together as she gazed down at the paper before her. Then, making a decision, she rose and crossed over to the fireplace smoldering softly in the corner. From a clay pot on the mantelpiece, she grabbed a pinch of power and threw it into the flames, where they crackled green.
“Albus!” the Scottish woman called. “I need a word.”
[[The Day of Harry's Birthday]]"Morning, Mrs. Figg," Harry said with a half-hearted wave at her.
"Up early, aren't you?"
"It's better to water the flowers early," Harry said with a one shoulder shrug. She didn't think Mrs. Figg would know anything about magical schools or owls, not to mention the entire situation felt secretive, private.
The cat lady regarded her curiously for a moment longer, and then disappeared back into her house. Harry shifted from foot too foot, nervous. And then finally, she spotted the mailman driving up the road.
It seemed to take forever for him to stop in front of number four, but Harry was there as he pulled up.
"Well, Good Morning!" said a man in a gray-blue baseball cap. "Waiting for a delivery?" he laughed.
"No, actually," Harry said quickly, pulling the envelop from her pocket. "I got a letter the other day, but they didn't have a return address to send a reply," she said holding out the envelope to him.
He took it and then shrugged. "Well, I don't know what to tell you. I'm surprised they sent this through at all — not even a stamp."
"So you can't send it back?" Harry said, deflating.
"Not without anywhere to send it."
"Oh. I suppose that makes sense." She took the letter back and pocketed it, wondering what to do now.
"Well, since I have you, here's the mail today," the Mailmain said, handing her what looked like a bank statement for Uncle Vernon. "Looks like that's it."
Harry waved as he drove on, then she sighed and headed back into the house.
[[Ask Aunt Petunia]]
On her birthday, Harry didn’t expect much. She didn’t know how long it would take to hear back from Hogwarts, resigning herself to a long and tortuous wait. Still, she was disappointed when her Aunt Petunia rapped on her door at the crack of dawn like always. And as the rest of the Dursleys entered the kitchen without so much as a hello, even as she dished up breakfast, she wondered why she had even gotten her hopes up.
<i>Happy Birthday</i>, she thought, gazing down at her meager breakfast of a single soft-boiled egg.
The doorbell rang.
This time, she didn’t even wait for her Uncle to tell her to get it. She felt deflated, empty. She had allowed herself to hope — how pathetic. She should know better by now. Taking a deep breath, Harry pulled open the door.
A brown tabby cat sat on the step.
For a moment, Harry stared down at the creature. It blinked back. There was no one else there, and Harry hesitated, hand still on the doorknob. From the kitchen she heard her Uncle call, “Well, who is it?”
[["It's a cat?"]]
[[Shut the door]]
Double-click this passage to edit it.“Its—” Harry began to say, though she still wasn’t sure how to finish her sentence when the tabby cat got to its feet and strolled into the house. “Wait, no,” Harry said, the feline dodging her mad swipe to stop it.
The door to the kitchen opened and Uncle Vernon stepped out. The moment his gaze landed on the cat strutting inside as if she owned the space, his head snapped back up to Harry. She quailed beneath his purpling fury.
“Girl,” he began, voice rising — and then the sound died in his throat.
The brown tabby cat had pushed open the door to the cupboard under the stairs with a dexterity that shouldn’t have been possible. The cat sniffed the space and then turned to appraise Uncle Vernon, an unmistakable stiffness shuddering across the fur. And then, in an instant, a woman appeared.
Harry stood rooted to the spot, but Vernon Dursley leapt back, spluttering incoherently. The woman who stood between them did not belong on Privet Drive. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun beneath a pointed green hat. She wore matching long emerald robes, and square spectacles exactly like the markings around the cat’s eyes. The woman glanced from Vernon Dursley who shrank back at the cold fury in her thin-lipped expression, to Harry. When she spoke, it was in a brisk Scottish accent.
“Well, I think I’ve seen quite enough,” she said, “I had my suspicions in the beginning, but I see you lot really are the worst sort imaginable.” She gestured toward the cupboard, “This isn’t a place where a little girl should sleep!”
“Vernon?” Aunt Petunia’s horse face appeared just behind her husband. She caught sight of the woman, beady eyes traveling from the pointed hat to the robes. “Who is this?”
“I am Professor McGonagall,” the woman said sharply. “Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.”
Harry’s last lingering doubt vanished. From the look on her Aunt and Uncle’s faces, they were quite familiar with the name, Hogwarts. As her Aunt went bone white, Harry looked up into the stern face of the witch, and decided that this was better than her fantasies. Never in her wildest dreams did she think she would get to see Uncle Vernon’s eyes pop with fear.
Her Aunt of course hadn’t seen the transformation, and she tried. Oh, she tried. “No—Definitely not, she’s not going. Vernon and I both agreed — it’s unnatural! If we’re stuck raising her then we’re doing it our way!”
But even Aunt Petunia couldn’t withstand the fury that flashed in Professor McGonagall’s eyes. “You seem to be laboring under the delusion that you have a choice in this matter,” Professor McGonagall said, her words like ice. She took a step toward the Dursleys and like one living entity they retreated until they were blocking the door to the kitchen.
Harry’s heart lifted. “You mean, I can go?” she asked, just as she heard Dudley’s annoyed voice.
“What’s going on — who’s that?” Harry could see him trying to shove his face between his parents but found his way blocked by the two of them. “I wanna see—”
“Dudley go back to the table,” Uncle Vernon ground out. He shot a fearful look back at Professor McGonagall and took a great steadying breath, pulling himself to his full height. He still fell an inch short of the witch, even without her pointed hat. “Now, listen here — as guardians we’re quite in our right to raise her however we want. Just who do you think—”
McGonagall let out a harsh bark of laughter and Uncle Vernon stuttered, trying now to hide both Aunt Petunia and Dudley behind him. “Miss Potter had been set to attend Hogwarts since her birth, and nothing, especially not a pair of muggles, have the power to stop it. Personally,” and here she took another step forward, the movement embodying all the poise and lethality of a lion preparing to pounce. “I expressed my concern against leaving her to be raised by folks like you, but I hoped the fact that you’re family would have meant something. I shudder to think what Lily would’ve done if she’d seen this, Petunia. I knew you lacked imagination, but I never thought you lacked a soul.”
Uncle Vernon looked too scared to say anything. He pulled his family back until they were standing in the kitchen, on the other side of the threshold. Petunia on the other hand, had started chewing her cheek again, some of the color returning to her cheeks.
“That’s rich of you to say; she didn’t dump her problems in your lap!” she snarled, with a poisonous glare at Harry. It was easy to stare back from behind the ominous aura of McGonagall.
The woman in question however, didn’t reply. Instead, she swung her hand and the kitchen door slammed shut of its own accord. Harry heard Aunt Petunia cry out in fear and a great scurrying of feet behind the door. The Professor then took a deep breath, and turned toward Harry, bending down until they were eye level.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that, Miss Potter.”
Harry shook her head. “I’m used to it by now,” she sighed. The Professor made a noise in the back of her throat, her lips pressed together in a thin line.
“Then all the more so,” Professor McGonagall said.
Harry looked up at her. “Are—are you going to take me away from them?” she asked.
“No. I’m afraid I can’t.”
Harry tried not to let it show how much that hurt her. “Why not?”
McGonagall didn’t reply at first. She straightened up and adjusted her hat, and then cleared her throat. “Because whether I like it or not, they are your family and it’s the safest place for you.”
Harry had a half mind to tell her about the horror story of her family, but ultimately decided against it. She could tell when a topic wasn’t up for debate. Instead, she merely jerked her head in a stiff nod, dropping her gaze to stare down at her feet.
“That doesn’t mean however, we can’t make things better.”
Harry’s head shot up. “So, I can go to Hogwarts?”
And then Professor McGonagall did something she hadn’t done since she’d walked into number four — she smiled. The gentle touch managed to melt her face into something warm and inviting, and Harry had never seen something so beautiful.
“Of course, dear girl, why else would I come?”
Her heart felt lighter than it had in years. There was nothing that could make this Birthday better, nothing at all.
“Now, if I’m not mistaken, there is an empty bedroom in this house, is there not?”
“Well, its Dudley’s second bedroom,” Harry said with a grimace.
“Not anymore it’s not.”
She was wrong. It could get better. What a novelty.
[[Chapter Two: Diagon Alley]]
Harry swung the door shut on the cat’s face, shaking her head. “No one!” she called back turning to head back into the kitchen. She had only gone a few steps when the doorbell rang again.
“What’s going on over there?” The door to the kitchen and Uncle Vernon stepped out, looking cross.
Harry didn’t answer. She opened the door again, expecting to see the tabby cat again, only to find herself confronted by a woman. It took one look to realize she did not belong on Privet Drive. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun beneath a pointed green hat. She wore matching long emerald green robes, and square spectacles exactly like the markings around the cat’s eyes. The woman looked down at her and then up to Uncle Vernon. The look on his face surprised, Harry. Usually, the purpling rage and eye-popping madness was reserved just for her.
“Your kind aren’t welcome here!” he said, and he pushed Harry out of the way to grab the door, and slammed it as hard as he could.
He whirled around on Harry who shrank back against the stairwell, desperately trying to put the pieces together. “What’d she say to you?” Uncle Vernon roared, spittle hitting Harry’s cheek.
“N-nothing!” Harry said. “I didn’t—there’s just a cat, and then—”
The door burst open with such force that it swung back and hit the wall, inches from where Vernon stood. He leapt back, spluttering incoherently. This time, the woman stepped into the house herself, returning something to the confines of her robes.
“Well, I had my suspicions in the beginning,” she said in a brisk Scottish accent, “but I see that you lot really are the worst sort of muggles imaginable.” She glanced at Harry a moment, but then turned back to Uncle Vernon, her lips pressing together in a thin line.
“Get out,” Uncle Vernon tried. “Get out of my house!” but his furious tone was undercut by the shock of fear accenting his features like rancid milk.
“Vernon?” Aunt Petunia’s horse face appeared just behind her husband. She caught sight of the woman, beady eyes traveling from the pointed hat to the robes. “Who is this?”
“I am Professor McGonagall,” the woman said sharply. “Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts.”
Harry’s last lingering doubt vanished. From the look on her Aunt and Uncle’s faces, they were quite familiar with the name, Hogwarts. As her Aunt went bone white, Harry looked up into the stern face of the witch, and decided that this was better than her fantasies. Never in her wildest dreams did she think she would get to see Uncle Vernon’s eyes pop with fear.
Aunt Petunia folded her arms. “She’s not going to that school!” she hissed. “Vernon and I both agreed—it’s unnatural! If we’re stuck raising her, then we’re doing it our way!”
But even Aunt Petunia couldn’t withstand the fury that flashed in Professor McGonagall’s eyes. “You seem to be laboring under the delusion that you have a choice in this matter,” Professor McGonagall said, her words like ice. She took a step toward the Dursleys and like one living entity they retreated until they were blocking the door to the kitchen.
Harry’s heart lifted. “You mean, I can go?” she asked, just as she heard Dudley’s annoyed voice.
“What’s going on — who’s that?” Harry could see him trying to shove his face between his parents but found his way blocked by the two of them. “I wanna see—”
“Dudley go back to the table,” Uncle Vernon ground out. He shot a fearful look back at Professor McGonagall and took a great steadying breath, pulling himself to his full height. He still fell an inch short of the witch, even without her pointed hat. “Now, listen here — as guardians we’re quite in our right to raise her however we want. Just who do you think—”
McGonagall let out a harsh bark of laughter and Uncle Vernon stuttered, trying now to hide both Aunt Petunia and Dudley behind him. “Miss Potter had been set to attend Hogwarts since her birth, and nothing, especially not a pair of muggles, have the power to stop it. Now I’ve heard quite enough to interest the local authorities,” and she sauntered over to the cupboard beneath the stairs. The door burst magically open of it’s own accord and Dudley gave a shriek behind his parents and disappeared from view.
“Is there a problem with the smallest bedroom, Mr. Dursley?” she asked.
Uncle Vernon looked too scared to say anything. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again, gaping at the conversation like a drowning fish.
“Mr. Dursley, while Miss Potter and I are out getting her school supplies today, you will clean out that unused room and move all of her things there,” and here she took a step toward, the movement embodying all the poise and lethality of a lion preparing to pounce. “And, if I ever find out that you’ve shoved her back into this cupboard I will come back — do you understand?”
Uncle Vernon had pulled his family back until they were standing in the kitchen, doing his best to hide Aunt Petunia and Dudley from view, though to little success.
“Do you understand, Mr. Dursley?” Professor McGonagall repeated, a bite to her words now and Harry watched in undisguised glee as her Uncle croaked, “Yes.”
Professor McGonagall swung her hand and the kitchen door slammed shut. Harry heard Aunt Petunia cry out in fear and a great scurrying of feet behind the door. The Professor then took a deep breath, and turned toward Harry, bending down until they were eye level.
“I’m sorry the adults in your life have failed you so profoundly, Miss Potter.”
Harry didn’t know what to say. She regarded the woman for a long moment and then sighed. “I’m used to it by now,” she shrugged. The Professor made a noise in the back of her throat.
“Then, all the more so,” she said.
Harry looked up at her. “If they’re so terrible, why do I have to stay here?” she asked.
McGonagall didn’t reply at first. She straightened up and adjusted her hat, and then cleared her throat. “Because whether I like it or not, they are your family and it’s the safest place for you.”
Harry had a half mind to tell her about the horror story of her family, but ultimately decided against it. She could tell when a topic wasn’t up for debate. Instead, she merely jerked her head in a stiff nod, dropping her gaze to stare down at her feet.
“That doesn’t mean however, we can’t make things better.”
Harry’s head shot up. “So, I can go to Hogwarts?”
And then Professor McGonagall did something she hadn’t done since she’d walked into number four — she smiled. The gentle touch managed to melt her face into something warm and inviting, and Harry had never seen something so beautiful.
“Of course, dear girl, why else would I come?”
Her heart felt lighter than it had in years. She was going to get a real bedroom. She was going to Hogwarts. There was nothing that could make this Birthday better, nothing at all.
[[Chapter Two: Diagon Alley]] She’d never gotten a letter before. Why would anyone send <i>her</i> a letter?
Harry broke the wax seal and opened it to read:
<center>HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
Order of Merlin, First class, Grand Sorcerer, Chief Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confederation of Wizards</center>
Dear Miss Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Yours Sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
Her eyes traveled over the message and when she reached the end, she stopped. She stared blankly at the document, at the ink that shimmered in fluorescent lighting. She read it again, squinting at the words. From the kitchen her uncle raised his voice.
“What the devil is taking you so long, girl?”
Slowly, Harry turned around and began to walk back towards the kitchen, eyes still trained on the parchment. Her first impulse was to crumple the paper and throw it away, reject it all as a cruel joke. But — the glass vanishing at the zoo—
Wordlessly, she handed Uncle Vernon the mail, her eyes still trained on the paper in her hands.
“What’s that Harry’s got?” Dudley said suddenly, and Harry looked up. She found the entire Dursley family regarding her with suspicion.
“I got a letter,” she said. “Inviting me to a school.”
Aunt Petunia looked from her, to the letter, and clapped her hands over her mouth. “Vernon!” she cried.
Next second, the paper had been roughly ripped out of Harry’s fingers. But it was too late. She looked up at her Uncle, her fists clenching. Dudley’s mouth fell open, staring between his parents and Harry.
“What’s going on?” he asked, frowning.
Harry ignored him, fixing her bottle-green eyes on her uncle. “I always wondered why you were so scared of the word, <i>magic</i>,” she said, spitting the word back at him.
“How DARE YOU—” Uncle Vernon began, his ruddy face purpling, his eyes bulging. Harry watched him crumple the letter as his fists shook, but she had read that letter. She knew what it said.
This is why they hated her. They knew. They knew what she was, what she could do. This was why she wasn’t allowed to be a little girl with long flowing hair rather than this chopped mop barely long enough to cover her scar. To know that there was in in fact a reason — sweet relief. Validation. She had someplace else she could go — there were others like her.
Maybe she didn’t have to stay here, anymore.
“What do you care!?” Harry shrieked back at him, the unexpected retort throwing Uncle Vernon for a moment. “If I go I’ll be out of your lives, won’t I? I’ll leave right now!” and she went to make a break for the door — if it weren’t for the large meaty hand that clamped around her forearm.
“Oh no you don’t!” Uncle Vernon roared, yanking her back so hard that she hit the table with her hips. “Petunia and I agreed we’d only take you in if we put a stop to all that rubbish.”
Hot tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She massaged the bones of her hips, falling haphazardly back into her chair.
“You’ve known from the beginning?” she asked. She could feel the flutter of her blood in the vein of her neck, the tingle in her palms.
Aunt Petunia gave a harsh bark of mirthless laughter. “How could we <i>not</i> know?” she said, folding her arms. “What with my sister coming home with pockets full of frogspawn, hanging out with that awful boy — we wanted nothing to do with it, didn’t we, Vernon?”
It was the first time she had ever spoken of Harry’s mother.
“My — mom was a witch?”
“And so was her good for nothing husband,” Aunt Petunia snarled. “But they had to go get themselves blown up, and we got landed with you.”
Harry had a million more questions. Her Aunt and Uncle had told her next to nothing about her parents — and all of it had been a lie. But from the murderous rage growing in the gleam of Uncle Vernon’s eyes, Harry wouldn’t get the chance.
“ENOUGH!” he bellowed, and he seized her by the scruff of her shirt.
“No—stop, Uncle—” she tried, wincing as the shirt collar dug into her skin, as he bodily dragged her from the table. Without a word, he threw open the door to her cupboard and shoved her back inside. He slammed the door on her, and she cried out as it hit her knee.
She heard the kitchen door open and close, heard raised voices from the space.
“Dudley, go to your room.”
Uncle Vernon still sounded so dangerous that Dudley didn’t protest, but Harry could hear his whine as he shuffled down the hall, kicking her cupboard hard as he passed, and then stamping up the stairs.
She couldn’t hear the murmured words of her Aunt and Uncle, but she didn’t have to. She rubbed her bruising knee, pulling herself into a more comfortable position. No matter what they decided in that room — she was going to Hogwarts.
Even if she had to walk there.
[[Petunia & Vernon allow Harry go|Allowed]]
[[Petunia & Vernon refuse to let Harry go|Denied]]When her Uncle let her out of her cupboard, Dudley was nowhere to be seen. He ushered her back into the kitchen where Aunt Petunia sat, the crumpled Hogwarts Letter before her had been smoothed out.
“Sit down,” Uncle Vernon said, pushing her back into her chair. He then sat down next to Aunt Petunia and her aunt cleared her throat.
“After… <i>talking</i> about it,” her Aunt said with a sideways look at Vernon, “we have decided to let you go to this… place.”
Harry stared back at her. “You are?” she asked, a touch of skepticism in her voice. She couldn’t think of a time where they had ever let her have anything.
“Yes, if you agree to the following terms,” Aunt Petunia went on, and Harry blinked. “Okay…”
“You are entirely responsible for your own school supplies.”
She had expected this, though the beginnings of anxiety started to blossom. She didn’t have any money. Still, it was better than nothing. “Okay.”
“You will stay there for all of the major holidays.”
No argument there. “Sure.”
“Under no circumstances will you study or practice… your schoolwork in this house. You will not tell anyone where you are attending school, and you most certainly won’t invite any friends here over the holidays.”
Harry took a deep breath. “Okay.”
Aunt Petunia chewed her cheek for a moment, then pushed the letter back to Harry and stood up. Harry took the paper with trembling hands, half expecting her Aunt and Uncle to change their mind. But they didn’t.
She made it back to her cupboard with the letter and she began to peruse the list of schoolbooks and equipment that she would need. She had no idea where to acquire some of these things. She nearly laughed at the idea of asking her Uncle to drive her to a store that sold wands. He might just take that final step and snap her neck at the word. She would have to contact this Minerva McGonagall and ask her for help. But there was no return address.
She picked up the letter again. Her lips formed the phrase, we await your owl, and she frowned. No one had ever told her owls could deliver post. Where was she supposed to get one? Could the postman deliver to them anyway?
How do you contact someone without their address?
The easiest way to find any information on Hogwarts was of course to use the Internet. The conundrum came when trying to find out a way to access it. She would either have to ask or sneak onto Dudley’s computer.
No easy task.
She could also just ask her Aunt Petunia. <i>What a laugh!</i> The Dursleys might have allowed her to go but they didn’t want anything to do with magic.
While she was outside pruning the hedges she would crane her neck up to the trees, just in case she found an owl waiting there — no such luck. But she had to do <i>something</i>. The end of July was coming.
In the end, Harry steeled her nerves and approached Aunt Petunia one morning while she folded dishtowels. “May I use the computer to research something?” she asked.
Aunt Petunia regarded her suspiciously. “Research what?”
Harry tried to sound as casual as possible. “I — well, I need to contact my school.”
Aunt Petunia turned sharply away from her and put a folded pile of towels into a kitchen drawer. She didn’t answer, and Harry continued after a moment, “And, I don’t know how.”
Aunt Petunia shut the drawer with a snap. Harry saw her shoulders rise and fall as she took a deep breath and then she turned around. She hadn’t seen that expression on her Aunt’s face before — a grudging decision born of inner turmoil.
“Wait here.”
Perplexed, Harry stared as Aunt Petunia briskly left the kitchen. She heard her Aunt’s footsteps disappear upstairs. Just when she had started to wonder how long she would take, her Aunt returned. She pushed a sticky note into her hands and a stamped envelope.
In her Aunt’s unmistakable scrawl, was written an address.
Minerva McGonagall
Box #17 High Street, Hogsmeade
Highlands, Scotland
Harry opened her mouth but her Aunt held up her finger, a panicked glint in her eyes. “No questions,” she hissed, "And not a word of this to Dudley." She turned back to her pile of laundry. Harry slowly backed out into the hall and then into the confines of her cupboard.
Why did Aunt Petunia have this McGonagall’s address? Was left over from when Lily had gotten her letter, Harry wondered. Way she said it, Lily found out she was a witch with a letter like hers. However Aunt Petunia had found the address, Harry was relieved.
She scribbled a response on a piece of printer paper, folded it best she could and stuck it into the envelope. She printed the address as legibly as she could. On the way to school the next day, she dropped it into one of the outgoing letterboxes.
[[Letter to McGonagall]]
When her Uncle let her out of her cupboard, Dudley was nowhere to be seen. He ushered her back into the kitchen where Aunt Petunia sat, the table already clear from breakfast.
“Sit down,” Uncle Vernon said, pushing her back into her chair. He then sat down next to Aunt Petunia.
“Where’s my letter?” Harry asked as the silence began to drag.
“Gone,” Uncle Vernon snarled.
“I’ve sent a letter to this Minerva McGonagall,” Aunt Petunia said, looking as though she found the name distasteful. “I’ve told her you will not be going to this school.”
“What!?” Harry yelled. “You can’t!”
“Silence, girl!” and Uncle Vernon slapped her so hard across the face, that she fell from the chair and onto the kitchen floor. Tears in her eyes, world spinning, she looked up into the purpling rage of her Uncle and shrunk back against the cabinets.
“You should be grateful! We’ve sheltered and fed you — haven’t we? If it’d been up to me, we never would’a kept you.”
“Vernon,” came Aunt Petunia’s clipped tone. Her Uncle paused, still towering over Harry with hate in his eyes. He reached for her and Harry flinched as he seized her shirt again and pulled her back into her chair.
“You’re not going, and that’s final,” Aunt Petunia said.
Harry bit her tongue until blood knocked against her teeth.
“Now, you have gotten a bit big for the cupboard.”
Harry didn’t really know what to say to that, so she didn’t reply.
“From now on you’ll stay in Dudley’s second bedroom.”
Harry stared at her. Did she really think something like a room upgrade would make this better? She had seen her Aunt bribe Dudley enough times to know how it worked. But — her face still smarted from where Uncle Vernon had hit her. Her tantrums wouldn’t work on them.
“Grab your things and move them.”
Harry didn’t move. Was that it? They weren’t even going to explain? “What about my parents?” she whispered.
“Move. Now,” Uncle Vernon snarled, and she leapt to her feet as if she were electrocuted. As she headed for her cupboard and grabbed what few possessions she had, Harry knew she had to figure out a way to contact McGonagall herself — but how?
[[The Next Day|Denied Contact]]
Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall,
I am writing to inform you that Harry Potter will not be attending your school. Please do not contact us again.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Petunia Dursley
As far as responses go, this wasn’t one she had expected. Minerva McGonagall frowned down at the rushed penmanship, and then at the name beneath it. Petunia Dursley. She picked up the envelope and surveyed the address.
She included her Hogsmeade address in letters to muggleborns. The courier for Hogsmeade was a squib who liked acting as the bridge between the muggle and magical worlds. In retrospect, she should have sent a personalized letter, or better yet show up in person. It was clear she would need to treat this more like a muggleborn orphan situation — a high profile one. The idea of Henrietta Potter <i>not</i> going to Hogwarts was almost laughable, if nearly impossible.
The Head of Gryffindor House leaned back in her chair, pulling her hands together as she gazed at the paper before her. Then, making a decision, she rose and crossed over to the fireplace smoldering softly in the corner. From a clay pot on the mantelpiece, she grabbed a pinch of power and threw it into the flames, where they crackled green.
“Albus!” the Scottish woman called. “I need a word.”
[[Happy Birthday]]Dear Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall,
I got your letter, and I would very much like to attend Hogwarts — however I don’t know where to purchase my school supplies and I don’t have any money. My Aunt and Uncle despise all things magical, so they won’t help, and my parents are dead.
Can you help me?
Harry Potter
As far as responses go, this wasn’t one she had expected. Minerva McGonagall frowned down at the untidy scrawl, and then at the name beneath it. Harry. She picked up the envelope and surveyed the address.
She included her Hogsmeade address in letters to muggleborns. The courier for Hogsmeade was a squib who liked acting as the bridge between the muggle and magical worlds. But, this letter was from Henrietta Potter, the Girl Who Lived—
In retrospect, she should have sent a personalized letter. The memory of her last encounter with the Dursleys was not a pleasant one. It was clear she would need to treat this like a muggleborn orphan situation — and a high profile one at that.
The Head of Gryffindor House leaned back in her chair, pulling her hands together as she gazed at the paper before her. Then, making a decision, she rose and crossed over to the fireplace smoldering softly in the corner. From a clay pot on the mantelpiece, she grabbed a pinch of power and threw it into the flames, where they crackled green.
“Albus!” the Scottish woman called. “I need a word.”
[[Happy Birthday Harry]]By the time her birthday rolled around, Harry didn’t expect much. She had been blocked at every corner from contacting Hogwarts — not to mention that she didn’t have a phone number or even an address for them. She had even snuck onto Dudley’s computer while he was out with his friends and found two things — there was no mention of Hogwarts anywhere, and no one seriously believed in magic.
The only improvement was that she now had a real bedroom. Dudley hadn’t taken it well. He’d thrown one of his video game systems out the window, though Harry failed to see how that punished anyone but him. If her Aunt and Uncle were smart they wouldn’t buy him a new one — as if they could say no to ickle-diddy-kins.
Harry dreamed that night. She woke up with her vision blinded by bright green light, the sound of a motorcycle loud in her ears. And then the sound transformed into the hard wrap of knuckles on wood, as Aunt Petunia banged on her door at the crack of dawn like always. Nothing had changed except the scenery. She dragged herself out of bed and down to the kitchen to make breakfast, and as the rest of the Dursleys entered the kitchen without so much as a hello in her direction, even as she dished up breakfast, she wondered why she had even bothered to hope.
<i>Happy Birthday</i>, she thought, gazing down at her meager breakfast of a single soft-boiled egg.
The doorbell rang.
“Wonder who that is?” Aunt Petunia said looking as if she’d ate a lemon. She didn’t like unexpected visitors. Her eyes fell on Harry, her beady gaze looking at her oversized shirt, and bedhead. “Comb your hair,” she barked as she rose to her feet and headed down the hall.
Harry didn’t see what the point was. Aunt Petunia didn’t want to deal with any long black hairs and had proceeded to shave everything off. In rebellion, her hair had curled into an unmanageable mess, which refused to do anything. She had just tried to flatten her bangs over the lightening bolt scar across her forehead, when she heard the front door open and Aunt Petunia give a faint scream.
Within seconds, Uncle Vernon had risen from the table, knocking forks and napkins to the floor. Harry and Dudley shared a glance, and then they were scrambling to catch up. From the tangle of limbs filling the corridor, Harry could just make out a figure with a long flowing silver beard and high heeled buckled boots.
“Good Morning. You must be Mrs. Petunia Dursley. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts,” said the man. Harry slipped past her cousin to perch on the stairwell to see him better. Albus Dumbledore wore robes of deep magenta, trimmed with intricate detail work of golden thread climbing in swirling patterns. His beard and hair were so long that he could tuck them into his belt, and half-moon spectacles decorated light blue eyes.
The Dursleys seemed too shocked reply, so Dumbledore went on, “I think this conversation ought not to be had on the doorstep, so let us assume you have invited me warmly into your house.”
As he stepped inside and the door swung shut behind him, something seemed to break in Aunt Petunia. “We—we told you she’s not going,” she said, her tone strained and faint.
“Ah yes, I did have a chance to read your letter to Professor McGonagall. I thought it best to explain the matter in person. Ah, and this must be you husband, Mr. Dursley,” Dumbledore went on, turning to Vernon. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Vernon Dursley grunted in reply. The feeling clearly wasn't mutual.
The Dumbledore looked up the stairs to see Harry sitting there, and he smiled with such an unfamiliar expression of softness that she stared.
“And you must be Henrietta Potter.”
“Harry,” she whispered in correction. “I go by Harry.”
“Now wait a minute here — you can’t just walk in here. We’re her guardians and if—” Uncle Vernon stumbled into silence the moment the old wizard looked at him.
“Everything will be explained, shall we assume you invited me to your sitting room? Harry, perhaps it will be easier if you were to wait in your room until we finished.”
Harry desperately wanted to listen to how he convinced her Aunt and Uncle but wasn’t about to argue. She nodded to show she understood, and Dudley began to whine.
“Mum—”
“This must be your son?” Dumbledore said turning to him. “And what’s your name young man?”
Aunt Petunia looked as if she had swallowed a lemon. “Dudley, go to your room. Now.”
“But—”
“Now,” hissed Uncle Vernon, a vein throbbing in his temple. That was enough for Harry, who had no interest in being Dudley’s path. With a last glance at the aged wizard, she wondered how he kept such an appearance of polite hospitality. If her Uncle had been looking at her like that — she shuddered, and vanished into her room.
She didn’t know how long it would take. She paced back and forth across her carpet until boredom won over and she began to read one of the books Dudley had left in there—a fantasy novel. She had just gotten to the part when the hero discovered they weren’t normal, when someone knocked at her door.
The Dursleys would never knock. Harry was off her bed in a second and pulled open her door. Dumbledore stood there, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. “Thank you for your patience,” he said.
“Oh, sure, sir.” Her breathing was shallow. What did they decide?
“The Dursleys have agreed to allow you to go, provided you stay at Hogwarts for all holidays, that is of course, you want to go?”
“I’ll go anywhere as long as it isn’t here,” she replied and he chuckled, a twinkle in his eyes. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t joking.
“Excellent! Now, there is the matter of acquiring your school supplies. I’m afraid I have other business to attend to, so I will introduce you to one of my associates, a most excellent individual by the name of Hagrid. He will meet us at the Leaky Cauldron.”
Harry stared at him. “We—we’re going now?”
And Dumbledore laughed. “Of course, my dear. If I’m not mistaken, today is your birthday. I think a party is in order, don’t you?”
Her heart felt lighter than it had in years. She was going to Hogwarts. There was nothing that could make this Birthday better, nothing at all.
[[Chapter Two: Diagon Alley|Chapter Two with Dumbledore]] Double-click this passage to edit it.On her birthday, Harry didn’t expect much. She didn’t know how long it would take to hear back from Hogwarts, resigning herself to a long and tortuous wait. Still, she was disappointed when her Aunt Petunia rapped on her door at the crack of dawn like always. And as the rest of the Dursleys entered the kitchen without so much as a hello, even as she dished up breakfast, she wondered why she had even gotten her hopes up.
<i>Happy Birthday</i>, she thought, gazing down at her meager breakfast of a single soft-boiled egg.
This time, she didn’t even wait for her Uncle to tell her to get the mail. She felt deflated, empty. She had allowed herself to hope — how pathetic. She should know better by now.
A knock sounded at the door as she picked up a women’s catalogue for Aunt Petunia. She didn’t usually answer the door — her Aunt and Uncle preferred to keep Harry as hidden as possible. She wondered if perhaps it had something to do with her poorly fitted clothing and general haphazard appearance. But she was there and from the sound of it, Uncle Vernon hadn’t heard the knock from the kitchen.
She took a deep breath and pulled open the door.
It took one look to realize this woman did not belong on Privet Drive. Her silver hair was pulled into a tight bun beneath a pointed green hat. She wore matching long emerald green robes, and square spectacles. The woman looked down at her, and offered a small smile.
“You must be Harry Potter,” she said. “I’m Professor McGonagall.”
Harry shushed her, glancing behind at the Dursleys and whispered, “Not here!” Instead, she stepped outside and closed the door behind them. “They—well, my Aunt and Uncle don’t really want to be involved in anything magical, sorry Professor.”
The woman’s lips pursed thin, and Harry tensed. Had she been too rude? But then Professor McGonagall nodded, “Yes, I did read your letter… however, I would still like to speak with them.”
Harry hesitated. “I’m not sure that’s such a great idea.”
Professor McGonagall gave her a searching glance. “If you hope to accompany me to purchase your school things, I think it rather necessary.”
Harry’s heart leapt. “You’re going to take me shopping?”
“You did ask for help, did you not?”
“Well, yes.”
“Well then.” She inclined her head to the front door expectantly and Harry took a deep breath.
“Okay,” she said and she opened the door again. “Uh, Aunt Petunia there’s someone here to speak with you.”
“Oh?” Her Aunt Petunia emerged from the kitchen, and froze as she caught sight of Professor McGonagall. “What did I tell you—” she began in a furious whisper, but McGonagall cleared her throat.
“I realize you’ve reached some type of arrangement with Miss Potter,” she said briskly, in a thick Scottish accent, “So, I’ll make this short. I will be taking Miss Potter to purchase her school supplies. I will return her before sundown.”
Aunt Petunia started chewing on the inside of her cheek.
“What’s going on?” Uncle Vernon called from the kitchen and Petunia glanced back before shaking her head.
“It’s not important Vernon. Just arranging for Potter to leave for the day.” She turned back to Harry and Professor McGonagall.
“There is one other matter,” and the witch took a step toward Aunt Petunia. Harry could see it took all of her Aunt’s self control not to back away. “You will move all of Harry’s things to the smallest bedroom. Do I make myself clear?”
Aunt Petunia made a choking sound.
“Well then, we best be off. Harry?”
And as Harry followed the witch out the door, her heart felt lighter than it had in years. She was going to get a real bedroom. She was going to Hogwarts. There was nothing that could make this Birthday better, nothing at all.
[[Chapter Two: Diagon Alley]]