# Two Weeks Later - Parker Residence, Queens
The November afternoon had that specific brand of depressing that only early winter in New York could achieve—cold enough that your nose ran but not cold enough to justify staying inside, with that washed-out sunlight that made everything look like it was being viewed through an Instagram filter designed by someone deeply committed to seasonal affective disorder.
Harry sat at the kitchen table, surrounded by what could only be described as Gwen Stacy's color-coded manifestation of academic violence. Yellow sticky notes marked "CHALLENGING BUT MANAGEABLE" covered pages of Transfiguration theory that were, in Harry's professional nine-year-old opinion, neither challenging nor manageable but actually just sadistic.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, tapping his pencil against a particularly confusing diagram of molecular transformation, "so if you turn a teacup into a rat, does the rat remember being a teacup? Does it have an existential crisis? Does it dream of holding Earl Grey? Does it wake up screaming 'I WAS PORCELAIN'?"
The doorbell rang.
"I'll get it!" May called from the living room, where she'd been engaged in her weekly ritual of folding laundry while yelling at a cooking show. "Oh, come ON, Gordon, that risotto is CLEARLY undercooked—you're going to kill someone—"
The doorbell rang again, more insistently.
"I SAID I'M COMING!" May hollered, abandoning what was apparently a very important culinary critique. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, hold your horses!"
"Mom, you're yelling at the doorbell," Harry called. "It can't hear you!"
"It can hear my ENERGY!" May shot back.
Harry heard the door open, followed by May's voice doing that thing where it went up three octaves because she was genuinely surprised but also trying to be polite: "Aurora! Oh my goodness! What a wonderful—wait, did you tell us you were coming? Did I forget? Did Ben forget to tell me? Am I having a stroke? Should I smell toast?"
"No stroke, no toast," came Aurora Sinclair's amused voice, warm and theatrical in the way that suggested she'd probably practiced her entrance in a mirror. Multiple times. With lighting. "Just a spontaneous visit. Is Harry available? I promise I'm not here to arrest him, deliver tragic news, or do anything else appropriately dramatic for a surprise magical official showing up unannounced."
"That's... oddly specific reassurance," May said, audibly processing. "But okay! Sure! Come in! Harry, sweetie, you have a visitor! Put on pants if you're not wearing pants!"
"I'M WEARING PANTS!" Harry called back, slightly offended. "I'm nine, not a feral woodland creature!"
"DEBATABLE!" May sing-songed as she led Aurora toward the kitchen.
"IT'S REALLY NOT!" Harry protested.
"You ate cereal out of a measuring cup this morning because all the bowls were dirty!"
"That's called RESOURCEFULNESS!"
"That's called CONCERNING!"
Aurora swept into the kitchen mid-argument, her entrance generating what felt like its own theme music. Her traveling cloak shimmered with what might have been warming charms or might have been pure theatrical effect—with Aurora, it was genuinely fifty-fifty. Her silver hair was pulled back in a style that looked both incredibly formal and effortlessly casual, like she'd just happened to arrange it perfectly while doing something more important, like saving the world or organizing her spice rack alphabetically.
"Harry," she said with genuine warmth, taking in his study materials with obvious approval. "Still studying, I see. Gwen's organizational system?"
"Color-coded by 'how much this will make you question your life choices,'" Harry confirmed, standing up and trying to look like a serious student rather than a kid who'd been questioning the psychological implications of Transfiguration on teacup-rats. "Yellow means 'complex but manageable,' which I'm pretty sure is Gwen-speak for 'you'll understand this approximately never, but we're staying optimistic.'"
"Gwen does have a gift for aggressive positivity," Aurora agreed, settling into a chair with the kind of grace that suggested she'd either taken extensive ballet classes or was possibly just naturally elegant in ways that defied normal human physics. "How far behind Peter's current curriculum are you?"
"Three weeks," Harry said, trying to sound confident rather than desperately overwhelmed. "But I'm catching up. Relatively speaking. In the sense that I'm still learning things even if those things occasionally make me want to fake my own death and move to a non-magical country. Maybe Canada. I hear Canada is nice. No one expects magic in Canada."
"Canada has wizards," Aurora informed him.
"Dammit."
"Language," May said automatically, aggressively making tea like she was personally offended by the kettle's lack of speed.
"I said dammit, not the F-word," Harry protested.
"There are many words between 'dammit' and the F-word that you could choose from," May pointed out. "Try 'darn' or 'shoot' or 'fiddlesticks.'"
"No one under the age of seventy says fiddlesticks."
"You could be a trendsetter."
"I absolutely could not."
Aurora watched this exchange with obvious amusement, her eyes twinkling. "I see the Parker household communication style remains... vibrant."
"That's a diplomatic way of saying 'chaotic,'" Harry said.
"I prefer 'lively,'" Aurora corrected. "But speaking of your studies—I hope you're also taking time to enjoy being nine? Childhood shouldn't be entirely consumed by academic preparation, no matter how noble your goals."
Harry opened his mouth to defend his study habits, then realized he couldn't actually remember the last time he'd done something that wasn't directly related to magical theory or Hogwarts preparation.
"I... have fun?" he offered weakly. "I read non-magical books sometimes. Went to a movie with Uncle Ben last week. Um. I ate a really good sandwich yesterday? It had turkey AND ham. Living on the edge."
"A sandwich," Aurora repeated slowly.
"It was a REALLY good sandwich," Harry defended.
"Harry, darling," Aurora said with gentle concern, "when I was your age, I spent most of my time putting on elaborate theatrical performances for confused neighborhood cats, climbing trees I had no business climbing, and generally creating chaos that had absolutely nothing to do with academics. You're allowed to be a child even while preparing to be a student."
"See?" May said triumphantly, pointing at Aurora while somehow still making tea. "THANK YOU. I've been SAYING this! But Harry's determined to show up at Hogwarts knowing more than most professors."
"Most second-years," Harry corrected. "The professors would be unrealistic. I'm ambitious, not delusional."
"That's not the point!" May said, brandishing a tea bag like a weapon. "The point is you're NINE! You should be doing nine-year-old things!"
"I DO nine-year-old things!" Harry protested. "I'm bad at sports. I get nervous around girls. I stay up too late reading. I have questionable hygiene habits—"
"You don't have questionable hygiene habits," May interrupted.
"I wore the same shirt three days in a row last week."
"That was ONE time and you were SICK!"
"Still counts!"
"It absolutely does not count!"
Aurora accepted the tea May offered with gracious appreciation, somehow making the simple act of receiving a beverage look like an Olympic sport. "While this is delightful, I should probably mention why I'm here before you two progress to actual combat."
"We're not going to fight," May said.
"You threatened me with a tea bag," Harry pointed out.
"That's not a threat, that's emphasis!"
"Pretty sure threatening someone with ANY object counts as a threat!"
"It was a CHAMOMILE tea bag! The least threatening tea bag!"
"All tea bags are threatening if wielded with sufficient aggression!"
"ANYWAY," Aurora said loudly, clearly enjoying herself but also trying to maintain some semblance of control over the conversation, "I have news that might interest you, Harry, and a question about your immediate future."
Harry's stomach did a complicated acrobatic routine that would've impressed Olympic gymnasts. When Aurora Sinclair showed up unannounced with "news" and "questions," things were about to get either really interesting or really complicated, and in his experience, those were the same thing.
"News about what?" he asked, abandoning his textbooks and giving Aurora his complete attention. "And should I be worried? On a scale of 'someone sent you cookies' to 'Voldemort has a previously unknown twin brother who's also evil and has better PR,' where are we landing?"
"That's oddly specific," Aurora observed.
"I've had a weird life," Harry said. "I prepare for all contingencies."
"Solidly in the middle, I'd say," Aurora replied. "More like 'interesting developments that will affect your educational future' territory."
"That's still pretty vague," Harry pointed out. "That could mean anything from 'we're adding a class' to 'Hogwarts is actually a elaborate reality TV show and you've been cast as the lead.'"
"Why would you even suggest that?" May asked, horrified.
"Because my life is weird enough that I can't rule it out!"
"Hogwarts is not a reality TV show," Aurora assured him.
"You say that with a lot of confidence for someone who just showed up unannounced," Harry said suspiciously.
"Harry, I promise you're not on television."
"That's EXACTLY what someone would say if I was on television!"
"Can I please just tell you the actual news?" Aurora asked with patient amusement.
"Fine," Harry sighed dramatically. "But I'm keeping my guard up. I trust nothing."
"You're nine," May said.
"A very paranoid nine."
"As you know," Aurora began, clearly deciding to power through before they got sidetracked again, "Peter, MJ, Gwen, Ned, and Felicia were the first group of American students to attend Hogwarts under the exchange program."
"Right," Harry said, gesturing at his study materials. "Hence the color-coded psychological torture I'm currently experiencing. Thanks for that, by the way. Really enjoying the existential crises about Transfiguration."
"You're welcome," Aurora said cheerfully. "But here's the relevant part: they're doing remarkably well. All five of them are exceeding expectations both academically and socially. Professor McGonagall sends glowing reports. Apparently Gwen's already reorganized the library's Transfiguration section."
"That sounds like Gwen," Harry said with genuine fondness. "Is she color-coding their books too?"
"Almost certainly," Aurora confirmed. "I believe she's implemented a system based on complexity, practical application, and 'likelihood of causing accidental amputation.'"
"That last one seems important," Harry noted.
"Very important," Aurora agreed. "But here's what matters to you: the exchange program is continuing. Next year, we'll send five British students to Ilvermorny for their first year, giving them experience with American magical education."
Harry's brain immediately started calculating timelines. "And then the year after that—my first year—you'll send American students back to Hogwarts?"
"Exactly," Aurora confirmed, clearly pleased with his quick understanding. "Five new first-years will join you at Hogwarts. American students who've been through similar preparation, who understand the unique challenges of being American in a British magical institution."
"So I won't be the only confused American wandering around asking why everything is so old and where they keep the normal-sized portions?" Harry asked.
"Precisely," Aurora said.
"That's actually really smart," Harry admitted. "I mean, I'll have Peter and the others as third-years, but having people in my actual year who get the whole 'American student in British school' thing could be helpful. Less explaining why I don't understand the metric system, more just existing in shared confusion."
"Wait, you don't understand the metric system?" May asked.
"I understand it theoretically," Harry said. "I just don't understand it emotionally."
"That doesn't make sense."
"Neither does the metric system! Why is everything in tens? It's suspicious!"
"That's literally the entire point of the metric system," May said.
"Seems fake."
"HARRY."
"I'm just saying, the Imperial system has character! Personality! The metric system is boring!"
"The metric system is LOGICAL!"
"So is communism, theoretically, and look how that turned out!"
"Did you just compare the metric system to communism?" May asked incredulously.
"If the measurement fits!"
"That doesn't even make SENSE!"
Aurora cleared her throat loudly. "As fascinating as this debate about measurement systems is, can we return to the actual important topic?"
"Sorry," Harry said, not sounding particularly sorry. "You were saying something about American students who'll also be confused by British everything?"
"Yes," Aurora said with patient amusement. "Five students who'll be starting Hogwarts the same year you do. Built-in support system. Which brings me to my question—" She set down her teacup with deliberate care, her theatrical timing impeccable. "—would you like to meet them?"
Harry blinked. "Meet them? Like... now? Are they in your car? That would be super weird, having kids just waiting in your car while you have tea."
"I don't have kids in my car," Aurora said.
"That's exactly what someone WITH kids in their car would say," Harry pointed out.
"Harry, I promise you, there are no children in my vehicle."
"But there COULD be," Harry said. "You haven't technically denied that your car is large enough to contain children."
"Most cars are large enough to contain children," May observed. "That's how car seats work."
"See?" Harry said. "I rest my case!"
"What case?" Aurora asked, bewildered. "What are you even arguing?"
"I don't know," Harry admitted. "I got distracted. What were we talking about?"
"Meeting the candidates for next year's exchange program," Aurora said, clearly trying to wrangle the conversation back on track. "We're in the final stages of selection—we've narrowed it down to eight candidates for the five positions. Before we make final decisions, I thought you might like to meet some of them. Get to know the students who might be your classmates."
Harry's suspicious nature immediately kicked in, because that was just how his brain worked. "Why would you want me to meet them before they're officially selected? I mean, I'm not part of the selection committee. I'm just another student who happens to be starting the same year. I don't have any authority. I can barely get May to let me stay up past nine-thirty."
"That's because you get cranky when you're tired," May said.
"I do NOT get cranky!"
"Last week you cried because your toast was 'the wrong shade of brown.'"
"That was ONE TIME and I was VERY tired!"
"You're proving my point."
"I'm proving NOTHING!"
Aurora waited patiently for them to finish, sipping her tea with an expression that suggested she was thoroughly entertained by the Parker household dynamics.
"Are you two done?" she asked politely.
"Probably not," Harry said. "But continue. I'm listening."
"Several reasons why I'd like you to meet them," Aurora said. "First, you're not 'just another student'—you're Harry Potter, which brings certain... complexities... to any social situation."
"You mean everyone thinks I'm either going to be amazing or a huge disappointment and there's no middle ground?" Harry asked.
"Essentially, yes," Aurora confirmed. "Second, you've been following the exchange program closely through your friends. You have unique insight into what makes a successful exchange student. Third—" She paused, her expression becoming more serious. "—honestly, Harry? You're going to start Hogwarts with a spotlight on you whether you want it or not. Not because of anything you've done, but because of who you are in magical history. Having peers who know you as Harry rather than as the Boy Who Lived could make your adjustment significantly easier."
The familiar tension crept into Harry's shoulders—the automatic defensive response that happened whenever anyone mentioned his unwanted fame. "So you want me to meet these candidates before they've fully processed the whole Boy Who Lived thing? Get to know them before they start asking me to sign stuff or tell them what Voldemort smelled like?"
"Did Voldemort have a smell?" May asked with morbid curiosity.
"I don't know, I was a baby!" Harry said. "I wasn't exactly taking notes! 'Dear Diary, murdered my parents today. Dark Lord smells like... vanilla? Unclear. Will investigate further.'"
"That's horrible," May said.
"YOU'RE the one who asked!"
"I regret my question!"
"TOO LATE, THE DAMAGE IS DONE!"
Aurora waited for the chaos to settle before continuing. "Actually, they already know you're Harry Potter. That's unavoidable—your connection to Peter and the others is in your file, and MACUSA doesn't hide relevant information from program participants."
"So they already know I'm the Boy Who Lived," Harry said flatly.
"They know the basics, yes," Aurora confirmed. "But meeting you now, in a casual setting before Hogwarts? That could help normalize your presence. Let them see you as a person rather than a legend."
Harry drummed his fingers on the table, a nervous habit he'd developed when thinking through complex social situations. "What if I meet them and they're terrible? Or what if they're nice now but then get to Hogwarts and tell everyone that Harry Potter is actually just an awkward nine-year-old who asks weird questions about whether Transfigured rats have existential crises?"
"First, that's a legitimate question," Aurora said. "Second, if they judge you harshly for being a normal child instead of a legendary figure, that says everything about them and nothing about you."
"But it would still suck," Harry pointed out.
"Yes," Aurora agreed honestly. "It would. But Harry, people are going to have opinions about you regardless. At least this way, you have a chance to influence those opinions before you're all thrown together at school."
"That's... actually a good point," Harry admitted reluctantly.
May, who'd been listening while aggressively organizing tea supplies (why did they have so many different types of tea? When did this happen?), spoke up with maternal authority: "I think it's a good idea. Better to meet potential classmates now, when there's no pressure, than to have your first interaction be during the stress of starting school. Plus, if some of them turn out to be jerks, you'll know in advance."
"Very pragmatic," Aurora approved. "Though I should mention—these candidates have been screened extensively. They're all academically qualified, emotionally mature for their ages, and have been evaluated for their ability to handle international magical education. The likelihood of anyone being a jerk is quite low."
"But not zero," Harry said.
"Life offers no guarantees," Aurora said philosophically.
"That's a depressing worldview," Harry observed.
"It's called 'realism,'" Aurora corrected.
"Still depressing."
"Also accurate."
"Can things be both depressing AND accurate?"
"Harry, most of adult life is both depressing and accurate," May said. "Welcome to existence."
"I'm nine!" Harry protested. "I shouldn't have to deal with existential dread yet!"
"You asked if Transfigured rats have existential crises," Aurora pointed out. "You're clearly already dealing with existential concepts."
"That's different! That's THEORETICAL existential dread!"
"How is it different?" May asked.
"Because it's happening to RATS, not ME!"
Harry stared at his textbooks, then at Aurora, then at May, then back at his textbooks, his brain running through approximately seventeen different scenarios involving potential classmates who might be cool or might be awful or might be somewhere in the complicated middle ground where most human beings existed.
"When would this meeting happen?" he asked finally. "And where? And would it be all eight candidates at once, or individual meetings, or what? Because if it's all eight at once, that's basically a party, and I'm not great at parties."
"You've been to exactly one party," May said.
"And it was traumatic!" Harry said. "Someone brought a piñata and it was CHAOS! Pure CHAOS!"
"You were six," May reminded him.
"The trauma doesn't have an expiration date!"
"It was a BIRTHDAY party! For children! With cake!"
"There was TOO MUCH CAKE! How is that not traumatic?!"
Aurora cleared her throat. "We're hosting a casual gathering this Saturday at MACUSA headquarters. Nothing formal—just light refreshments, conversation, maybe some collaborative activities that give everyone a chance to interact naturally."
Harry's eyes narrowed immediately. "Collaborative activities sounds like code for 'we're evaluating how you work together.'"
Aurora's smile widened with obvious approval for his perceptiveness. "Very astute. Yes, part of the selection process involves assessing group dynamics and collaborative abilities. Your presence will be valuable because you've observed successful group cohesion through Peter and the others. Your observations could inform our final selections."
"So I'm not just meeting them," Harry said slowly, putting the pieces together. "You're also asking me to help evaluate them. That's a lot of responsibility for someone who just had a minor breakdown about toast."
"The toast WAS the wrong color!" Harry defended.
"It was SLIGHTLY more brown than usual!"
"EXACTLY! WRONG!"
"Harry, sweetie, I love you, but you need to work on your crisis management skills," May said gently.
"I'm NINE!" Harry said for what felt like the millionth time. "I'm not supposed to HAVE crisis management skills! I'm supposed to eat cereal and watch cartoons and occasionally fall off things!"
"You don't watch cartoons," May pointed out.
"Because I'm too busy studying Transfiguration theory!" Harry said. "Which brings us full circle to the original problem!"
Aurora waited for this latest tangent to resolve itself, her expression suggesting she was thoroughly enjoying the Parker household chaos even while trying to maintain some semblance of professional composure.
"So," she said once there was a brief lull in the arguing, "are you comfortable attending as both a participant and an observer? Or would you prefer to just attend as a participant?"
Harry considered this seriously, trying to separate his anxiety about meeting new people from the actual logic of Aurora's proposal. "Can I think about it for a day or two? I don't want to say yes just because it seems polite, and I don't want to say no just because I'm nervous about meeting people who already know I'm the Boy Who Lived."
"Of course," Aurora replied with warm respect. "The gathering is Saturday at two in the afternoon. If you decide you want to attend, just let me know by Friday morning and we'll arrange everything."
She stood with elegant grace, clearly preparing to leave but not in any particular rush. "Oh, I should mention—Peter, MJ, and the others will be there too."
Harry's head snapped up so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "They're coming back? To New York? THIS weekend?"
"Via Portkey Friday evening," Aurora confirmed, clearly delighted with his reaction. "They'll return to Hogwarts Sunday afternoon. So even if you decide not to attend the candidate gathering, you'll still get to see your friends in person."
"THEY'RE COMING BACK?!" Harry said, his volume increasing significantly. "Why didn't you lead with that?! That's IMPORTANT INFORMATION!"
"I was building to it dramatically," Aurora said with a slight smile. "Theatrical timing."
"Your theatrical timing almost gave me a heart attack!" Harry said. "I thought you were going to leave and THEN casually mention that my best friends are going to be in the same city as me for the first time in MONTHS!"
"I would never do something that cruel," Aurora said, though her expression suggested she absolutely would and found the whole situation delightful.
"Can I see them?" Harry asked eagerly. "Even if I don't go to the gathering? Can I still see them?"
"Of course," Aurora said warmly. "Though if you DO attend the gathering, you'll get to see them there, and then spend the rest of the weekend with them however you'd like."
That changed everything.
The prospect of seeing Peter, MJ, Gwen, Ned, and Felicia in person—actually talking to them face-to-face instead of through increasingly elaborate letters that were starting to rival Victorian novels in length and complexity—made the entire proposition infinitely more appealing.
"Okay," Harry said decisively. "Yes. Definitely yes. I want to go. I want to meet the candidates, and I definitely want to see my friends. One hundred percent yes."
Aurora's smile widened with genuine pleasure. "Wonderful. I'll arrange everything. You and your aunt and uncle should arrive at MACUSA headquarters around two on Saturday. The gathering will last approximately three hours, then you'll have the rest of the weekend to spend with Peter and the others however you'd like."
"Can we get pizza?" Harry asked immediately.
"You can get whatever you want," Aurora said with amusement.
"Can we go to that bookstore in Manhattan that has the entire section on theoretical magic?"
"Absolutely."
"Can we go to the Museum of Natural History and look at the dinosaurs?"
"Why not?"
"Can we—"
"Harry," May interrupted gently, "maybe let Aurora finish before you plan the entire weekend?"
"I'm excited!" Harry defended. "I haven't seen them in MONTHS! I have PLANS!"
"I can tell," Aurora said warmly. She moved toward the door, then paused and turned back with an expression that was part theatrical wisdom and part genuine concern. "One more thing, Harry. These candidates don't know you personally yet. They know your name, your history, probably have expectations about who you'll be. This is your chance to show them who you actually are rather than who they imagine."
"What if who I actually am is disappointing compared to who they imagine?" Harry asked with the kind of vulnerability he usually kept carefully hidden behind sarcasm and analytical thinking.
Aurora's expression softened. "Then they'll learn an important lesson about the difference between legends and people. And honestly, darling? I suspect you're far more interesting than any legend could capture. Legends don't worry about whether Transfigured rats have existential crises or argue about the emotional validity of the metric system."
"You heard ALL of that?" Harry asked, mortified.
"I have excellent hearing," Aurora said cheerfully. "It's both a blessing and a curse."
"Mostly a curse for other people," May observed.
"Accurate," Aurora agreed.
With that pronouncement, she swept out of the kitchen with theatrical grace, leaving Harry and May sitting at the table with lukewarm tea and the sudden realization that Saturday was going to be significantly more complicated than anticipated.
The front door closed.
Silence fell over the kitchen.
"So," May said after a moment, "that happened."
"That happened," Harry agreed.
"You're going to meet eight potential classmates who already know you're the Boy Who Lived."
"Yep."
"And you're going to help evaluate whether they're suitable for the exchange program."
"Apparently."
"And you're going to see Peter and the others for the first time in months."
"YES!" Harry said, his excitement temporarily overwhelming his anxiety. "That part is AMAZING!"
"The rest of it?" May asked gently.
Harry slumped in his chair, staring at his yellow-coded textbooks. "The rest of it is terrifying and I'm already planning seventeen different ways it could go horribly wrong."
"Name three," May challenged.
"One: I meet them and they're all super cool and confident and I'm just... me," Harry said immediately. "Two: I meet them and they're terrible and I have to spend the next two years knowing I'm going to Hogwarts with people I already don't like. Three: I meet them and I'm so nervous I say something stupid and they spend the rest of their lives telling people that Harry Potter asked if Transfigured rats dream of being porcelain."
"That's actually a valid question," May said.
"IT IS!" Harry agreed emphatically. "But they won't know that! They'll just think I'm weird!"
"Harry, you ARE weird," May said affectionately. "In the best possible way. You're smart and curious and analytical and yes, sometimes you ask questions that make people look at you funny. But those are the things that make you interesting."
"Or they're the things that make people avoid me," Harry muttered.
May reached across the table and took his hand. "Anyone who avoids you because you ask interesting questions isn't worth knowing anyway. And you know what? If these candidates are really as great as Aurora says they are, they'll appreciate your questions. They'll think it's cool that you're thinking deeply about magic even though you can't do it yet."
"Or they'll think I'm trying too hard to impress them," Harry said.
"Then they're idiots and you don't need them," May said firmly.
Harry looked at his aunt, then at his textbooks, then back at his aunt. "What if I'm not ready for this? What if I'm not ready to meet people who already have expectations about who I should be?"
"Then you'll figure it out," May said simply. "Because that's what you do. You worry, you overthink, you plan for seventeen different catastrophic scenarios, and then you do the thing anyway and you're fine. It's your process."
"It's a terrible process," Harry said.
"It's YOUR process," May corrected. "And it works."
Harry considered this, then nodded slowly. "Okay. Yeah. I can do this. I can meet eight potential classmates, help evaluate them for the exchange program, and see my friends for the first time in months. This is totally fine and not at all overwhelming."
"That's the spirit," May said, though her tone suggested she knew he was absolutely lying to himself.
"Can we still order pizza and watch something with no magic in it?" Harry asked hopefully.
"Absolutely," May said, pulling out her phone. "What kind of pizza?"
"Something with absolutely no British influence whatsoever," Harry said. "Aggressively American pizza. I want it to be so American that it's slightly embarrassing."
"So... pepperoni?" May asked.
"With extra cheese," Harry confirmed. "And breadsticks. And maybe those cinnamon things. I'm stress-eating."
"You're nine," May reminded him. "You're not supposed to stress-eat yet."
"Tell that to my stress," Harry said, gesturing at his textbooks. "It doesn't care about age-appropriate coping mechanisms."
May laughed and started ordering pizza while Harry closed his textbooks and tried not to think about Saturday.
He failed completely, obviously, because his brain never turned off and he was already mentally preparing conversation topics and backup conversation topics and emergency conversation topics in case everything went horribly wrong.
But at least he'd have pizza.
And his friends were coming back.
And maybe—just maybe—meeting these potential classmates wouldn't be a complete disaster.
Small victories.
He'd take them.
---
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