Harry Potter drifted through a dream woven from emerald green fire and strange, warm embraces—the afterglow of the previous night's magical, whirlwind retrieval. He was utterly, deliciously lost in slumber when a soft, yet distinctly foreign, voice pierced the quiet luxury of the hotel suite.
"Young Master Harry, please wake up."
Young Master? Harry's eyelids fluttered. Are they talking to me? Who calls anyone 'Young Master'?
He blinked his blurry, naked-eye vision around the spacious room, which was lavishly appointed in plush velvet and mahogany—a suffocating contrast to the cramped, dusty cupboard under the stairs that had been his only previous definition of 'home.' He fumbled for his glasses on the bedside table and, as the lenses settled on his nose, his vision snapped into sharp focus.
The sight that greeted him made him gasp.
Standing rigidly at the foot of the bed was a creature of impossible contradiction. It was scarcely waist-high, with large, tennis-ball-sized eyes that glistened in the morning light, and enormous, leaf-like ears that fluttered slightly with every minute movement. Yet, despite its non-human features, it was dressed in a suit that could only be described as perfection.
The elegant, black morning coat was cut from a material with a subtle, shimmering sheen, tailored so precisely that it looked painted onto the creature's diminutive frame. His tiny black shoes were polished to a mirror shine.
If Harry had seen such a figure in a Muggle context, he would have assumed it was the kind of impossibly stiff butler reserved only for the oldest, most eccentric noble families.
"Good morning, Master Harry," the creature repeated, performing a low, precise bow that would have impressed Vernon Dursley with its formality. "Breakfast has been served. The Master and Mistress are awaiting you in the dining area."
Harry, utterly captivated by this bizarre blend of elegance and strangeness, sat up immediately.
"Hello," he said, extending his hand instinctively, a gesture he'd learned from observing Vernon's rare moments of forced corporate politeness. "I'm Harry Potter. What are you?"
A look of profound shock, quickly replaced by a radiant, delighted grin, swept across the small creature's face. He gently took Harry's hand and shook it, his touch light as thistledown.
"I am Jeff, Master Harry. I am the Swann's house-elf. You may summon me for anything you require," the elf replied, his voice a squeaky whisper of gratitude. "Master Harry, you are so kind. A truly good soul, like the Master and Mistress. You know, most wizards would never, ever shake hands with an elf. They consider it beneath their dignity."
House-elf. The term resonated with the same magical wonder as witch and wizard.
"Jeff," Harry asked, already fascinated. "Do you… do you always wear such a smart suit?"
"The Mistress insists upon it, Master Harry. She finds the customary sacking disagreeable. Though I assure you, the Master Swann's former robes were considerably less tasteful. A dreadful green velvet, I believe." Jeff shuddered dramatically. "Now, please, make haste! The Mistress is eager. She says we have a very busy schedule today, involving a magnificent shopping expedition!"
Harry dressed and rushed to the small dining area, where a full English breakfast was laid out on a table draped in starched white linen.
Mia was already there, radiating warmth. She immediately scooped Harry up for a morning hug, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. "My goodness, look at you! Sleep well, darling? I was hoping you'd sleep until noon, but alas, the wizarding world waits for no one."
"I slept brilliantly, Mia," Harry admitted, slightly awkward but secretly thrilled by the sheer amount of affection. He slid into his seat, his green eyes still wide with the novelty of the house-elf and the promise of magic.
"Eat up, now. After this, we're off to Diagon Alley!" Mia watched him with a hawk-like intensity, making sure his plate was full.
Sebastian watched the exchange with a satisfied smile. Mia's maternal fussing was beautiful, but Sebastian's mind was already five steps ahead, calculating the necessary logistical and physical foundation Harry would require.
A typical child? Sebastian mused, sipping his imported black coffee. A theme park, a quiet summer, a delay on the stress. That is the luxury of normalcy.
But Harry Potter was not normal. He was a lightning rod. He was destined to be embroiled in a conflict he couldn't possibly win with his current skill set. Sebastian recalled the Harry of the books—a brilliant flyer and instinctively good duelist, yes, but often reliant on luck, Ron's loyalty, and Hermione's library skills. He was academically lacklustre and often reactive, not proactive.
He needs more than just a passing grade in Defence Against the Dark Arts, Sebastian determined internally. He needs durability. He needs the instincts of a survivor and the discipline of an asset.
Sebastian had made a firm, pragmatic decision the moment he saw the scar: Harry's summer would not be about simple relaxation. It would be about establishing a magical and physical baseline that would make him less vulnerable to Dumbledore's long game and Voldemort's short temper.
"Harry will start with a full regimen tomorrow," Sebastian thought, his smile remaining outwardly genial.
"We'll adhere to a customized Elite Auror Training standard—basic magical shielding theory, high-intensity physical conditioning, non-verbal spell preparation, and, most crucially, mind defense. He will need a brain capable of resisting Legilimency far beyond the basic school curriculum."
He slid a tall glass of milk in front of Harry, a seemingly innocent gesture now loaded with complex, martial subtext.
"Drink the milk, Harry," Sebastian ordered, his voice suddenly firm. "Every drop. You're growing. You need sufficient calcium reserves. You need strong bones and dense tissue for optimal physical performance, especially when you start your practical defense training tomorrow. Think of it as building your fortress from the inside out."
Harry, startled by the sudden shift in tone, but accustomed to obeying simple, authoritative commands, nodded and dutifully lifted the milk glass.
After breakfast, Harry was practically vibrating with excitement. He knew they were going to the wizarding world, but the transportation method remained a mystery.
"Are we going to… flow away again?" Harry asked tentatively, referencing the sudden, violent jolt of Apparition that had gotten them from Privet Drive to the hotel. "Being squeezed is… not a very pleasant feeling."
Mia's expression softened instantly. "Oh, my darling, of course not. That was Apparition, which is terribly disorienting for first-timers, and quite rude of Sebastian to use without warning, even if it was tactically necessary." She shot Sebastian a mild glare.
"Logistics sometimes overrides comfort, my dear," Sebastian interjected smoothly, reaching for his own cloak.
"Hush, logistics," Mia waved him off. "For today's journey, we'll use a much gentler method. Come to the fireplace."
She led Harry to the ornate, stone fireplace that dominated the wall. It was now completely clean, but Harry was perplexed. How are we getting to a shopping street using a fireplace?
Mia produced a small, leather pouch filled with glittering, emerald-green powder.
"This, Harry, is Floo powder," Mia explained. "It is the wizarding world's high-speed public transport network. Fast, efficient, and thankfully, minimal squeezing."
She took a pinch, stepped confidently into the fireplace, and demonstrated. With a low whoosh and a flash of green flame, Mia vanished after distinctly enunciating: "Diagon Alley!"
Harry's jaw dropped. Fire transportation! It was the most fantastic thing he had ever seen.
He took a handful of the glowing powder, his hand trembling slightly. He looked at Sebastian, his nervousness suddenly spiking.
"Don't worry, Harry," Sebastian said, patting his small shoulder. "It's extremely safe. Just stand firmly, look straight ahead, and say 'Diagon Alley' with conviction. Don't mumble. You'll see Mia again in the blink of an eye."
Sebastian leaned in, his voice dropping slightly, delivering a line of assurance with the confidence of a man who controlled fate. "Even if, by some highly improbable chance, you make a slight navigational error and end up somewhere unexpected," Sebastian said, his eyes glittering, "rest assured, I will still come and find you. Nothing is out of my reach, and nothing is beyond repair. You are safe."
Reassured by the casual, almost arrogant confidence in Sebastian's voice, Harry swallowed his fear. He took a final deep breath, stepped into the cold hearth, and shouted into the green powder: "Diagon Alley!"
The world dissolved into a dizzying kaleidoscope of rushing air, blurred stone, and flashing color. Harry squeezed his eyes shut, feeling like he was being spun inside a giant, roaring washing machine. Just as his stomach began to protest, he felt a solid wooden floor beneath his sneakers, and the sensation ceased as abruptly as it began.
He opened his eyes. Mia was smiling, brushing the soot from his hair. Behind her was a scene of dazzling, impossible wonder.
Harry was standing on a cobblestone street, but this street was unlike anything in Little Whinging. It was a riot of color, chaos, and charm. Buildings leaned at impossible angles, painted in vibrant hues of gold, azure, and scarlet. Everywhere, the street was teeming with wizards and witches in robes of every description.
There were shops that sold objects he couldn't identify: a shop with smoking vials in the window, another with shimmering, glowing wands, a massive cage filled with hooting, magnificent owls. He saw signs for Madam Malkin's Robes, Gringotts Bank, the Eeylops Owl Emporium, and the Quality Quidditch Supplies store, whose window displayed sleek, polished racing brooms.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley, Harry," Mia announced, her voice full of pride.
After emerging from the fireplace in the back room of a surprisingly non-magical-looking pub called The Leaky Cauldron, Mia reached into her elegant leather handbag and produced a sleek, magically expanded man's wallet.
She opened the wallet and retrieved a surprisingly heavy, thick stack of chunky, gold coins. They were the size of small saucers, engraved with unidentifiable symbols.
"Here you are, my brave traveler," Mia said, placing the stack into Harry's small, bewildered hands. "This is your initial allowance. We'll start you with a thousand Galleons."
Harry looked at the mound of gold, dumbfounded. The sheer quantity, the density of the metal, suggested an unimaginable sum. He didn't know what a Galleon was, but the word 'thousand' instantly evoked his Dursley-era economy—the occasional twenty pence piece he might find hidden in the garden.
He quickly tried to hand the bulk of the money back. "Mia, that's… that's far too much! I don't need this! Please, just give me ten… no, maybe five Galleons? That should be enough for a few books."
Mia laughed, a rich, warm sound that reached Sebastian, who was just dusting himself off from the Floo trip. She ruffled Harry's messy hair tenderly.
"Oh, Harry, darling, you can't refuse a gift from an elder. And a thousand Galleons is merely pocket money in this world. Think of it as a small fund for treats and emergencies."
She leaned in conspiratorially, her voice dropping lower. "Besides, once we get you fully settled and the appropriate paperwork is filed, you'll likely never concern yourself with this small amount again. You see, Harry, you have an entire family fortune awaiting you."
A fortune? An inheritance? Harry's eyes were wide, utterly stunned by this latest revelation. He had zero knowledge of any family money. His entire life had been defined by the Dursleys' scornful implication that he was a drain on their resources.
Everything he was seeing, everything he was hearing—wizards, house-elves, fire travel, and now, a fortune—was overwhelming, dazzling, and almost terrifying in its complete upending of his reality.
Mia smiled at Sebastian, who had just joined them, and then gently took Harry's hand.
"Don't worry about the vaults yet," she promised. "We'll get the keys and the details sorted out soon enough. For now, let's focus on the fun part. You need proper robes! Miss Malkin's workmanship is excellent, and you can't face the world in those Muggle hand-me-downs."
Harry, holding the heavy bag of gold like it was fragile glass, allowed himself to be led forward, his head spinning but his heart full.
Sebastian watched the two figures—the elegant woman and the small, suddenly hopeful boy—walk into the throng of the Alley. He adjusted his cuff and gave a slight, self-deprecating shake of his head.
"Wait for me, you two," Sebastian called out, a wry smile touching his lips. "I haven't even had time to purchase my 'Emergency De-Greasing Balm' yet after that horrible Floo trip…"