Sebastian Swann sat perched on a delicately carved wooden stool outside Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, savoring a large scoop of salted caramel and blood orange sorbet. The late June sun cast long shadows across Diagon Alley, but the crowds were still thick—a dazzling, overwhelming mix of first-years getting supplies and wealthy families strolling in their bespoke robes.
Sebastian was, by his own estimation, exhausted. He had been on his feet since dawn, acting as a human credit card and tactical support for Harry and Mia. He was used to intense logistical challenges, but this was different.
This is far more draining than a high-stakes duel, he thought, taking a measured bite of his ice cream. At least fighting a fully trained Gryffindor only requires magic and adrenaline. Shopping with Mia requires infinite patience and carrying capacity.
In the magical world, the seamless expansion charm on the enchanted satchel made carrying endless parcels trivial. But Sebastian knew their afternoon agenda included a trip to Muggle London's business district—a necessary excursion to secure Harry a wardrobe that didn't scream 'pure-blood eccentric' and to acquire electronics and practical goods. The reality of carrying non-magically charmed shopping bags was a looming, physical horror.
He longed for a quick, private Leg-Locker Charm to ease the strain, but he had to maintain the image of the relaxed, impossibly elegant corporate benefactor. He forced his features into a mask of casual ease, even as his ankles throbbed.
"Sebastian. What an unexpected, yet completely appropriate, place to find you indulging in such… plebeian delights."
The slow, steady voice was silk wrapped around ice. Sebastian's momentary reprieve vanished. He sighed internally. His relaxation time was officially over.
He raised his head. Standing over him, casting a long, aristocratic shadow, was Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius was a masterwork of pure-blood artistry. His famed silver-white hair cascaded in meticulous waves, and his face was a pale, sculpted mask of cold nobility. His robes were heavy black silk, tailored to perfection, fastened with intricate silver clasps that announced his wealth and lineage with quiet arrogance. His eyes, however, were what Sebastian noted—cold, grey, and perpetually assessing, reflecting the ruthless ambition that allowed him to control vast swathes of the Ministry of Magic even after his master's downfall.
Sebastian had often admired Lucius's sheer political skill; his ability to transition from a trusted Death Eater to the de facto leader of the post-Voldemort pure-blood lobby without spending a single day in Azkaban was a triumph of manipulation. The Malfoy and Swann families maintained a necessary, though guarded, professional alliance: Lucius needed the Swann money and political stability, and Sebastian appreciated having a well-placed, high-ranking scapegoat and political barometer within the Ministry's inner circle.
"Lucius," Sebastian greeted, rising gracefully. "A pleasure, as always. Please, take a seat. My treat. I insist you try the black currant and squid ink—a surprisingly subtle blend of the morbid and the sweet."
Lucius wrinkled his nose, a flicker of genuine disdain crossing his features, but he accepted the offer and sat down, draping his robes impeccably. "Hardly. I came in for Draco. He insisted on coming to the Alley to get his first wand, though I told him the first-year list never changes."
Lucius smiled, a rare, indulgent expression. "Narcissa has him at Ollivander's now. When Draco eventually joins Slytherin—which, naturally, he will—we will require the continued guidance of both you and Severus, as his mentors."
"We look forward to it, Senior," Sebastian replied. "A new generation, Lucius. But where is Narcissa? I assumed she'd be managing the logistics of the required books and cauldron purchases."
"She joined him at the wand shop. I saw you sitting here, a lonely figure of corporate despair, and came over to offer my condolences," Lucius noted dryly. "But wait, Ollivander's. If Draco is in there now, then… that must be the little black-haired boy I saw him talking to on the way."
Sebastian's smile widened, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Indeed. That would be Harry Potter. A coincidence, isn't it? They must be in there together now."
This is going to be magnificent, Sebastian thought. The inevitable, clumsy collision of two diametrically opposed fates.
Meanwhile, inside the close, dusty confines of Ollivander's Wand Shop, the clash of destinies was already underway.
"Hello, my name is Draco Malfoy," the blond boy announced, his voice carrying the superior, nasal drawl of a lifetime of pampered privilege. He stood taller than Harry, his clothes expensive, though slightly too formal for an afternoon of shopping.
Draco had immediately singled out the thin, messy-haired boy in the ridiculously large, hand-me-down Muggle clothes. Clearly a new student, he assessed. And clearly of a lower class. The perfect prospect for a first follower.
"I'm Harry Potter," Harry replied, extending his right hand in the friendly manner Mia had practiced with him.
Draco blinked, his pale eyes widening instantly. He ignored the outstretched hand, his gaze rocketing past Harry's forehead.
"Harry Potter?" Draco exclaimed, his voice rising in disbelief. "The Harry Potter? The one with the… the mark?"
Draco leaned in, confirming the existence of the lightning-bolt scar. The discovery caused a dramatic, immediate re-evaluation of his social strategy. This was no mere commoner; this was the Savior! The most famous boy in the world! Gaining his friendship was not about influence; it was about global prestige.
"Hello, Harry! We must be friends!" Draco insisted, suddenly extending his own hand with forced enthusiasm, completely abandoning his earlier aloofness. "Are you here to buy a wand? Don't worry about the cost; I can easily buy you one! My family is more than capable!"
Harry, who was still trying to process the shift in attitude, politely recoiled. "That's kind of you, but no thanks. I have my own money. My pocket money is enough to buy what I need."
Draco chuckled, a high, condescending sound. "Pocket money? A few shillings, I presume? You must hold onto it. Young Master Malfoy will cover the purchase. Today, you shall witness the vast, indestructible wealth of the Malfoys!"
A low, gentle peal of laughter drifted over from the corner where Narcissa Malfoy was speaking quietly with Mia Swann. Narcissa gave Mia a strained, tight smile. Mia was failing spectacularly at stifling her own amusement.
Harry, still oblivious to the social warfare, felt compelled to defend his financial independence—an independence he'd never had before.
"Well," Harry announced, trying to sound authoritative. "Auntie Mia gave me a thousand Galleons for pocket money. I've already bought a new school trunk and several books, and I still have most of it left."
The effect of this statement was immediate and catastrophic.
Draco's face, which had been set in a sneer of generous patronage, went from pale to a shocking, splotchy scarlet. His mouth opened and closed silently, like a fish that had just been slapped with a cold, solid gold coin.
One thousand Galleons. For pocket money.
Draco, whose own father had given him fifty Galleons for his entire school supplies fund—a sum considered ridiculously extravagant—was utterly humiliated. The Swann woman had just weaponized currency against him. He couldn't possibly reply, because anything he said would be a lie or an admission of defeat. He couldn't even counter with, "But that's nothing! My allowance is two thousand!" because he knew his father would never permit such waste.
"Malfoy," Harry asked innocently, delighted by the awkward silence. "You still haven't told me the exact amount of your pocket money. Tell me now, I'm genuinely curious!"
Draco shot Harry a look of pure, concentrated fury—a look that screamed, You insolent, large-eyed, black-haired menace! This is intentional!
He grabbed the nearest, most expensive-looking wand box and shoved it into his mother's arms. "Mother! I'm suddenly terribly hungry. We need to acquire sustenance immediately. We will return for the wand later. This atmosphere is utterly stifling!"
Draco stalked out of the shop, dragging his bewildered mother, refusing to look back at the peasant who was apparently carrying the annual income of a small European country in his pocket.
Harry watched him go, completely perplexed by the sudden outburst. He shrugged at Mia, who was now leaning against a shelf, silently shaking with laughter. He returned to trying out wands, completely unaware that he had just won his first financial duel against the old guard of the wizarding aristocracy.
That evening, back in the quiet luxury of the hotel suite, Harry sat curled on the sofa, absently running his fingers over the sleek, polished handle of his newly acquired wand: Holly and Phoenix Feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.
The joy of the day—the Floo travel, the strange sights, the new clothes, the incredible sense of belonging—was beginning to fade, replaced by the heavy, unsettling questions he could no longer ignore.
He was a wizard. Wizards were real. Therefore, the Dursleys' story about his parents dying in a car crash was a cruel, easily disprovable lie.
Mia sat down next to him, her hand warm on his arm, sensing his turmoil. "What are you thinking, Harry? You've been silent since we got back from London. Sebastian and I can help, but you have to tell us what's bothering you."
Harry's green eyes, still shielded behind his glasses, were filled with a desperate, painful urgency. "Mia, how did my parents really die? Aunt Petunia told me they died in a car crash. But… wizards don't use cars. They use fire and Apparition. They were murdered, weren't they?"
Mia hesitated, her face clouding with sorrow. She looked at Sebastian, a mute plea for help in her eyes. She knew the truth had to be told, but she wished to shield him from the horror.
Sebastian, observing the exchange from his armchair, nodded slowly. He knew that soft words would only dilute the gravity of the situation and prolong Harry's inevitable confrontation with his destiny. The time for childhood innocence was officially over.
"Harry," Sebastian began, his voice dropping to a serious, low tone that commanded attention. "The truth is complicated, and it is brutally painful. It requires courage to hear. Are you absolutely ready to accept what happened?"
Harry's small body stiffened. He lifted his head, pushing his glasses up, and locked his determined gaze onto Sebastian. His voice, though strained, held a surprising firmness.
"I am ready," Harry said, his voice surprisingly mature. "I need to know everything. Please, Sebastian. Tell me the truth."
Sebastian leaned forward, his expression grave. "Very well. Your parents were not killed in a car crash. They were murdered by a man named Lord Voldemort."
Sebastian did not soften the story. He spoke clearly of Voldemort's rise to power, the terror he unleashed on the wizarding world, and the night of October 31st, 1981, when the Dark Lord sought out the Potters in their hiding place.
"Voldemort attacked your father, James, first. Your mother, Lily, was ordered to step aside, but she refused to abandon you. Instead, she stood in front of your crib, protecting you with her own body."
Sebastian paused, letting the weight of the sacrifice settle in the air.
"Lily used an ancient, profound form of magic—the magic of pure, selfless love. When Voldemort cast the Killing Curse at her, she accepted it willingly. That sacrificial act created an unprecedented, impossible shield around you. When Voldemort then aimed his wand at you, the curse backfired."
He gestured to the faint lightning scar. "The curse rebounded, ripping Voldemort's power apart, grievously injuring him, and forcing him into a state of hiding and near-death. The scar on your forehead is the result of that curse failing. You, Harry, as the only survivor and the instrument of his downfall, were hailed as the Savior of the Wizarding World."
Mia reached out, tears streaming silently down her face, pulling Harry into her shoulder. Harry sat rigid, struggling to process the flood of information—the sacrifice, the evil, the fame he never asked for. He finally broke, the sobs escaping him, not of fear, but of profound, aching loss and fierce pride for his mother.
Sebastian let the tears flow for a necessary, brief moment, then continued, his voice regaining its focused edge.
"You must understand this, Harry," Sebastian insisted, cutting through the weeping. "No matter what the world calls you, no matter how they celebrate your fame, your mother is the one who saved everything. She is the hero of that night. You were simply the beneficiary of her fierce love."
Sebastian's expression hardened, becoming a challenge. "But this monster is not gone. He will return, Harry. He will hunt you again. He will try to finish what he started, and the wizarding world will expect you to stand against him because of that scar."
He leaned in, his silver eyes cold and penetrating.
"The question is, Harry, when that day comes, will you simply hide behind your mother's shadow? Will you rely on luck and the courage of others? Will you be ready to face that ancient evil and avenge your parents—not just with the memory of your mother's protection, but with your own strength?"
Harry quickly wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. His gaze was no longer lost or fearful; it was sharp, blazing with a cold, terrifying determination born from the brutal truth.
"I want to avenge them," Harry whispered fiercely, the fire of resolve burning away the last of his tears. "I will do anything to kill him."
He looked up at Sebastian, his voice gaining strength, echoing the single-minded focus of his famous enemy.
"Mr. Swann, I have one request."
Harry held up his wand, his small hand gripping the holly wood tightly.
"Teach me magic! Teach me how to fight him!"
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