The Dursleys' absence had turned Privet Drive into a silent, hollow shell, and Harry relished the freedom. He'd spent the last week immersed in his studies, practicing his magic, and exploring the possibilities his newfound independence offered. With the Dursleys' imminent return, he resolved to unravel the mystery that had drawn the snakes to this house. Flick had always insisted the area pulsed with ancient magic, yet Harry had found no evidence of it.
Determined, Harry began his search methodically, moving from room to room. The ground floor yielded nothing but perfectly ordinary furniture and Dudley's broken toys. The cupboards and closets were similarly mundane. It was only when he ventured upstairs, to the seldom-used attic, that he found something interesting.
The attic was a dusty, cobweb-strewn space, filled with the detritus of decades. Cardboard boxes, battered trunks, and old furniture were piled haphazardly. Harry sneezed as he stepped into the gloom, waving away a cloud of dust.
He began sorting through the boxes, hoping for some clue. Most contained items he had no use for—Christmas decorations, yellowed newspapers, and clothing long out of style. Then, tucked away in a corner, he found an old trunk with a faded floral pattern. Inside were things that clearly belonged to Petunia: a child's tea set, a stack of faded letters tied with a ribbon, and a photo album.
Harry's fingers hesitated over the album. He flipped it open, his heart racing. The first few pages contained images of a young Petunia—a smiling, carefree girl—with her parents. Then he turned to a picture that took his breath away. It was the same girl, but this time she stood beside another child, a girl with dark red hair and bright green eyes.
That must be my mum, Harry thought, his chest tightening. He turned the photo over. Written in neat handwriting were the words: Petunia and Lily, ages 8 and 6.
The album contained more photos of the two girls. At first, they appeared happy together, but as the pictures progressed, something changed. Many of the later photos of Lily had been scratched or defaced. In one, her smiling face was marred by a deep gouge. In another, someone had scrawled the word "FREAK" across her image in angry, jagged letters.
Harry's hands trembled as he flipped through the album, a storm of emotions roiling within him. Anger, sadness, and a deep longing to know the woman in those photos. What had she been like? And why had Petunia hated her so much?
At the bottom of the trunk, Harry found something even more intriguing: a diary. The faded cover bore Petunia's name in looping script. He hesitated for only a moment before opening it.
June 15th, 1971
Lily got another letter from that freak school today. Hogwarts. She's so excited. Of course she is. She's special. Mum and Dad couldn't stop talking about it, as if being a witch is something to be proud of. They don't care how it makes me feel. I wrote a letter to the old freak who runs the place, begging him to let me in. Why shouldn't I have magic too? But no, I'm just "normal." Plain, boring Petunia.
September 1st, 1971
They left today. Mum and Dad took her to the train station, and I had to stay behind. She looked so smug in her little cloak, waving her wand around. I hate her. I hate that she gets to be special while I'm stuck here.
December 25th, 1973
Lily's home for Christmas. She's full of stories about her magical school, her magical friends, her magical everything. Mum and Dad hang on her every word, as if she's a queen. I can't stand it. Why can't they see what a freak she is?
July 30th, 1977
She's getting married. To another freak, of course. They're perfect for each other. Mum and Dad are thrilled. I don't care. Let her have her freak life…
The entries grew darker and more bitter as Harry read. By the end, Petunia's resentment toward her sister was palpable, and her disdain for anything magical was unrelenting. Harry's hands tightened around the diary as he read the final entry.
November 1st, 1981
She's gone. The freaks came to tell us this morning. Dead. Both of them. And now they've left us with her child. He's just like her, with those eyes. I won't let him infect our lives. I won't let him turn Dudley into a freak too.
Harry slammed the diary shut, his heart pounding. The words cut deeper than any insult the Dursleys had ever hurled at him. He could barely see through the hot tears that welled up in his eyes.
She knew about magic this whole time. She hated my mum… hated me before I even had a chance.
Flick's soothing hiss broke through his turmoil. "Hatchling? You are upset."
Harry wiped his eyes hastily and looked at the small snake coiled on the attic floor. "I'm fine," he muttered. But he wasn't fine. A deep, gnawing anger simmered within him.
What do I do now? he wondered, staring at the diary and the defaced photos. For years, he had believed the Dursleys' cruelty stemmed from ignorance, but now he knew the truth. They hated him because of who he was—because of who his mother had been.
Becausehis parents were magic…
Harry carefully packed the photos back into the trunk. He carried the diary and one photo of Lily with him, slipping it into his pocket. He wanted to remember her as she had been: bright-eyed and smiling, unbroken by Petunia's spite.
As he climbed down from the attic, Harry resolved to continue his studies. If the Dursleys saw magic as a curse, he would prove them wrong. Magic was his heritage, his birthright, and he would embrace it.
Not for them, but himself.
~
Harry stood at the foot of the attic stairs, his emotions in a whirl. Clutching the diary and photograph he had taken from the attic, careful not to let his thoughts overwhelm him. He placed the items in his cupboard, under the loose floorboard where he hid his treasures. Then, determined to push thoughts of Petunia's bitterness aside, Harry resolved to focus on what mattered most—his burgeoning magic.
He settled at the kitchen table with a stack of his books. Flick coiled beside him, hissing softly in encouragement. The idea of using the notice-me-not charm to conceal his cupboard fully occupied his thoughts. If he could shield the cupboard—or even himself—more effectively, perhaps he could keep the Dursleys entirely oblivious to his growing power.
Harry flipped through Basic Charms for Everyday Use, his finger tracing over the section on concealment charms. The notice-me-not charm was straightforward enough, but its effects dissipated after only a few hours when not anchored.
That's not good enough. I need something that lasts, Harry thought, frustration prickling at him.
Then, as he skimmed Runes and Their Meanings, an idea began to take shape. Runes were mentioned several times in connection with wards—a way to weave magic into a physical space or object, allowing it to last indefinitely with proper maintenance. Harry's eyes lit up as he read.
"Runic wards are among the oldest and most enduring magical protections. When inscribed correctly and empowered by intent, they form a magical barrier that can conceal, protect, or even repel."
"Flick, this might be it," Harry said excitedly. Flick raised his head inquisitively, his forked tongue flicking out.
"Yesss, little wizard. Magic that holdsss. What will you do with it?"
"Hide the cupboard, or maybe even make sure no one notices me using magic. But… I need to understand more about these wards first."
Harry's search led him to Enchanted Objects and Their Properties, which included a small section on enchanting spaces. The process was intricate, requiring not only the correct runes but also precise intent and sufficient magical power.
Harry frowned. The book mentioned that the magic could be more taxing for large-scale enchantments. He thought back to the fire and water spells he had practiced; they had taken less energy as he became more accustomed to them. Perhaps with enough preparation, he could manage this too.
However, the information in his books was too basic to guide him fully. Harry needed more advanced knowledge—and he knew where to find it.
The next morning, Harry donned his disguise: a hat pulled low over his forehead and his new robes to help him blend in. With Flick concealed in his pocket, he caught the bus to London and made his way to the Leaky Cauldron. He stepped inside and greeted Tom the barman with a polite nod.
"Morning, young man! Back for more books?" Tom asked with a grin.
"Yes, sir," Harry replied, trying to sound confident.
He hurried through the brick archway into Diagon Alley, his heart pounding with anticipation.
Greystone Lane was quieter than Diagon, with fewer people milling about. Small shops with hand-painted signs lined the street, their windows filled with curiosities. Harry's eyes caught on one in particular: "Second-hand Sorcery."
Inside, the bookshop was cozy and crammed with shelves that reached the ceiling. Dust motes danced in the sunlight streaming through the windows. A bell jingled as Harry entered, and an elderly witch behind the counter looked up from her knitting.
"Morning, dear. Can I help you find something?" she asked, her voice warm.
"Yes, ma'am," Harry said. "I'm looking for books about runes or wards. And… do you have anything on ancient magic?"
The witch's eyes twinkled. "Ambitious, aren't you? Let's see what we can find." She guided him to a section near the back of the shop.
Harry scanned the titles eagerly.
Foundations of Runic Magic, Warding: A Beginner's Guide, Ancient Magics and Their Modern Applications and Magics of the Old World: Rituals and Traditions.
"If you're interested in ancient magic, you might like this," the witch said, handing him a slim, leather-bound volume titled The Legacy of the Lost Arts. "It's more theoretical, but it's a fascinating read."
"Thank you," Harry said, holding the book reverently. He made his way to the counter and paid for the books, his money pouch noticeably lighter. The witch gave him a smile and a parting piece of advice.
"Runes and wards take patience, dear. Don't rush it, and always remember—intent is key."
Harry nodded seriously. "I'll remember. Thank you again."
Outside again, Harry's eyes landed on one labelled Arcanum Antiqua. Inside, the shelves held ancient tomes and strange artifacts.
A severe-looking wizard behind the counter raised an eyebrow at Harry's entrance. "Looking for something specific?"
"Books on runes or warding," Harry said, trying to sound confident.
The wizard scrutinized him for a moment before nodding and gesturing toward a shelf. Harry found several promising titles, including Rune Crafting for Practical Use and The Essence of Enchantment. His excitement grew as he read the blurbs, which promised in-depth explanations and practical exercises.
By the time Harry left the shop, his bag was heavy with knowledge.
Returning to the Dursleys' empty house, Harry spread his new books on the kitchen table. His excitement dimmed slightly as he realized how much work lay ahead. Still, as Flick slithered onto the table and coiled near him, Harry felt a surge of determination.
"We've got a lot to learn, Flick," he said. The snake hissed approvingly.
Opening Foundations of Runic Magic, Harry began reading. The text explained that runes acted as conduits for magic, channelling intent into physical form. To create a ward, one had to inscribe the correct runes in precise configurations and empower them with magical energy. The process was both an art and a science, requiring patience and focus.
Harry practiced drawing the basic runes on parchment, his movements careful but clumsy at first. Each rune had a distinct shape and purpose, and Harry found himself fascinated by their intricacy.
This is like learning a whole new language, he thought.
As the evening wore on, Harry experimented with imbuing the runes with magic. Following the instructions, he focused on a single rune for concealment, channelling his intent through his fingers. To his amazement, the parchment glowed faintly, the rune shimmering with power.
Flick watched with interest. "You ssseem more confident in your magic now, hatchling," he observed.
"I guess I am," Harry admitted. "It's a part of me. I don't want to hide from it anymore."
~
Harry sat in his small room—well, cupboard, surrounded by an assortment of open books and parchment scraps. The air was heavy with concentration as he traced runes into the dusty floorboards with his finger, practicing their shapes over and over before committing to the real work. His mind buzzed with possibilities as he pieced together the intricate concepts, he had gleaned from the books in Diagon Alley.
The runes he had chosen, associated with concealment and protection, seemed ideal. According to the texts, they were ancient and powerful, capable of long-lasting effects when properly inscribed and activated. Harry's focus was on combining these runes with the magic he already understood—a notice-me-not charm—to create something more permanent and enduring.
The first day was spent experimenting. Harry meticulously drew the symbols on spare bits of parchment, whispering the spell's incantation and channelling his magic into the forms. At first, nothing happened. But then, on his third attempt, he felt a faint pulse of warmth in the air. It was subtle, like a brush of wind against his skin.
It's working, he thought, excitement fluttering in his chest. Sort of.
By the second day, Harry had started practicing combining the runes into sequences. A key discovery came when he read about the potential to anchor magic to something—or someone. Linking the spell to his blood would, according to the theory, allow the runes to recognize him as the creator and function exclusively for him.
He bit his lip nervously as he reread the passages. The idea of using blood in magic felt both fascinating and daunting. Still, he couldn't ignore the possibilities.
On the third day, Harry began preparing his cupboard door for the rune work. He cleaned the surface as best he could, wiping away years of grime and cobwebs with a damp rag. Using a small pocketknife he had found in Dudley's spare room, he carefully started etching the runes into the wood. Each stroke of the blade required intense focus—one wrong mark and the rune's effectiveness could fail, or worse, backfire.
The sequence began with Ansuz (ᚨ), a rune associated with communication and connection, followed by Algiz (ᛉ) for protection and Perthro (ᛈ) to hide the unknown. Harry arranged them in a triangular formation, as suggested by the diagrams in his books. Once the symbols were carved, he sat back and studied his work, pride blooming in his chest.
It looks right, he thought, though a flicker of doubt lingered. Now for the tricky part…
On the fourth day, Harry stood in front of his cupboard door, clutching the pocketknife with trembling hands. He had pricked his finger before, but using blood to activate magic felt… different. Sacred, almost.
"Alright," he whispered to himself, taking a steadying breath. "Just a little."
He made a shallow cut on his finger, wincing as the blade nicked his skin. His thoughts kept circling with intent for what he wanted the runes to do. A small bead of blood welled up, and he pressed it against the centre of the runic triangle. As soon as his blood touched the wood, the runes began to glow faintly—a soft, silvery light that seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat.
A wave of warmth radiated through the cupboard, sending a shiver down Harry's spine. He stepped back, watching as the glow faded, leaving the runes etched in the door with a faint shimmer.
"Did it work?" he muttered, running his fingers over the carvings. There was no immediate answer, but something about the cupboard felt… different. Safer.
Over the next few days, Harry tested the runes as best he could. He practiced walking in and out of the cupboard, activating the notice-me-not charm while inside and observing its effects. While the charm itself seemed to work—he felt an odd sort of invisibility when sitting inside—he couldn't be entirely sure of its success until the Dursleys returned.
What if it didn't work? he wondered late at night, staring at the glowing lines. What if they see it and figure out what I've done?
Still, as the days passed, Harry's confidence grew. The cupboard felt like his sanctuary in a way it never had before. The magic thrummed gently in the background, almost as if it were alive.
"It's just you and me now," he murmured to the runes one evening, tracing their lines with his finger. "Let's hope you're as good as the books said."
~
When the day of the Dursleys' return finally arrived, Harry's nerves were on edge. He had cleaned the house meticulously, made sure the fridge was emptied of everything new he bought, and even tended to Mrs. Figg's cats one last time.
As Vernon's car pulled into the driveway, Harry ducked into his cupboard, pressing his back against the wall. He closed his eyes, focusing on the runes and the faint hum of magic around him.
"Please work," he whispered.
The front door slammed open, followed by the familiar cacophony of Dursley voices. Harry's heart pounded as he listened to their heavy footsteps and grumbling complaints. He could hear Petunia's shrill voice listing all the things she'd have to "fix" after leaving the "freak" alone, but… no one came near the cupboard.
It was working.
Harry exhaled a shaky breath, relief flooding him. The runes had done their job. For now, at least, he was invisible to the Dursley's.
~
The Dursleys had returned late in the evening, their arrival announced by the thunderous rolling of suitcases and Dudley's whining about missing the luxuries of America. Harry had stayed hidden in his cupboard, the runes he had etched into its wooden frame humming faintly.
He hadn't dared venture out while Vernon barked orders at Petunia to make tea and snapped at Dudley to stop complaining. But now, hours later, the house was silent. He assumed everyone had gone upstairs, exhaustion from their travels finally catching up to them.
Harry quietly pushed open the cupboard door, the faint shimmer of his rune work glinting in the dim light of the hallway. He stepped out, his bare feet making no sound on the floor as he made his way toward the back door. He just needed a moment to breathe in the fresh air and gather his thoughts before retreating again.
He had barely taken two steps when a meaty hand yanked him backward by the collar of his shirt.
"You little freak," Vernon growled, his face twisted in rage. The faint stench of whiskey on his breath made Harry's stomach churn. "Think you can sneak around my house while I'm asleep?"
Harry's heart sank. He'd underestimated Vernon's temper, and now he was paying the price.
"I wasn't—" he began, but the words caught in his throat as Vernon's hand tightened around his collar.
"Don't lie to me, boy!" Vernon bellowed, slamming Harry against the wall. "Nearly a month without having to look at your miserable face, and now I come back to find you skulking around like a rat!"
Harry gasped, struggling to stay calm. He had endured Vernon's temper for years, but there was something different now—something darker. It was as if being away from Privet Drive had unleashed all the pent-up frustration Vernon had held back, and now Harry was the target of that unrestrained fury.
Vernon's fists were clenched, and Harry braced himself as the first blow landed on his shoulder, sending a jolt of pain through his body. Another followed, this one striking his side. Harry doubled over, clutching his ribs and giving a short cry as Vernon's shouting grew louder.
"You're nothing but a curse!" Vernon spat. "A burden! And don't think I don't know you've been meddling while we were gone. Petunia swore she heard you doing something and then she just forgot. What have you done, boy!"
Harry's vision blurred, but it wasn't just from the pain. Something inside him stirred—a deep, raw force that he could no longer suppress. The air around them grew charged, and Vernon hesitated for a moment, sensing the shift.
"Enough," Harry whispered, his voice trembling but resolute.
The next moment, Vernon was lifted off the ground, his feet kicking helplessly as he hovered several feet in the air. Harry's outstretched hand shook with effort as he glared at his uncle.
"I said, enough!"
With a flick of Harry's wrist, Vernon was flung backward, slamming into the wall with a thud. He slid to the floor, groaning in pain but otherwise unharmed. Harry's chest heaved as he tried to steady his breathing, the adrenaline coursing through him making his limbs tremble.
The silence that followed was deafening. Vernon stared at Harry, his face pale with shock and fear. For the first time in his life, Harry saw his uncle rendered speechless.
Harry retreated to his cupboard, his mind racing. His hands shook as he touched the etched runes on the inside of the door. He had never deliberately used his magic to harm someone before.
But he deserved it, a voice in his head argued. He's always hurt you, and this time you fought back.
The next day, Vernon avoided Harry completely. Petunia seemed to sense that something had shifted, though she didn't dare ask having missed the commotion last night. Dudley, oblivious as ever, continued his usual routine of overeating and whining about his broken game console.
Harry spent most of the day in his cupboard, reflecting on what had happened. He knew he couldn't stay in this house forever, the pain of his bruises could attest to that. The Dursleys' fear of him would only last so long, and when it wore off, their cruelty would return with a vengeance.
As the days passed, Harry focused on strengthening his control over his magic. He practiced calming techniques to ensure that he could summon his magic without the need for anger or fear. Flick, his ever-loyal companion, watched with a mixture of curiosity and worry as Harry honed his abilities.
"You are strong, hatchling," Flick hissed one evening as Harry was levitating and controlling three books at once in a complex pattern. "Your magic is like the river—wild but full of potential. The next time that ssquealing pig triesss to harm you it will be his lassst."
Harry smiled faintly. "I just need to make sure it doesn't overflow and drown everything." That didn't mean he wouldn't protect himself anymore.
By the end of the week, Harry had devised a plan. He would write to Tom at the Leaky Cauldron and ask if there were any discreet ways to earn some money in the magical world. He didn't want to risk stealing again. He needed to build a life for himself, and that meant finding a way to sustain himself independently.
In the meantime, he began drafting a set of runes to protect himself, etching them onto a small piece of wood he had found in the attic.
And one day, he thought, clutching the rune-etched wood tightly, I'll leave this place for good.
With that thought in mind, Harry drifted off to sleep, the faint glow of the runes casting soft shadows on the walls of his cupboard.
~
Harry sat cross-legged on his small cot, the magical history book balanced on his lap. The runes he had carved into the cupboard door had created a barrier that left him feeling safer than he ever had in the Dursleys' house. But safety wasn't enough. He needed answers, and he needed a plan.
For days, he had been toying with the idea of reaching out to Tom at the Leaky Cauldron. If anyone could point him toward opportunities in the wizarding world, it was the innkeeper. He didn't want to work at the pub itself—the thought of being in such a busy, central place made his skin crawl—but perhaps there was something quieter in the other alleys he had explored.
With a steadying breath, Harry grabbed a scrap of parchment from his collection of alley finds and a borrowed pen from the Dursleys' kitchen. He hesitated, the pen hovering over the paper. What do I even say?
After a moment of thought, he began to write:
Dear Mr. Tom,
I hope this letter finds you well. My name is Evan, and I've visited the Leaky Cauldron a few times recently. I was wondering if you might know of any summer or weekend work available in the Alleys, perhaps in one of the quieter areas like Silvermire or Greystone Lane. I'm eager to learn more about the wizarding world and would be grateful for any guidance.
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Evan Birch
Harry folded the note neatly and placed it on the cupboard floor, staring at it intently. How do I even send this? He knew owls were used for magical correspondence, but he didn't have one. The thought of sneaking into the Alleys just to borrow a post owl felt risky.
He snuck outside the house and concentrated on the letter, his magic thrumming faintly beneath his skin. I need this to reach Tom, he thought with all his might, willing the universe to respond.
He waited over 10 minutes with no success, before turning to head back inside.
To his amazement, a soft hoot broke the silence of the night. Startled, Harry looked up the tree to see a small tawny owl perched on the edge of a branch. Its amber eyes regarded him with curiosity as it extended a leg.
"Wow," Harry murmured, quickly tying the letter to the owl's outstretched limb. "Take this to Tom at the Leaky Cauldron, please."
The owl hooted again and took off, disappearing through the dark of the night. Harry stared after it, his heart pounding. Did I just summon an owl with magic?
The next two days passed in a haze of anticipation and study. While waiting for Tom's response, Harry returned to his magical history book, determined to finish it.
The chapter on Grindelwald's rise and fall had been fascinating, detailing the infamous dark wizard's ambition to dominate both magical and non-magical worlds. Harry found himself drawn to the section about Grindelwald's defeat at the hands of Albus Dumbledore, the current headmaster of Hogwarts, along with far too many other titles. The book painted Dumbledore as a heroic figure, untouchable.
Why does Dumbledore's name keep coming up? Harry wondered. He had seen it in other books, heard it mentioned in passing during his visits to the Alleys. There was clearly more to the man than met the eye. Especially if Mrs. Figg is in cahoots with him.
But it was the next chapter that truly captured Harry's attention.
The Dark Lord Voldemort
Harry's breath hitched as he read the name. Even on the page, it was ominous.
"Lord Voldemort," he whispered.
The book recounted Voldemort's rise to power, his obsession with purity of bloodlines, and his campaign of terror. Wizards and witches who opposed him were killed or forced into hiding. Magical creatures were subjugated, and entire families disappeared overnight.
Harry's eyes scanned the page, his heart sinking as he read about Voldemort's downfall. The book spoke of a child born to parents who had defied the Dark Lord, and how that child had survived the Killing Curse.
"The Boy Who Lived," he read aloud, his voice trembling. "Defeated You-Know-Who and received nothing but a scar on his forehead…Chief Warlock claims Harry Potter is supposedly hidden away with a wizarding family. Description of Harry Potter can be found on page 67." Turning quickly to the page he finds a scarily accurate description of him, down to his round glasses.
His mind raced, piecing together fragments of conversations and events. Mrs. Figg's cryptic remarks, the watchful eyes of strangers. Someone had to have told the author what he looked like, this book was published two years ago! Is this why Mrs. Figg was watching him?
His fingers trembling as they traced the words on the page.
But why? Why would no one tell him? Why had he been left with the Dursleys if he was this important? Anger and confusion churned within him, but he forced himself to set the book aside. I need more answers. Someone doesn't want me to know about my magic—or my past.
That evening, the tawny owl returned, a small note tied to its leg. Harry opened it eagerly, scanning the unfamiliar handwriting:
Dear Evan,
Thank you for your letter. Unfortunately, there aren't many opportunities for someone your age in the Alleys, especially during the summer. However, if you're ever in need of assistance or advice, don't hesitate to ask.
Best of luck,
Tom
Harry sighed, folding the letter carefully. He appreciated Tom's kindness, but the response left him feeling more restless than ever. If there were no opportunities in Diagon, Silvermire, or Greystone, then perhaps it was time to consider the one alley he had deliberately avoided: Knockturn.
Knockturn Alley was a place shrouded in mystery and danger. Even the books Harry had read barely mentioned it, describing it as a haven for dark artifacts and questionable characters. But Harry was determined. If there were answers to be found, they wouldn't be in the sanitised safety of Diagon or the quaint charm of Silvermire.
The next morning, Harry began making preparations. He pulled out the robes he had bought from Madam Malkin's, deciding they would make him look less out of place. Probably best to add the cloak with its hood as well if my scar is so noticeable, he thought. He really had been lucky that his hair was long enough to cover past his forehead, he's avoided being recognised so far.
He also reviewed basic defensive spells from Practical Defensive Magic for Beginners, practicing the shield charm until he could cast them without hesitation. He was confident he could use his levitation and fire abilities if needed.
"I can do this," he told himself, staring at his reflection in the small mirror he had salvaged from the attic. "I have to. If I ever want to leave this place."
Harry stood in front of the cracked mirror in his cupboard, his green eyes staring back at him behind his round glasses. He reached up and touched the frames, frowning. His glasses had been a shield of sorts, hiding him in plain sight among muggles, but here in the wizarding world, they were a liability. He couldn't risk being recognised—especially not in Knockturn Alley, where anonymity was a precious commodity.
"I need to do something about these," he muttered to himself. His reflection didn't offer any suggestions, but Harry had an idea brewing. If magic can do so many things, surely it can fix my eyesight.
He grabbed his enchanted satchel, feeling the comforting weight of his books and essentials inside. With the Veil of Shadows spell ready to activate at a moment's notice, Harry slipped out of the house and began his journey to the Leaky Cauldron.
The bustling atmosphere of Diagon Alley greeted him as he passed through the magical brick gateway. Harry kept his head down, his mind set on a particular shop he'd noticed on one of his earlier visits: Occulus: Magical Optics and More.
The shop was nestled between an apothecary and a wand-polishing kiosk, its window filled with displays of enchanted eyewear. Harry hesitated for a moment before stepping inside. The sound of a delicate chime announced his arrival.
The interior of the shop was sleek and modern, with shelves lined with glasses in various shapes and colours. Some sparkled faintly with magic, while others seemed to shift their appearance when viewed from different angles. A glowing sign on the wall listed the shop's services:
Occulus: Magical Optics and More
Custom-Fitted Glasses
Enchanted Lenses (Night Vision, Magical Detection, etc.)
Corrective Potion Regimes
Vision Enhancement Charms
A cheerful witch with short, curly hair and vibrant purple robes approached him. "Welcome to Occulus! What can we do for you today?"
"I… uh… I'm looking to fix my eyesight," Harry said, adjusting his glasses nervously.
The witch nodded. "We've got plenty of options for that! Let's start by getting your vision assessed."
She led Harry to a comfortable chair in the back of the shop. With a wave of her wand, a series of glowing charts appeared in the air, and she began testing his eyesight. After a few minutes, she smiled.
"Your vision can definitely be corrected with a potion regime," she said. "It's a seven-day course—one potion a night before bed. But if you want something immediate, I'd recommend getting a new pair of enchanted glasses to tide you over."
Harry considered her suggestion and nodded. "I'll do both."
The witch beamed and guided him to a shelf of custom-fit glasses. "These are our standard frames, and over here," she gestured to another display, "are enchanted frames. They can come with all sorts of features, like automatic adjustment for light levels or even minor protective charms."
Harry picked up a sleek, black-rimmed pair that looked much sturdier than his current glasses. "How much for these?"
"Three Galleons," she replied. "And the potion regime is ten Galleons."
Harry feeling a bit sick, handed over the money and slipped the new glasses onto his face. The world immediately came into sharper focus, the colours brighter and the details clearer.
"Wow," he whispered, blinking in amazement.
"Good choice," the witch said with a smile. "Remember, take the potion for seven nights straight, and your eyesight should be fully corrected by the end of it."
With his new glasses securely in place and the potion regime tucked into his satchel, Harry left the shop and headed toward the shadowy entrance of Knockturn Alley. He paused just outside the archway, the air seeming to grow colder as he gazed into the darkened street.
This is it, he thought, steeling himself. He murmured the Veil of Shadows spell under his breath, feeling the familiar shroud settle over him. The charm wasn't perfect, but it would make him less noticeable as he ventured into this forbidden territory.
Knockturn Alley was a stark contrast to the bustling, friendly atmosphere of Diagon Alley. The cobblestone streets were uneven, the buildings looming close together and casting deep shadows. The shops here had sinister names and displays: shrunken heads, cursed amulets, and dark spell books filled the windows.
Harry kept to the edges, his eyes darting around as he moved carefully through the crowd. There were wizards in tattered robes, goblins with sharp teeth and sharper eyes, and even a hag hunched over a bubbling cauldron set up outside a shop. He caught sight of a cage filled with strange, glowing insects and another with a snake that hissed softly as he passed.
Stay calm. Blend in.
Harry's goal was clear: find work. As he passed various shops, he peeked inside, scanning for any signs of help-wanted notices or anyone who might be willing to take on an unusual apprentice.
In one shop, he saw a grizzled old goblin meticulously polishing silver artifacts. Harry hesitated, then stepped inside.
"Excuse me," he said quietly. "Are you hiring?"
The goblin looked up, its sharp eyes narrowing. "What do you know of curse-breaking, boy?"
"Nothing yet," Harry admitted. "But I'm a fast learner."
The goblin let out a raspy chuckle. "Come back when you've got a few years and a lot more courage."
Harry left, slightly deflated but undeterred. He continued his search, stopping at a potion shop where the air was thick with the smell of sulfur. The wizard behind the counter simply shook his head and muttered something about "too young."
Just as Harry was starting to lose hope, he noticed a small, unassuming shop tucked away at the end of a narrow side street. The sign above the door read:
Oddments and Obscurities
"Rare Finds for Curious Minds"
Intrigued, Harry stepped inside. The shop was cluttered but inviting, filled with shelves of books, magical trinkets, and curious artifacts. An older witch with a kind face looked up from the counter.
"Welcome," she said warmly. "Looking for anything in particular?"
Harry hesitated. "I was wondering if you had any work available. I can help organise things or… clean?"
The witch raised an eyebrow, studying him for a moment. "You're an unusual one, aren't you? Most kids your age aren't looking for jobs in Knockturn Alley."
Harry shrugged. "I just want to learn."
The witch smiled faintly. "Well, I don't hire often, but if you're willing to come by a few times a week to tidy up and help with inventory, I might be able to pay you in books or small coin. Deal?"
Harry's heart leapt. "Deal!"
"Come back tomorrow and we can trial run it. Mr Pritchard, my husband, will oversee you," she said brightly.
As Harry left the shop, he let a smile take over his face. He had taken another step toward independence, another step closer to unravelling the mysteries of his world and his place in it.
Knockturn Alley isn't so bad, he thought as he retraced his steps back to the main alleyway. If you know where to look.
~
That night, Harry took the first potion for his eyes, feeling them tingle as he lay down. His thoughts turned to the chapter in the history book. The chapter on Voldemort had been brutal in its details, sparing no expense in recounting the destruction the Dark Lord had wrought. But it was the passage about his parents that had struck Harry hardest:
"Lily and James Potter were among the most celebrated heroes of the First Wizarding War. They sacrificed their lives to protect their infant son, Harry Potter, who miraculously survived the Killing Curse cast by Voldemort himself."
He had read those lines over and over, trying to make sense of them. They sacrificed their lives for me. He pressed his palms against his eyes, the memory of the words still stinging like salt on an open wound.
The truth felt enormous, like standing on the edge of an abyss. His parents had loved him enough to die for him. But what did that mean for him now, when they were gone, and he was here, trapped in a cupboard, learning to survive alone?
He felt guilty—guilty because he should feel more, shouldn't he? Shouldn't the thought of them fill him with something greater than this hollow ache? He felt sad thinking about them, but they were more like a dream than a reality.
They're just an idea to me, Harry admitted silently. I'll never really know them, their love, or what they were like. They're... they're just names in a book.
The thought twisted painfully in his chest. He clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to feel something real, something more than this detached sorrow. But how could he, when his only connection to them was the legacy of a lightning-shaped scar and a few facts written by people who had known them better than he ever would?
The cupboard felt smaller than usual, the walls pressing in on him as the weight of his thoughts bore down. His breathing grew ragged as his vision blurred, not from the potion but from the tears he had been holding back. They spilled over silently, one after another, until he couldn't stop them.
"I'm sorry," he whispered, though he didn't know who he was apologising to—his parents, himself, or the universe that had taken them from him. "I'm sorry I don't feel more. I'm sorry I can't remember you."
He hugged his knees to his chest, his sobs muffled by the darkness.