The next morning, Harry awoke with a familiar sense of routine. It was 5 a.m., an hour he had become accustomed to thanks to the Dursley' strict household rules. Even now, with his newfound freedom, the habit stuck. He stretched and smiled softly as he greeted his two snakes, Asha and Kavi, who were curled up at the foot of his bed. His owl hooted quietly from her perch, eyes bright and alert.
"Morning, Asha, Kavi, Hedwig," Harry whispered, reaching out to stroke Asha's sleek scales.
Asha slithered toward him eagerly, her tongue flickering out as if to say good morning, while Kavi lazily rested his head on Harry's hand, showing no interest in moving just yet. The room was still dim, and the house was quiet—everyone else still sound asleep.
Harry dressed quickly, enjoying the peaceful silence. He didn't need to cook breakfast for anyone today, no tedious chores, no complaints from Aunt Petunia or scolding from Uncle Vernon. Just himself, a quick breakfast, and the freedom to do as he pleased. It was a small but powerful victory. After grabbing a piece of toast, Harry opened Hedwig's cage.
"Go on, girl, stretch your wings," he said softly. She gave him a grateful hoot before soaring out the window, disappearing into the early morning sky.
Asha lifted her head, flicking her tongue as if sensing Harry was about to leave. She seemed eager to explore, but Kavi, his more reserved serpent, looked content to stay close.
"Come on, Kavi, you can rest later," Harry chuckled, scooping up both snakes and allowing Asha to slither up his arm, while Kavi curled around his wrist lazily.
"We've got a mission today." His first task of the day was to visit Margret, the school's librarian. She had promised him a few rare books in traditional technical medical.
Harry felt a spark of curiosity as he prepared to head out, eager to learn more. Slipping quietly through the house, he relished his situation, the fact that he could go where he wanted, when he wanted, without the Dursleys breathing down his neck. This summer was already shaping up to be different, and he was determined to make the most of it. When Harry arrived at the library, the familiar scent of books and polished wood greeted him. Margret, the librarian, looked up from her desk and smiled warmly, clearly delighted to see him.
"Harry! It's so good to see you. How was school? You have to tell me everything!" Harry returned her smile, feeling at ease. Margret was one of the few people he could talk to, even if he had to be careful about how much he revealed. She didn't know about his world, and he had to ensure it stayed that way. He sat down at the table, ready to adjust the truth to fit a more Muggle-friendly version of events.
"Well, it's been quite an adventure," Harry began, thinking carefully about how to phrase his words.
"The subjects are tough, but really interesting. There's one class that's like chemistry, where we learn to mix things to create different reactions. It's... well, very hands-on." Margret looked intrigued, her eyes lighting up with curiosity.
"That sounds fascinating! Do you do a lot of practical work at your school, then?" Harry nodded.
"Yeah, there's a lot of that. We also have classes that focus on history. You wouldn't believe some of the old civilizations we study. Some of it's pretty intense, but I like it."
"And what about the people? Have you made some good friends?" she asked, leaning in slightly, eager to hear more about his life there. Harry smiled, thinking of his closest companions.
"Yeah, I've got a few. Hermione is one of my best friends. She's incredibly smart and helps me keep up with my studies. Then there's Neville, who's really kind. He's had a hard time with his family, but he's a good friend. And Theodore… well, he's from a different group at school, but we get along great. He's quiet, but always there when it counts and I really love him." Margret looked at him with admiration.
"You seem to have built some strong friendships. That's so important, especially at your age." Harry nodded. "It definitely helps. The teachers, though, can be a bit hit or miss. There's are one who used to know my mum. He's not exactly friendly to me, though. Actually, he's... well, he's pretty horrible." Margret raised an eyebrow, her concern growing.
"Why would he be like that? Is it because of your mother?" Harry sighed, deciding how much to explain.
"I think it's more about my dad. They didn't get along, and I think he's still holding onto that. But it's alright. I don't let it bother me too much. I try to stay mature and not react to his insults." Margret looked impressed. "That takes a lot of strength, Harry. Not many people could handle that with such maturity. You've done really well." Harry shrugged, feeling a bit embarrassed by her praise.
"I'm just trying to get through the year without any more trouble. It's been a tough one, but I think I've managed alright." Margret smiled warmly, clearly proud of him.
"Well, from everything you've told me, it sounds like you've done more than alright. You should be proud of yourself, Harry. Not everyone can handle the kind of pressure you've been under."
Harry felt a warm sense of gratitude towards her. Margret didn't know the half of it, but her support still meant the world to him. Harry had spent the entire afternoon with Margret, someone who had become more than just a friendly librarian to him. She was the one who had sparked his love for medicine, planting the seed during their very first meeting at the library. Back then, Margret, a retired nurse, had shared stories of her time in hospitals, telling Harry about how rewarding it was to help heal others. Her tales had captivated him, and it wasn't long before Harry found himself dreaming of becoming a doctor—whether in the magical world or the Muggle one.
This afternoon, as she showed him the newest books in the medical section, Margret smiled proudly.
"You know, Harry, you've come a long way since that first day," she said warmly, handing him a book on anatomy. "I knew you had it in you, the moment you started asking about medicine." Harry grinned, flipping through the pages of the book, his fascination growing with every new detail. "I owe it all to you, Margret. I never would've thought about being a doctor if it weren't for you."
They continued talking about different medical practices, with Margret offering insight into the challenges and joys of her career. Harry's interest never wavered. They spent hours like this, deep in conversation, until Margret suggested they take a break for lunch. She had brought along a basket of sandwiches, and despite Harry's initial refusal, she insisted.
"You can't study on an empty stomach. Plus, I brought too much, and I need your help finishing it," she said with a playful smile.
Harry eventually gave in, and they sat together, eating and chatting. They talked about more than just medicine—Harry told her about his school, his friends, and the strange professors he had encountered. He was careful to disguise the magical elements, transforming his subjects into ordinary Muggle ones, but Margret didn't seem to notice. She was just happy to hear about his life and to know that he was doing well. By the time the afternoon ended, Harry felt a sense of peace that he rarely found at the Dursleys'.
As he made his way back home, he prepared himself for the inevitable tension that awaited him there. Sure enough, when he entered the house, Petunia was pacing, looking more frazzled than usual. Dudley was crying over some new toy he hadn't yet received, and Vernon was glued to the TV, watching his sports match.
Harry tried to slip upstairs unnoticed, but Petunia blocked his path, her face tight with stress.
"Harry," she said sharply, "tomorrow, Vernon's investor and his family are coming over for dinner, and I need to prepare something."
Harry raised an eyebrow. Petunia had never cooked anything beyond the basics, and certainly not for guests of importance. She had always relied on Harry to handle the meals, a task he had been freed from after negotiating with her years ago. She was clearly nervous about the upcoming visit, but instead of asking for help, she stood there with her usual prideful silence. Harry could see the desperation in her eyes, but he didn't offer to cook. He simply nodded and said.
"Good luck with that," before heading upstairs, leaving Petunia to figure it out on her own. Petunia followed Harry all the way up the stairs, her voice getting shriller with every step as she yelled at him.
"You can't just walk away, Harry! I need help with this dinner, and you're going to help me!" Her sharp heels clicked angrily behind him, her fury echoing through the house. By the time they reached his room, she was practically shaking. As Harry turned to face her, she stood in the doorway, blocking his escape.
"You have to help me prepare the meal for tomorrow. You know how to cook better than I ever could," she demanded, her voice filled with frustration. "You need to make something good—something impressive." Harry leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"And what do I get for helping you?" he asked coldly, not backing down. Petunia blinked, thrown off by the question.
"You're part of this family. You should help because it's your duty," she snapped, though there was a wavering in her tone now. He scoffed.
"Family? You didn't seem so concerned about family when Vernon and Dudley used me as their personal punching bag for years. I had to pay you all just to leave me alone," Harry shot back, his voice laced with resentment. Petunia's face paled. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for the first time in as long as Harry could remember, she seemed genuinely speechless. Her mouth opened and closed as though she wanted to say something, but the words wouldn't come. Her usual icy composure faltered, leaving her looking almost constipated with emotion, as if the truth Harry had just thrown at her was too much for her to swallow. Harry held her gaze, waiting for a response, but there was nothing. Just silence and the weight of all the years of mistreatment hanging between them. Petunia took a deep breath, her expression softening for a fleeting moment.
"Lily…" she began, the name escaping her lips like a long-forgotten whisper. Harry's gaze hardened.
"Don't say her name. Don't speak my mother's name if you don't mean it," he retorted, anger bubbling to the surface.
"You treat me like I'm nothing, and now you want to honor her with your words?" Petunia's face twisted as she continued.
"It's also my sister's name, Harry. She was my sister, and she would have wanted you to be happy. She would have wanted a child who could help her sister. If she were here, she would have forgiven me." Her voice wavered, the facade of anger slipping.
Harry couldn't help but scoff. "Forgiven you for what? For trying to ruin her son's life? For making me live like a rat in a cupboard? My mother would have preferred I not be mistreated, that I didn't have to suffer in silence, barely fed and locked away." Petunia's face flushed, and he could see the struggle within her. She opened her mouth, perhaps to protest, but he cut her off.
"Do you ever think about what it would have been like if the roles were reversed? If you and Vernon had died and Lily and James were alive? Would they have treated your child like this?" His voice rose with each word.
"Would they have turned him into a servant? Would they have made him feel worthless?" Silence filled the room, thick and suffocating. Petunia seemed at a loss for words, her eyes darting away as if searching for an escape. But there was nowhere to hide from the truth, and Harry knew that. He could see the internal battle waging inside her, the conflict between the woman who was supposed to be a mother and the woman who had failed him so completely. Harry's voice turned cold as he continued.
"You're not family, Petunia. You're just my neighbors. I won't help you with the food. You can manage that on your own." He paused for a moment, letting the weight of his words sink in. "I'll keep paying until I find somewhere else to go, but don't act like I owe you anything. I don't owe you a single thing."
As the words left his mouth, he noticed the silence in the room. Behind Petunia stood Vernon and Dudley, their expressions a mix of confusion and irritation. It was clear they had overheard the exchange, and Harry felt a surge of exhaustion wash over him. He didn't want to deal with their scrutiny or their disdain. Without another word, he turned on his heel and headed back to his room, shutting the door behind him with a soft click.
He leaned against it for a moment, his heart racing. The weight of the day pressed heavily on him, and he allowed himself to slide down to the floor, feeling utterly spent. As Harry settled onto the floor, Kavi, his serpent, slithered out from his hiding spot and looked up at him with curious eyes.
"Should I go bite the bad Muggles?" Kavi asked, his tongue flicking in and out in excitement. Harry couldn't help but chuckle at the thought.
"No, Kavi," he replied, shaking his head. "I really don't want to end up in prison because of those idiots."
He reached down to give Kavi a gentle pat, feeling comforted by the familiar warmth of his pet.
"Let's just keep our distance from them, alright? We can find our own fun without getting into trouble." Kavi hissed playfully, seeming to understand, and curled around Harry's wrist, ready to share the quiet evening with his owner.
After that, Harry picked up the photo album that Hagrid had given him, feeling a sense of nostalgia wash over him. As he flipped through the pages, he was met with vibrant snapshots of his parents, smiling and laughing, clearly surrounded by joy. A pang of longing tugged at his heart as he wondered where they were now. One of the photos caught his eye—a lively scene featuring his parents with three other young men. In the picture, his father was throwing his head back in laughter, while his mother smiled brightly beside him. The two men with them seemed equally close. One had shaggy brown hair and a warm, friendly face, while the other was a bit more reserved-looking, with sandy hair and gentle eyes. The third man was smaller in stature, with a nervous smile that seemed a bit out of place next to the others. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to these men than what he could see. They looked so close to his parents, sharing moments of happiness that felt so foreign to him now.
Harry leaned back against the wall, deep in thought. Who were these men? What adventures had they shared? And why did he feel like he was missing out on a part of his own story? The questions lingered in his mind, amplifying the ache of loss but also igniting a flicker of curiosity.
As Harry continued to flip through the pages of the photo album, he was struck by a scene that caught his attention. There was his father, laughing and full of life, surrounded by three men who looked remarkably close to him. Each of their faces bore playful nicknames handwritten beneath them, as if they were labels defining their friendship. One man had the name "Moony" scrawled beneath him, a mischievous glint in his eye. Another was labeled "Padfoot," his smile wide and contagious, as if he was in the middle of telling a fantastic joke. The third man bore the nickname "Wormtail," looking slightly uncomfortable but still caught up in the joy of the moment.—he had heard Hagrid mention the Marauders once before, referring to the group name James and his friends had used.
However, every time Harry tried to ask more about them, Hagrid had shifted the conversation to Dumbledore, insisting that Harry should ask Dumbledore,but harry don't want to be close to the man so he doesn't ask more hagrid Harry frowned, feeling a pang of frustration. He had never had the chance to ask his father about these men or their adventures. What kind of friends had his father had? What stories did they share? The more he stared at the photo, the more he wanted to uncover the mystery surrounding these faces.
One particular image caught his eye: his father, young and carefree, posed next to a striking blonde girl with a rock 'n' roll vibe. She had wild, tousled hair and a confident grin.
In that moment, Harry realized that he was not just looking at images of his parents; he was peering into a part of their lives that had been kept hidden from him. The laughter and camaraderie radiating from the photo ignited a spark of longing in Harry's chest—a desire to know more about the connections that had shaped his father, and in turn, shaped his own identity. He couldn't shake the feeling that there was so much more to learn about the Marauders and their stories. Even if he had never spoken to his father, Harry was determined to piece together the fragments of his past, starting with the friendship his father had shared with these mysterious men.