Chapter 30 - What Happens When Two Minds Collide - Part Three
Cornelius Fudge was not an intelligent man. And to an outsider, it would not be apparent that he knew that about himself.
He'd barely graduated Hogwarts, three Acceptables, two Dreadfuls, and one Troll, had been what he'd left school with, and then thankfully, never had to look back.
His father had been too lax with him, and encouraged by his mother's approach to life, he'd made a lot of friends at school, and being a pureblood whose father had fought, if only for a brief period of time, in the war against Grindelwald, Cornelius had gotten an interview on his first try in the Department of Regulation of Magical Artifacts.
From there, all he'd ever done was apply his "social skills" which his mother had always told him he excelled in to get into places that most of his peers struggled with, especially the ones who had looked down on him during school. The ones with better grades were suddenly too overqualified or too inflexible in their attitudes to get a good job at the Ministry.
But Cornelius wasn't, and laws were meant to be bent or sometimes, broken, as long as he benefited from it, it was all fair play.
And Cornelius had liked that approach so he had applied it to climb ranks in the past twenty years in the Ministry.
He knew making good friends was his only way to survive, and he'd done that with all his might, and until now, never in his life had he imagined that he'd be arguing with a ten year old boy who certainly had gone after his parents.
James Potter had always been too intelligent and too good with magic and thankfully, Cornelius had never seen his handiwork up close, but most of his peers had always been afraid of him.
He'd felt jealous a few too many times, especially when he'd been almost blown over for a role of Department Head by people who, on a monthly basis, made it a point to go beg James Potter to accept the position.
Potter had never worked in the Ministry, never toiled day and night like he had, never made friends like he had, never did questionable things for people to win favours like he had, and yet, he'd been given things on a silver platter just because he was a Potter and extremely good at magic.
His wife had thankfully stayed away from the Ministry, and Cornelius had never had to worry about her at least.
Ever since he'd been seventeen, James Potter had been a pain in the arse for too many people. Too many of Cornelius' friends who'd never liked the Potter scion because he was arrogant and charming, and he was so good at literally everything that they often felt insecure within their jobs, knowing how Ministry worked.
Seniority meant nothing if people knew who you were.
He wasn't going to lie to himself, but he'd wished Potter had been more like Longbottom instead, keeping to himself and not too popular and ridiculously charming. Cornelius had certainly rejoiced privately when he and his wife had passed away. At least that problem had been dealt with automatically, along with the Dark Lord problem which had made things quite unpredictable in the last few years.
So now, when Cornelius had made a lunge for his dream, to become the Minister for Magic of Britain, he'd not known that he'd be dealing with a ten year old boy who took after both his parents in an uncannily reminiscent manner.
So much so that he'd been rendered speechless for more than a minute when he'd been spoken to in not a childlike manner but in a way that most adults couldn't.
"I want five Aurors escorting Sirius when we go to the Ministry, without the magic-restraining handcuffs, and this is non-negotiable, Mr. Fudge."
Fudge sputtered for a bit before opening his mouth and then closing it to clear his throat first.
"Mr. Potter," he began, his voice taking on a tone of strained indulgence, the kind an adult uses when explaining why a child cannot have pudding before dinner. "You are young. You have been… away. You clearly do not understand the gravity of the situation regarding Sirius Black. He is the most dangerous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban, or rather, to escape it. To demand an honour guard for a mass murderer is simply preposterous!"
He looked around the room, hoping for support.
He found none.
Henri Delacour was examining his fingernails with an air of sublime boredom, and the scarred man, Lupin, was watching him with a gaze that felt uncomfortably like a teacher waiting for a student to realize they've given the wrong answer.
"Mr. Fudge," Remus said softly, leaning forward. "I believe you are operating under a misconception. You used the word 'convicted' earlier, did you not?"
"Well, yes! Of course!" Fudge blustered, clutching his bowler hat. "Everyone knows—"
"Everyone knows many things that are not true," Remus interrupted, his voice mild but unyielding. "The sun revolves around the earth. Toads cause warts. And Sirius Black had a trial."
Fudge blinked. "What?"
"There is no trial transcript," Remus stated, ticking the point off on his finger. "There is no Wizengamot record of a sentencing hearing. There is no file in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement detailing his conviction. He was almost thrown into Azkaban under a wartime decree by Bartemius Crouch Senior, without due process."
"That… that can't be right," Fudge stammered, looking toward Delacour. "Minister?"
"I don't know, Cornelius," Delacour said, finally looking up. "Monsieur Lupin is correct. Under International Magical Law, holding a prisoner without trial for a decade is a Class A violation of human rights. If the ICW were to formally investigate you and they found out that Sirius Black had no right to be in prison, well…"
He let the threat hang in the air, ripe and heavy.
"So you see," Harry cut in, his voice drawing Fudge's wide eyes back to him like a magnet. "I am not asking for an honour guard for a convict. I am asking for a security detail for an innocent Lord of an Ancient and Noble House who has been illegally detained and slandered by yourgovernment. Five Aurors. No cuffs. He walks into the Ministry on his own two feet to clear his name. That is the price."
Fudge loosened his collar. It felt very tight suddenly. "But… the public! The Daily Prophet! If I am seen escorting Sirius Black into the Ministry… it will look like madness! I'll be ruined!"
"You are already ruined, Mr. Fudge," Harry said coldly. "The moment those Goblins locked the doors because your Ministry stole my money, your career was over. Unless…"
Harry paused. He let the silence stretch, watching Fudge sweat.
This was his chance. Build a golden bridge for your retreating enemy.
"Unless?" Fudge whispered, leaning forward, desperation leaking from every pore.
"Unless you become the hero," Harry said, his expression softening into something that looked deceptively helpful.
Fudge frowned. "The hero?"
"Think about the narrative, Cornelius," Remus suggested, his tone shifting to one of camaraderie. "Right now, the story is that the Ministry lost the Boy-Who-Lived, stole his money, and caused a banking crash. That is Bagnold'slegacy, not yours. That may even be Dumbledore's legacy."
Harry picked up the thread smoothly. "But imagine a different headline tomorrow. 'Fudge Finds Potter.' Imagine if you were the one who tracked me down. You found the lost hero. You discovered the terrible miscarriage of justice regarding his godfather. You brokered the deal to reopen the banks. You didn't capitulate to a crisis; you solved a decade-old mystery that stumped Dumbledore himself."
Fudge's eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly. He wasn't looking at a ten-year-old anymore; he was looking at a lifeline.
A glorious, golden lifeline. It was almost too good to be true.
"I… I found you?" Fudge breathed.
"You came to France," Harry nodded. "You worked tirelessly with Minister Delacour. You realized the injustice done to Sirius Black and moved immediately to rectify it."
"And the money?" Fudge asked, a flicker of his old greed warring with his survival instinct. "The Goblins… they say the debt must be paid."
"It must," Harry said, his voice hardening instantly. "Every Knut. With interest."
Fudge winced. "The Ministry reserves are… stretched. The war… reconstruction…"
"That is not my concern," Harry said flatly. "The Ministry had its stamp of approval on the liquidation. The Ministry signed the transfer order. The Ministry spent the money. Therefore, the Ministry will pay it back."
"We calculated the compound interest based on the average Gringotts investment returns for high-security vaults over the last nine years," Remus added, sliding a piece of parchment across the marble desk. "Plus a penalty fee for the illegal seizure."
Fudge looked at the number on the parchment. He paled. "Good Lord. That's… that's too much! It's more than many Department's budgets for years!"
"Then I suggest you start cutting costs," Harry said, hopping off his chair and walking to the window, mimicking the stance he'd seen Sirius take so many times. "Or perhaps you can ask your friends for donations. Lucius Malfoy is quite wealthy, isn't he? I'm sure he'd contribute to the 'Save the Ministry' fund if the alternative is a Goblin rebellion and a complete economic collapse."
Fudge made a whimpering noise.
"It is a large sum, Cornelius," Delacour agreed, looking amused. "But consider the alternative. If the banks remain closed for another week, the loss to your economy will be triple that amount. And the Goblins… they are already sharpening their axes. Do you want a war on your watch? Or do you want to write a check and be the Minister who saved the peace?"
Fudge stared at the parchment. He stared at the terrifying child who spoke like a warlord. He stared at this scarred man who looked like a barrister.
He realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was completely outmatched.
But he also realized that they were offering him a way out. A way to not only survive but to win.
"The trial," Fudge said, his voice trembling slightly. "It has to be immediate. If I bring him in… we can't have him sitting in a holding cell. The press would tear us apart."
"Tomorrow," Harry said. "At noon. We will arrive at the Ministry Atrium and go straight to the Wizengamot. You convene an emergency session for the trial. Sirius gives his testimony—under Veritaserum, if you like. We present the evidence of Peter Pettigrew's survival."
"Pettigrew?" Fudge squeaked. "The martyr? He's alive?"
"Alive and a rat," Remus said grimly.
Fudge rubbed his temples. "This—" he took a deep breath, "this changes everything. Everything!"
"It sets the world right," Harry corrected. "Now. There is one final condition."
Fudge looked up, looking wary. "There's more?"
"My status," Harry said. "I will not return to Britain as a ward of the state. I will not be placed with Muggles. And I will certainly not be placed under the care of Albus Dumbledore."
"But you are a minor!" Fudge protested. "The law requires a guardian! If Black is on trial…"
"I am the Head of the Noble and Ancient House of Potter," Harry stated, his chin lifting. "The Goblins recognized me as such when they locked down the bank. The French Ministry recognizes me. The ICW will recognize me too if I tried to bring any of this to their attention."
And there it was, the threat again. Fudge cursed inwardly, sweating and trembling with indecision and worry.
"And under the Old Laws," Remus interjected smoothly, citing a statute Sirius had made him memorize, "a minor who successfully claims a Headship via blood-recognition in a time of crisis is granted the rights of Limited Emancipation until the age of majority, provided they have a suitable magical proxy for Wizengamot votes."
"I…" Fudge faltered. He didn't know the Old Laws. He barely knew the new ones. "Is that true?"
"It is," Delacour confirmed, though Harry knew the French Minister was enjoying watching Fudge squirm. "France recognizes Monsieur Potter as an emancipated minor with full diplomatic status."
"I want that recognition in writing from the British Ministry," Harry demanded. "Before I step foot in the Atrium. I want a decree, signed by you and anyone in power, acknowledging my emancipation and Sirius Black's temporary stewardship as my proxy."
Fudge looked at the boy. He saw the end of his career if he said no. He saw the Minister's office if he said yes.
"If I do this," Fudge said slowly, a crafty look entering his eyes, "if I agree to all of this… you will stand with me? On the steps of Gringotts? You will tell the world that I fixed this?"
Harry smiled. It was the smile of a shark that has just smelled blood in the water.
"Mr. Fudge," Harry said softly. "If you do this, I will shake your hand in front of every camera in Britain. I will tell them that Cornelius Fudge is the man who brought the Harry Potter home."
Fudge exhaled, a long, shuddering breath. He grabbed his bowler hat from the floor and dusted it off. He stood up, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.
"Very well," he said, his voice gaining strength. "Very well. We have a deal. I shall… I shall make the arrangements. The Aurors will meet us at the Dover arrival point tomorrow morning."
"No," Harry said. "We will need an international portkey, straight to the Atrium. We should arrive together for maximum impact."
Fudge nodded, his eyes gleaming at the thought of the entrance. "Yes. Yes, quite right. Maximum impact. Excellent thinking, my boy."
"Don't call me 'my boy'," Harry said, his voice dropping to the absolute zero.
Fudge flinched. "Right. Of course. Mr. Potter."
"Go, Cornelius," Delacour dismissed him with a wave. "Draft the papers. My secretary will provide you with a floo connection to London."
Fudge bustled out of the room, muttering to himself about press releases and dress robes, already rewriting history in his head.
When the door clicked shut, silence returned to the office.
Remus slumped in his chair, letting out a long groan. "I need a drink. A strong one."
"You were brilliant, Moony," Harry said, the cold mask slipping just enough to reveal a gleam of genuine triumph. "The interest calculation? It was genius!"
"Sirius will be pleased," Remus said, rubbing his face. "We just bankrupted at least half of the Departments, if not more, he'll be so pleased he'll be making terrible, terrible jokes for the entire night."
"And you, Monsieur Potter," Delacour said, regarding Harry with a look of intense speculation. "You have just played the British Ministry like a fiddle. You have secured your fortune, your freedom, and your godfather's life. And you are ten years old."
"I had good teachers," Harry said, glancing at Remus.
"Indeed." Delacour stood up. He looked like he wanted to say something else but refrained. "I will have the ICW legal team draft the emancipation recognition immediately. It will be ironclad. When you go back tomorrow, you go back as a power in your own right."
"Thank you, Minister," Harry said politely. "For everything."
"Do not thank me," Delacour smiled thinly. "I did it for the economy. And perhaps, because I look forward to seeing the look on Albus Dumbledore's face when he reads the morning paper."
~~ .
The Safehouse, Outskirts of Paris
Sirius was pacing. He had been pacing for three hours. The floorboards of the small cottage were beginning to groan under the assault.
When the door opened, he spun around, his wand half-drawn.
Harry and Remus walked in. They looked tired. Drained, even.
But to his relief, they were both smiling.
"Well?" Sirius demanded, rushing forward. "Don't keep me in suspense! Did he arrest you? Do we have to flee to Brazil?"
Harry walked over to the sofa and collapsed onto it, closing his eyes.
"Pack your bags, Padfoot," Harry murmured.
Sirius froze. "Brazil?"
"London," Remus corrected, walking to the sideboard and pouring himself a generous measure of firewhisky. He downed it in one go and turned to face his friend. "You're going home, Sirius. With an honour guard."
Sirius stared at him. He looked at Harry, who cracked one eye open and grinned.
"We got it all," Harry said. "The trial. The money. The freedom. Fudge folded like a wet napkin."
"He… he agreed?" Sirius whispered, sinking onto the arm of the sofa. "To everything?"
"He thinks it was his idea," Remus said with a smirk. "Harry sold him the hero narrative. Fudge is going to present himself as the saviour of the Potter estate."
Sirius let out a bark of laughter that sounded suspiciously like a sob. He ran a hand through his long hair, shaking his head. "I can't believe it. I… I actually can't believe it worked."
"It worked because they underestimated us," Harry said, sitting up. His face was serious again. "But the hard part starts tomorrow. Fudge is easy. But tomorrow, we have to face the rest of them. Dumbledore. The Wizengamot. The public."
"We'll be ready," Sirius vowed, a fierce light returning to his eyes. He looked at his godson, seeing the boy who had walked into a Ministry and brought a government to its knees. "You did good, pup. Your dad, he would have been losing his mind right now. He'd be so proud he wouldn't fit in this room."
"And your mother," Remus added softly, "would be terrifyingly pleased that you used logic to dismantle a bureaucracy."
Harry smiled, a real one this time. "We can go back tomorrow. And we won't need to hide anymore, will we?"
"No, more than usual" Sirius agreed, looking at the window towards the north, towards home. "No more hiding. Tomorrow, the House of Black and the House of Potter return. And heaven help anyone who stands in our way."
Chapter 31 - Controlling the Narrative
"It is always the victor who writes the history, Harry, the victor who controls the narrative, and the victor who brings the future into being.
"Anything else is either noise or propaganda—both equally useless."
Sirius' words rang in his ears once more as Harry adjusted the cuff of his dress robes.
They were new, of course, tailored overnight by a harried French wizard who had been paid triple his usual rate for discretion and speed. The fabric was a deep, rich maroon that displayed his family colours, and was cut in the traditional style of a British pureblood heir.
Sirius had invested his time and energy into making sure it wasn't ornate or anything gaudy, just subtle enough not to scream for attention but still attracted it anyway.
He stood before a full-length mirror in the safehouse, examining his reflection. The glamour was gone. The boy staring back at him was Harry Potter, undeniably and irrevocably. The scar was stark against his pale skin, the green eyes were piercing, and the set of his jaw was harder than anyone his age should be.
"Nervous?"
Harry turned.
Sirius was leaning against the doorframe, dressed in his own robes, heavy black silk embroidered with the silver crest of the House of Black.
He looked regal. And dangerous.
He also looked like a Lord who had come to reclaim his throne.
"No," Harry answered honestly. "I'm focused."
"Good," Sirius said, pushing off the frame and walking over. He knelt, checking the fit of Harry's collar, his movements fussy and parental in a way that always made Harry feel a strange warmth in his chest. "Remember the plan. Fudge does the talking at first. Let him preen. Let him think he's in charge. But when the cameras flash, you look at them, the public, the press, the whole bloody crowd if you can. Not at him. Not at me. You look at the world, and you let them see exactly what they've been missing."
"Eye contact. Chin up. The silent man is the powerful man," Harry recited.
"Exactly," Sirius grinned, ruffling Harry's hair before quickly smoothing it back down. "And if Dumbledore approaches you?"
"I am polite but distant. I refer all questions to my guardian. I do not try to encourage him by entertaining him."
"Perfect," Sirius breathed, standing up. "You're ready."
"Are you?" Harry asked, looking up at him.
Sirius paused. His gaze drifted to the window, towards the grey horizon that hid the English Channel. "I haven't set foot in that building since the day they dragged me out in chains," he admitted, his voice low. "Since the day I realized my world had ended."
He looked back down at Harry, and the shadow in his eyes lifted, replaced by a fierce, burning resolve.
"But today, today my world begins again. Because I'm walking back in with you."
Remus appeared in the hallway, looking cleaner and sharper than Harry had ever seen him. His robes were simple but high quality, paid for from the 'advance' Delacour had secured from the Gringotts liaison. He checked his pocket watch.
"It's time," Remus said. "The Portkey will activate in five minutes."
"Right," Sirius said, exhaling a sharp breath. He held out his hand.
Harry took it. It was steady and warm.
"Let's go make some history," Sirius said.
They walked out into the cool morning air of the French countryside. In the centre of the garden, a single, glowing hoop of metal lay on the grass, the International Portkey.
Harry reached out, his fingers brushing the cold metal. He felt the hook behind his navel even before he touched it, a phantom sensation of the displacement to come.
He closed his eyes for a second, centring himself. He built his mental walls, brick by brick, locking away the fear, the excitement, and the child that was so eager to grasp this victory.
When he opened his eyes, only the Heir remained.
"Three... two... one."
And the world dissolved in a swirl of blue light.
~~ .
The Atrium, British Ministry of Magic – 6:30am
The Atrium was packed. Word had leaked, as Fudge had intended, that a major announcement regarding the banking crisis was imminent. Reporters, Ministry workers, and curious onlookers were pressed against the barriers. The Fountain of Magical Brethren sparkled innocently in the centre, oblivious to the tension in the air.
Albus Dumbledore stood near the fountain, a very agitated Amelia Bones beside him, flanked by Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt. He wore his most serene expression, but his eyes were constantly scanning the fireplaces. He knew something was happening. Fudge had returned from France with a strut that boded ill.
"He says he's solved it," Amelia muttered. "He sent a memo at 2 AM demanding a full session of the Wizengamot at noon. Didn't say why. Just that 'National Emergency Resolved'."
"Cornelius is optimistic," Dumbledore said carefully. "Let us hope his solution does not involve further concessions to the Goblins."
"He wouldn't dare," Kingsley rumbled deep in his chest.
Suddenly, the golden gates of the International Portkey Arrival Point flared with brilliant blue light.
The crowd hushed. Cameras from drowsy wizards standing beside hungry reporters floated into position, their quills ready.
The light swirled and coalesced. And then three figures appeared on the platform.
In the centre stood Cornelius Fudge, beaming, his bowler hat held high above his head in triumph.
To his right stood a man with tawny hair and scarred robes, looking calm and watchful.
But it was the figure to his left that made the entire Atrium draw a collective breath.
A man with long, elegant black hair and aristocratic features, dressed in fine, dark robes that bore the crest of the House of Black.
He was not in chains. He was not cowering. He stood tall, his grey eyes sweeping the crowd with a look of imperious challenge.
And holding his hand was a young boy. A boy with messy black hair, bright green eyes, and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead.
"Sirius Black!" someone screamed.
Aurors drew wands. The crowd surged back in terror.
Chaos seemed to be held just at bay, on the precipice of madness.
"Hold!" Fudge roared, his voice magnified, stepping in front of them. "HOLD YOUR FIRE!"
He raised his hands, basking in the shock, the fear, and the absolute attention of the entire world. He looked like he was born ready for this.
"Citizens!" Fudge bellowed. "Put away your wands! Today is a day of history! Today, I bring you not a criminal, but a victim of the greatest miscarriage of justice in our history! I bring you the man who saved the Boy-Who-Lived!"
He gestured grandly to the pair.
"I give you the lost hero, Harry Potter! And his guardian, the innocent Lord Sirius Orion Black!"
Time stood still for just a moment. A very, very tense moment.
And then flashbulbs exploded like a supernova.
The noise was deafening as reporters clamoured to get ahead of each other, cameras beginning to snap like lightning while Ministry officials simply stood and gaped at the scene and its perpetrators.
Across the Atrium, Dumbledore stood frozen.
His serene mask cracked, just for a second, revealing a flash of genuine, unadulterated shock as he surveyed the trio who had just shook the country to the core, long after the Dark Lord had been defeated.
He looked at the boy he'd once left on a doorstep, with his only living family, who was now storming the Ministry in a manner no one had ever dared.
At least he looked healthy and, Albus thought with satisfaction, if the intelligence within his eyes were anything to go by, he'd taken after his brilliant parents and just played the entire Ministry at their own incompetence.
While he'd been lost in his musings, Harry, across the sea of screaming reporters and flashing cameras, looked right back at him.
He didn't smile. Nor did he wave. He simply met the Headmaster's gaze and gave a single, slow nod.
Albus had no idea what to make of that, but at least he felt reassured that Harry Potter was not only safe and sound and healthy, but he was also flourishing greatly in the care of his sworn godfather.
He could only hope that after the major upheaval that Sirius' innocence was about to cause in the near future, Harry would be amenable enough, or rather, his guardians would be amenable enough to grant him access to work with the boy who held the future of Britain, and perhaps the entire world in his destiny.
~~ .
His first instinct was to get Harry away from the Ministry and out of this country before he even began to go to Dumbledore's office.
So that is what he did as he prepared to leave the office of the Head of the DMLE.
"Is that all?" he asked grinning.
Amelia glared at him then. "That's all? Sirius Black, you've literally given me a mountain of work to do," she sighed, "What a mess of a situation!"
"Not mine, though," he quipped.
"As if," she snarked, "it is entirely of your own making. But you've always been that way, haven't you? Trouble is your middle name."
He shrugged, not letting his grin falter, although it did try to. "That's me. I did try to warn you, though."
"Oh yes," she retorted shortly, "dropping into my home and telling me a rushed story about a martyred hero who had been posthumously awarded an Order of Merlin only two days ago was a great warning. Sure, you could say that."
He didn't know what to say to that, so he simply shook his head and tried to lighten the situation, feeling a little tightening in his chest. "At least all will be sorted now, better late than never."
He didn't say thank you, nor did he look back. He walked to the door and shut it behind him with a gentle click, exhaling as he did so.
A grin, a genuine one this time, broke out on his lips then as his eyes landed on Harry and Remus seated just outside.
"Didn't make you wait long, did I?" he asked, walking up to them.
"Alright, Sirius?" Harry asked with unbridled hope in his eyes.
He embraced his godson, feeling him sag a little with relief. "Amelia has agreed to drop all charges against me."
Remus met his eyes with a slow, satisfied nod. "Good."
"Where to next?" Harry asked.
"Dumbledore wanted to meet with us," Sirius said, "but I don't want to expose you to him, at least not so soon, so I will go, while you and Remus go get Harry's emancipation paperwork started."
"He's gonna ask about me, isn't he?" Harry asked cautiously.
"I expect so, which is why I don't want you to face him right now. If he thinks I'm gonna make it easy for him, he's in for a nice surprise."
"Albus does like to keep his cards close," Remus frowned, "Too close."
"A lot of bad things happened in the war because of his pacifist nature. He likes to be the one who people divulge their secrets to, not the other way around. But I have a plan to deal with him."
"You do?"
"Of course," Sirius said confidently, "He's gonna be in for a rude awakening if he thinks I'm gonna simply give my godson up to him on a silver platter, ready to mould into whatever he likes. No, his contact with you will be minimal if I can help it. None, ideally, but we don't live in an ideal world."
Remus nodded. "Maybe he'll ask about Harry's education plans?"
"Surely that'll be one topic of discussion, and that being the case, I have just the information to give out to him."
"Good luck, Padfoot," Harry said, squeezing his hand in support.
"Thanks pup, I'll see you soon in the Atrium."
~~ .
The Next Day
The shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Harry stepped inside, the bell somewhere in the depths of the shop giving a tinker that sounded less like a greeting and more like a warning.
The air inside was stale, tasting of dust and old magic. It was quiet, but not the heavy, oppressive silence of the Dwarven vaults or the sanitized hush of the French Ministry.
This was a living silence. The thousands of narrow boxes piled from floor to ceiling seemed to be holding their collective breath, waiting.
"Good afternoon," a soft voice said.
Harry didn't jump, but only barely. He turned slowly, his face composed, his Occlumency shields raised and fortified.
An old man was standing before him, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom.
"Hello," Harry said, his voice polite, neutral. "Mr. Ollivander, I presume."
"Harry Potter," Ollivander whispered. He didn't blink. "I thought I'd be seeing you soon. You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."
Harry said nothing. He simply held the man's gaze, refusing to be drawn in by the nostalgia. He wasn't here for stories, after all, just for a little piece of wood that would aid him forever in whatever he did in the next century or so, of his life.
"And your father," Ollivander continued, moving closer, his eyes searching Harry's face for a reaction he didn't get. "Mahogany. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it, it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."
He reached out, a long, pale finger touching the lightning scar on Harry's forehead.
"And that's where..."
Harry stepped back smoothly, breaking the contact. "I'm here for a wand, sir. Not a history lesson."
From the corner where he leaned against the doorframe, Sirius let out a low, appreciative snort.
Ollivander paused, his silvery eyes narrowing slightly as he looked down at the boy. "You are early, Mr. Potter. It is customary and by law to wait until one's eleventh birthday. The wand chooses the wizard, yes, but the wizard must be ready to be chosen. I cannot sell a wand to a child not yet of age."
Harry didn't blink.
He didn't argue or plead. He simply took a half-step back toward the door, his posture relaxing into a dismissive shrug.
"A pity," Harry said, his voice cool and bored. "I was told you were the best. But if British customs are too rigid to accommodate a paying customer, I'm sure Gregorovitch would be happy to take the Potter gold. We were just in Eastern Europe, weren't we Sirius? I hear his Yew work is exceptional this time of year."
Ollivander twitched. The mention of his great rival, particularly regarding a customer of such significance, clearly stung more than any curse.
"There is no need for that," the wandmaker said quickly, a hint of steel entering his soft voice. "We are the premier wandmaker in the world. No one else can match you to your true instrument of magic."
"Then sell me one, sir," Harry challenged, stopping his retreat.
Ollivander paused, his hand hovering in mid-air. He looked at Harry, really looked at him, for the first time. The misty, dreamy quality in his eyes sharpened into something calculating.
"Indeed," the wandmaker murmured. "Business, then. Which is your wand arm?"
"I am right-handed," Harry said.
"Please hold it out."
The tape measure did its work on its own, darting around Harry's wrist, elbow, and shoulder. Ollivander flitted through the shelves, pulling down boxes with the frantic energy of a bird building a nest.
"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."
Harry took the wand. It felt... light? Flimsy, even. Like a toy. He gave it a half-hearted wave. Nothing happened.
"No, no," Ollivander snatched it back. "Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try—"
Harry barely touched it before it was whipped away.
"No, indeed. Ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."
Harry grasped the wand. He pushed a fraction of his intent into it, a simple command for light.
The vase on the counter shattered.
"No!" Ollivander exclaimed, taking the wand back as if Harry had insulted it. "Too aggressive. Too volatile."
The pile of rejected wands on the spindly chair grew higher. Sirius watched from the shadows, a smirk playing on his lips, but Harry felt a growing coldness in his chest.
None of them were right. They felt dead. Inert. They were sticks with cores, not extensions of his will. Was he really going to find the wand destined for him in this dusty old shop?
He looked sideways to meet Sirius' eyes who nodded, as if to say that they could leave anytime he wanted. Sirius had left it entirely up to him, letting him choose whether to seek Ollivander or someone like Gregorovitch from Bulgaria or Bayard from America for his wand.
They had options.
"Tricky customer, eh?" Ollivander murmured, though he looked delighted. "Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere."
He paused, a strange, hesitant look crossing his face. He walked slowly to a shelf at the very back, pulling down a single, dusty box.
"I wonder, now," he whispered. "Yes, why not, unusual combination, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
Harry took the wand.
Immediately, he felt a rush of warmth. It flooded his fingers, racing up his arm.
But it wasn't the clean, cold power that he was seeking.
It was…ah, how to describe it?
It was cloying. It was suffocating. It felt like a heavy, warm blanket being thrown over his head. It felt like... guidance.
The magic in the wand wasn't waiting for his command; it was suggesting one. It wanted him to be brave. It wanted him to be heroic. It pulsed with a golden, sickeningly sweet resonance that tried to bypass his mental shields, tried to tell him who he was supposed to be.
The Hero. The Saviour.
Harry's lips curled in distaste.
The Martyr.
Revulsion, sharp and violent, coiled in his gut.
This wasn't a weapon. It was a leash.
He dropped the wand. It clattered loudly on the glass top of the counter.
"No," he said, his voice hard.
Ollivander stared at him, his pale eyes wide with genuine shock. "No? But, Mr. Potter, the brother of that wand gave you that scar."
"I don't care," Harry said coldly. He pushed the wand away from him, until it was resting on the far edge of the counter, tucked behind one of the many open boxes in front of him, invisible to him. "It feels like a lie. I will not use it."
Silence stretched in the shop.
It was heavy and suffocating.
Sirius straightened up, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the wandmaker.
Ollivander looked at the rejected wand, then back at the boy. The delight was gone from his face, replaced by a wary, deep curiosity. He looked at the way Harry stood, feet planted, shoulders back, eyes like chips of green flint.
"Not the hero, then," Ollivander murmured, more to himself than to them. "I see. I see."
He turned and disappeared into the back of the shop. He was gone for a long time. When he returned, he wasn't carrying a box. He was carrying a long, slender case made of dark, polished wood that Harry didn't recognize.
"I made this," Ollivander said softly, dusting off the lid, "thirty years ago. I have never shown it to a customer. It has waited a long time for this day."
He opened the case.
Inside lay a wand of pure, absolute black. It wasn't shiny or varnished. It looked like it had been carved from a shadow.
"Ebony," Ollivander whispered. "Thirteen inches. Rigid. Unyielding."
Harry reached out.
"And the core?" Sirius asked from the doorway, his voice sharp.
"Thestral tail hair," Ollivander said, his eyes never leaving Harry's hand. "A substance that can only be handled by those who have known death. It is a potent core, Mr. Black. Unstable in the hands of the unsure. But in the hands of one who understands the nature of endings..."
Harry's fingers closed around the handle.
There were no gold sparks. There was no warm breeze.
There was a shockwave.
A pulse of silent, heavy pressure expanded from him, blowing the dust off the shelves and rattling the windowpanes. The air in the shop grew instantly cold, the shadows in the corners stretching and deepening, reaching towards him.
It didn't feel like a greeting.
No, Harry shook his head as his heart began to sing in delight.
This felt like a lock clicking into place. Like the wand was acknowledging him, waiting for him, ready to obey him and just him.
Master.
It was cold. It was dark. It was heavy with the promise of absolute force. It didn't suggest anything. It simply waited, a terrifyingly empty vessel, demanding his will to fill it.
It was perfect.
Harry exhaled, a long, slow breath. He raised the wand. He didn't cast a spell. He just pushed his intent into the wood.
The lamp on the counter didn't just go out.
The flame died, strangled into nothingness.
"Curious," Ollivander whispered, and for the first time, he looked fearful. Of what, Harry didn't know. "Very curious."
"What is?" Harry asked, lowering the wand. He felt stronger. Complete.
"The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter," Ollivander said, his voice trembling slightly. "I have never felt the need to test that wand for any customer before. It's because it is an extremely unyielding wand."
"What does that mean?"
"It means it will not question you about anything. Nor will it ever provide you with any feedback or criticism or even praise to anything that you ask of it. It will simply obey you without fail."
He looked into Harry's eyes, and Harry knew the old man saw past the child, past the scar, into the fortress of his mind.
"We can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter," Ollivander said, bowing low. "Beautiful or terrible, but great."
Sirius stepped forward and placed seven galleons on the counter.
"I prefer great," Harry said calmly to the wandmaker.
He turned and walked out of the shop, the black wand tucked into his sleeve, warm against his skin, ready for the future he dearly wished and desired to be spelled into being.
Chapter 32 - How It All Began
September 1, 1991
"Double checked everything, Harry?"
The emerald eyed boy nodded, looking up at his godfather with a small smile. "I triple checked, Padfoot."
"Good," Sirius murmured. Harry saw his smile was a little tight this time. He wondered why that was.
Sirius brightened a little. The Platform Nine and Three Quarters was a little too crowded than what they were used to, but Harry knew that wasn't exactly at the top of things bothering his godfather.
A large number of parents were milling about the platform, along with their children of varying ages standing with them, or saying goodbyes, or even waving at them from the tinted windows of the train. The atmosphere was cheerful and anticipatory and as Harry surveyed the faces among the crowd, he realized he was only seconds away from being recognized and stared at, probably as soon as he removed the hood he was wearing.
"Is the platform always this busy?" Harry asked instead, hoping to take Sirius' mind off their impending separation.
"I remember boarding the train with James, Dorea used to give us strict ultimatums to not cause any trouble until we're on the train," Sirius said in reminiscence, "We used to take her at face value."
Harry gave him a deadpan look. "So as soon as you board the Express…"
His godfather's face broke out into a wide grin, and it was more than a little feral. "Slytherins got a taste of what to come."
Harry smiled. "I promise—"
"Harry!"
"Alright! I solemnly swear to not cause any trouble, Padfoot," Harry shook his head as Sirius beamed at him. "I'd rather not be called to the Headmaster's office, you know."
The Padfooted One waved it off dismissively. "Albus enjoys a good joke, and as much ruckus as we caused in our time, we were never sent to see him. It was only ever McGonagall or Slughorn, mostly Minnie."
Harry was thoughtful as he pondered an earlier statement. "Slytherins could have some valuable allies, you know."
"I don't want you worrying about any of that, Harry, I want you—"
"—to have fun." Harry smiled. "I know, Sirius, but we should always have our eyes and ears open to the opportunities, shouldn't we?"
"Moony would say I've made you too much like me."
Harry frowned, not understanding.
Sirius grinned. "You know, you're too serious like me."
Harry facepalmed. "I would prank you if we were home."
"You wish," Sirius laughed. "Anyway, my point stands, Harry. A month ago, I had no idea that we would be standing here, and I would be even remotely prepared to send you away to Hogwarts. But I'm glad I am," he said with glassy eyes, though his smile never wavered, "Your parents will be very proud too."
"Even if I land in Slytherin?" Harry said, only half-joking.
Sirius turned his nose up like a proud pureblood lord. Harry snorted. "Your grandmother was a proud Slytherin, you know. You shouldn't try to judge an entire House only based on rumours."
Harry scoffed. "No one hated the Slytherins more than you, Padfoot."
Sirius smiled like a mad man, waving his finger at him. "True true, but my point stands."
Harry shook his head. "I should go before I lose any more brain cells from talking to you."
"Oi!" Harry found his hair ruffled by his godfather, "I'm just giving away some parting wisdom to you, Prongslet. Who knows when you might need it!"
"Moony was right all along," Harry murmured fondly, lowering his hood, "you are a terrible influence."
Sirius chuckled, seeing a few eyes turning towards them, though it was only Harry who saw the stiffening in his posture. "Just…be safe, Harry. You know I'm only a mirror call away. And Hogsmeade isn't really that far away, if you decide to sneak out."
Instead of relying on words alone, he hugged Sirius, mumbling I will as he pulled back. "I've got everything I need to stay out of trouble. And if I do find it, I'll make sure nothing comes back to me."
"Good, good," Sirius' eyes gleamed as he understood the meaning, nodding slowly, "Then off you go."
Harry turned around, seeing at least a dozen pairs of eyes upon him as he tightened the thin cloak around his shoulders and without another glance at his surroundings, he boarded the train.
~~ .
The carriage door hissed shut behind him, sealing out the cacophony of Platform Nine and Three Quarters.
Harry didn't look back. To look back was to acknowledge the pull of the past, and he was a boy who was raised to keep his eyes were fixed firmly on the horizon.
He moved through the corridor of the Hogwarts Express with a predator's economy of motion. Even through the thick fabric of his cloak, the weight of his ebony wand against his forearm was a constant, comforting reminder of his own agency. Of what he was aiming to become as he started his formal education.
His ears picked up the whispers, trailing him like a physical wake from the compartments that were open and full of students.
"Is that—?" "Did you see the scar?" "He looks so… different."
But he studiously ignore them all.
His budding Occlumency shields, crafted under Sirius's erratic but brilliant tutelage, flared into life.
He wanted to not just block the noise but categorize it.
Public perception was a volatile thing.
Sirius had never cared about it, and it had reflected from his first day at Hogwarts—how he'd become the first ever Black to be sorted into Gryffindor.
He bypassed the crowded compartments where students were already trading Chocolate Frog cards and shouting.
He wanted silence. He wanted a space where he could calibrate his mind for the upcoming act of his life.
And he found what he was looking for near the very end of the train.
A single occupant sat in the far corner of a compartment, a boy with a sharp, bird-like face and eyes that held a depth of weariness that Harry recognized. The boy didn't look up as Harry entered. He was staring at a thick, leather-bound volume that read The Etymology of Elder Futhark.
"May I sit here?" he asked softly.
The boy barely looked up from his book to give him a slight nod.
Harry slid the door shut and sat opposite him. He didn't offer a hand or a name. Instead, he pulled his own book from his satchel, a Muggle text Sirius had found in the Black vaults, salvaged from some long-dead tactician: On War by Carl von Clausewitz.
For twenty minutes, the only sound was the rhythmic clack-clack of the tracks and the turning of parchment.
"Interesting choice of reading material," the boy said quietly, glancing once at him, although his gaze was still fixed on his book.
Harry didn't blink. "I could say the same for you. Can you understand them?" he gestured towards the book.
"The runes?" the boy said, shaking his head. "No, I just like to read whatever I can get my hands on. Nicked this from my grandfather's library for some leisure reading."
Harry nodded with a small smile. "I can understand that. I usually practise spells in my free time."
The boy finally looked up. His eyes were dark, intelligent, and entirely devoid of the mindless hero-worship Harry had seen on the platform. "Theodore Nott."
"Harry Potter."
Nott's eyebrows twitched, a minuscule display of surprise. "You aren't what the Prophet described."
"I suppose that's a huge compliment," Harry said, his voice dropping into a soft, melodic register. "I try not to be thatpredictable."
Nott leaned back, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "I'm glad. Predictable things get boring a bit too soon. What's your favourite subject?"
"I love Charms and Transfiguration so far," Harry agreed, feeling a genuine spark of interest in the conversation. He hadn't thought he'd make a friend this easily. "Though it could change as the classes begin. You?"
"It's between Defence or Charms."
Harry found the silence that followed quite comfortable as the train sped along the vast expanse of the country. He'd hoped to make a friend by the first week of school, and luckily, he'd found someone to talk to on the train itself.
The peace however was interrupted by a flash through the door.
Harry's eyes shifted to the compartment window. A very pretty girl was walking past, her hair a cascade of spun gold that seemed to catch the light of the corridor and make it glow. She looked inside his compartment, met his eyes for a second before looking away and continuing on her way.
I want to know who she is, Harry's mind supplied almost instinctively.
He'd read about all of the powerful names of Magical Britain and it was possibly that she was one of them. Though, he knew in his heart that that was not the only reason he wanted to know her.
The moment of quiet observation was shattered when the compartment door was thrown open with unnecessary violence.
A boy with pale, pointed features and slicked-back platinum blonde hair stood there, flanked by two hulking shadows who looked more like golems than children his age.
Harry kept a blank mask, but inside, he was both curious and irritated.
"So, it's true," the boy drawled, his voice carrying an affected sneer. "They're saying Harry Potter is coming to Hogwarts this year. It's you, is it?"
Harry didn't look up from Clausewitz. He let the silence stretch until it became an active weight in the room. He felt Nott watching him, curious.
"I'm speaking to you, Potter!" he snapped, his face flushing.
Harry slowly closed his book, marking the page with a slender finger. He looked at the sneering boy not with anger, but instead schooled his features into resembling somewhat of a detached interest.
"Who are you?" Harry stated.
Malfoy straightened, his chest puffing out. "My name is Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
Ah. "Son of Lucius Malfoy, are you? He holds a seat on the Board of Governors."
Malfoy smiled. "At least you know who I am. The train is filled with mudbloods who do not know their place—"
"Oh I know your place quite well," Harry interrupted, his voice like a razor hidden in silk. "You've entered a closed compartment without an invitation. You've addressed the Head of an Ancient and Noble House by his surname without leave. And you've insulted my mother."
Malfoy's eyes widened as he realized what Harry was talking about.
"Now," Harry leaned forward, willing his eyes to show this Malfoy just what he thought about him. His eyes began to glow with a faint, predatory light. "Do you wish to continue this pathetic display of superiority, or would you like to leave before I decide to let Lord Black know how badly your mother has raised you?"
Malfoy's mouth opened, and then shut, all without a word. "My father will hear about this!" he hissed, though it sounded more like a whimper to Harry than an actual threat.
Sirius had been right when he'd mentioned that this family was filled with spineless cowards.
"I certainly hope so," Harry replied, reopening his book. "It might save him the embarrassment of your next mistake. Now, get out."
When the door slammed shut, Nott let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you had been planning to do this for a while. My father told me you'd be a pawn for Dumbledore. He was wrong, wasn't he?"
"Everyone is wrong about me, Nott," Harry said, a smirk tugging at his lips. "It's my favourite tactical advantage."
The transition from the train to the castle was a sensory assault that Harry found himself surprisingly enjoying. He stood in the small boats, the cool mist of the Black Lake clinging to his skin. Beside him, Nott remained silent, watching the towering spires of Hogwarts emerge from the gloom.
Harry felt it then, the magic that began to surround him on all sides.
It wasn't like the sharp, focused pulse of his wand or the stale, heavy air of the Black homes he'd lived in.
It feels like a living thing.
The castle felt like it was breathing. He could feel the ancient wards, a magic so old and dense it was like the air itself was alive, humming in the soles of his boots, a symphony of safety and intent.
Home. A feeling of home.
Harry felt himself relaxing as awestruck gasps and murmurs erupted around him.
He'd read enough history to find and admire some tough battlements, and instead of peering at them with the awe of a student, he felt himself doing with an appreciation of a master craftsman.
I could do great things here, he thought. The magic of this place is extraordinary. Sirius and Remus were right when they said this was almost like a second home. In Sirius' case, even better than home.
A few minutes later, they were being led into the Great Hall by Professor McGonagall. Harry noted her stiff posture, she looked like a woman of rules and authority.
Rules were useful, provided you were the one who understood the exceptions.
The Great Hall was a masterpiece of enchantment. The ceiling, reflecting the stormy sky outside, was a feat of charms work that made Harry's breath hitch. He loved it. He loved the audacity of it, the idea that someone had looked at a ceiling and decided it wasn't enough, that they needed the entire galaxy reflected here instead.
Harry swept his gaze across the four long tables, his mind automatically charting the geography of the room. The Gryffindors were a riot of gold and crimson, their energy loud and uncoordinated, almost like a blunt instrument that could be pointed in any direction that someone with power decided. The Hufflepuffs were a sea of yellow, leaning in towards one another in a way that suggested a powerful, if quiet, social cohesion. The Ravenclaws sat with a certain detached air, eyes darting towards the ceiling or whispering over books, while the Slytherin table was a study in controlled posture and projected discipline.
At the staff table, the teachers sat looking over at the assembled students. Dumbledore presided from a gilded throne that seemed designed to project a specific brand of grandfatherly authority, though Harry didn't miss the sharp, predatory stillness in the old man's frame. He'd seen too much of the man to ever be deceived by his smiles now.
To the side sat a man with sallow skin and hair like a curtain of ink, his black eyes fixed on the crowd with a localized coldness that felt like a challenge. Near him sat a man in a purple turban, his eyes darting around and shifting nervously. The small, half-goblin Charms professor, who had been his mother's favourite sat on the left too, watching with a smile.
"I heard we have to wrestle a troll," a red-headed boy whispered to a round-faced boy who looked ready to faint. "Fred said it's a tradition. To see if we're brave enough."
Harry rolled his eyes.
"Don't be ridiculous," a girl with bushy hair interjected, her voice thin with anxiety. "It's bound to be a written exam. I've read Hogwarts: A History cover to cover, and they can't possibly expect us to perform advanced magic yet..."
Harry suppressed a scoff at that. Trolls and exams. If only our core virtues were so easily measured.
His attention snapped to the front as Professor McGonagall placed a three-legged stool before the Great Hall. Upon it sat a hat that looked like it had been salvaged from a scrap heap, patched, frayed, and extraordinarily dirty.
McGonagall waved and then the Hall fell into a hush so profound Harry could hear the flickering of the thousands of candles above. A rip near the Hat's brim opened wide, like a mouth.
The Sorting Hat began its song and Harry tuned it out.
"When I call your name, you will come forth and sit on this stool to be sorted." McGonagall said to them.
The redheaded boy, the round-faced boy, and the bushy-haired girl all went to Gryffindor. Harry wondered what it was that the Hat found common in them.
A bubbly redheaded girl went to Hufflepuff and the pretty blonde girl from Hogwarts Express that Harry had seen earlier, went to Slytherin, along with Malfoy for some reason and then Nott.
"Potter, Harry!"
The Hall went silent. It was almost as if every breath was held in anticipation for his sorting.
Harry walked towards the stool with a measured pace. He felt the eyes staring at the back of his head, their mouths calling him all sorts of monickers like "Hero," the "Saviour," and the "Boy-Who-Lived."
He ignored the hushed whispers and just let them see his mask, a polite, slightly distant young lord.
He sat on the stool and the Hat dropped over his eyes.
"Oh," a small, raspy voice whispered in his ear. "Oh, my. What have we here?"
Harry instinctively slammed his Occlumency shields shut, visualizing a fortress of black glass.
"Impressive," the Hat chuckled. "Strong walls for your age, young Potter. But I am not an intruder. I am the mirror of your values. You have courage, yes. You have a mind that could rival Ravenclaw's own. But what is this?"
Harry felt a faint sensation of restlessness in his mind, and realized it was not his own.
The Hat was delving deeper, sliding through his mind with an ease that made him wince.
"You do not seek to learn magic," the Hat whispered, sounding curious. "You seek to command it. You seek a throne, not a classroom. And you have the will to burn anything that stands in your way. There is only one place for an ambition like yours and that shall be—"
The Hat's brim opened wide.
"SLYTHERIN!"
The silence that followed was different this time.
It wasn't the silence of anticipation, but of a funeral.
The Gryffindor table looked as though they had been struck by a mass confundus spell. McGonagall's smile had frozen in place as he stood up and handed the Hat back to her.
His heart was beating rapidly but he chose not to look or pay attention to the new set of hushed whispers that were breaking out on each table except the one he was going to.
He turned towards the table draped in silver and green. He saw Nott, who was already sitting there, beginning to clap slowly. He saw the pretty golden-haired girl watching him with a look of intense, clinical interest.
Harry walked to the Slytherin table as the applause began in earnest from Dumbledore himself. He was surprised, though he didn't turn around to look at the staff table to see who was not looking happy with his sorting.
He found a seat to Nott's right, opposite the pretty girl who was following his every movement. He waited for her to ask a question, but it didn't come as he sat down and adjusted his robes, and looked up at the staff table. He caught Dumbledore's eye who gave him a wink.
Harry found himself wishing for the sorting to resume and it did, and his unease lifted as he met some of the curious and glaring eyes of the older students. Malfoy looked incensed and Harry sighed, predicting some conflicts in the near future with the pompous heir.
But those were inevitable anyway.
Conflicts were going to be common when it came to him. He couldn't avoid it, being who he was and Sirius had made him realize that quite early.
His wand felt warm in his sleeve, and almost buzzing with the same excitement as him as he waited for the sorting to finish. The last boy to be sorted was Zabini, to his own House. McGonagall took a seat as Dumbledore rose.
"Welcome!" Dumbledore beamed, "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our feast, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
Harry's eyebrows rose. It was a bizarre display of eccentricity, and he snorted softly.
"Thank you!" Dumbledore sat back down, clapping his hands.
The change was instantaneous. One moment the gold plates were empty, and the next, they were groaning under the weight of a dozen different roasts, bowls of steaming vegetables, and silver tureens of gravy. He took a moment to appreciate the sheer efficiency of this magic, performed by the kitchen elves. It was elegant and powerful.
A grin formed upon his lips as he began to serve himself a generous portion of roast beef and potatoes.
As he began to eat, Harry felt a familiar prickle on his skin, performed by his magic, telling him that he was being watched, but he paid it no mind for now.
He was already beginning to enjoy himself in this extraordinary castle.