The morning light filtered through the tall, arched windows of Dursley Mansion, casting soft golden patterns across the floor. It was a crisp, quiet dawn on the thirty-first of July, the kind of stillness that promised a warm summer afternoon.
Upstairs, in his room that looked more like an archivist's study than an eleven-year-old's bedroom, Harry groaned. He dragged a pillow over his face, wrestling briefly with the sheets before managing to disentangle his legs and sit up on the edge of the mattress. His dark hair was sticking up in three different directions, defying both gravity and basic grooming.
His mind was running on low power. The night before, he had stayed up entirely too late working through a particularly dense commentary on transfiguration theory, trying to reconcile the structural differences between permanent physical altered states and temporary optical illusions. In his mind, he was still mentally writing out notes.
He shuffled out of his room, his slippers dragging lightly against the runner rug along the corridor. He didn't bother fixing his collar or smoothing down his sleep-ruffled hair.
"Mother..." Harry mumbled to the empty hallway, his voice thick with sleep. "Me food. Me hungry. Me eat, then me go read big book all day. Brain need fuel."
He made his way down the grand staircase, one hand trailing lazily along the polished balustrade. He was halfway down when he noticed how unnaturally quiet the ground floor was. Usually, the morning routine at the manor had a distinct rhythm. Vernon would be rustling through the financial papers over black coffee, Petunia would be directing the breakfast arrangements or tending to the conservatory, and Abigail would usually be attempting to run laps through the hallway.
Today, there was only silence.
Harry blinked, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand as his slippers hit the ground floor rug. He took three sluggish steps toward the dining hall, reaching blindly toward the sideboard where a basket of rolls usually sat.
"Brain dead," he muttered under his breath. "Need tea. Need sugar... Need..."
He never finished the sentence.
Out of the shadow of the doorway, a shadow surged forward with the speed of a man who spent his weekends organizing logistics for entire corporate fleets. Before Harry's sleep-deprived reflexes could even spark, two massive hands locked around his waist.
"Gotcha!" Vernon's booming voice echoed off the high ceilings.
With a deep laugh, Vernon scooped Harry right off his feet, flipping him over his broad shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Vernon! Careful with him!" Petunia's voice chimed in, bright and laughing.
"What-wait, put me down, what is happening?" Harry protested, his arms dangling helplessly down Vernon's back. The Sudden shift in elevation made his head spin. "Is the house under attack? Is it a raid? Dad, I am a frail scholar!"
"Happy birthday, son!" Vernon roared, clapping a hand on Harry's back as he swung him around in a dizzying circle.
"Happy birthday, Harry!" Petunia practically glided into view, abandoning every shred of her usual pristine decorum. Before Vernon could even set Harry back down on his feet, Petunia leaned in and began a relentless, rapid-fire barrage of maternal kisses across his forehead, cheeks, and temples.
"Mum... please... my dignity..." Harry squawked, flailing his hands in desperate attempt to create a buffer zone.
Vernon finally laughed and lowered Harry's feet back toward the carpet. Harry let out a long breath, stepping back to smooth down his sleep shirt, his cheeks flushing pink under Petunia's lip gloss.
He didn't notice the low-level threat crouching beside the sofa.
"Take him down!" a high-pitched voice squealed.
Before Harry could plant his heels in the floor, nine-year-old Abigail executed a tactical leap. She dove straight for his waist, wrapping her arms around his hips, hooking her left leg behind his ankle with terrifyingly accurate form, and driving her shoulder into his midsection.
The combination of zero balance, absolute surprise, and a surprisingly solid center of gravity sent Harry tumbling backward. He hit the plush parlor rug with a soft thud, Abigail landing squarely on top of his chest with a victorious grin.
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!" She shouted.
Harry lay flat on his back, staring up at the intricate plaster molding of the parlor ceiling. His breath came out in a short puff, his bedhead now thoroughly ruined by the carpet.
"Good form, Abby," Vernon chuckled, leaning against the archway with his arms crossed, looking down at the pair with immense pride. "Keep your hips lower next time, though. He could have rolled you if he wasn't asleep."
"He didn't roll me, though," Abigail said smugly, sitting up on Harry's stomach. "I caught him slipping."
Petunia stood beside Vernon, shaking her head with an affectionate smile, a delicate lace handkerchief pressed to her lips to hide her giggles. "Look at him. The poor boy doesn't even know what day it is."
Lying on the floor with his sister sitting on his ribs, the fog in Harry's mind finally cleared away.
July thirty-first.
It hit him with the weight of a flying brick. In his previous life, before he had ended up in this world a year ago, July thirty-first was just a number on a page. It was a date in a book he had read as a kid, a fictional milestone where a scrawny boy sat on a dirt floor in a rotting hut on a rock, counting down the seconds on a broken watch while a cousin smashed a stolen birthday cake.
Now, he was staring up at a chandelier in a grand manor, his ribs sore from a energetic tackle, his face warm from his adoptive mother's kisses, and his adoptive father beaming down at him with genuine warmth.
A slow, helpless grin broke across Harry's face. He let out a breathless laugh, reaching up to mess up Abigail's hair until she shrieked and tried to duck away.
"You guys are completely unhinged," Harry groaned, rubbing his ribs as he sat up. "Who greets the birthday boy with a tactical tackle?"
"Well, you've only got yourself to blame for teaching her that move in the first place," Petunia pointed out softly, stepping forward and extending a hand to pull him up.
"I didn't teach her to aim for the ribs," Harry wheezed, letting Petunia pull him up off the rug. "That was entirely pure malice."
"It was tactical," Abigail corrected from two feet away, already brushing off her knees with an utterly unbothered grin. "You left your right side wide open.
Petunia shook her head, though the corners of her eyes crinkled as she adjusted the collar of Harry's sleep shirt, smoothing down the front with a gentle, practiced touch. "Well, you shouldn't have given her those lessons in the garden if you didn't want to be target practice on your own birthday. And you slept straight through your alarm, by the way." She took him by the shoulders, steering him firmly toward the morning room. "Now stop standing about in the hallway and come eat."
Abigail didn't wait, grabbing Harry's wrist and dragging him the rest of the way.
The oak dining table in the morning room was practically bowing under the weight of the spread. Silver platters were piled high with golden French toast, sausages, poached eggs, fresh fruit tarts, pastries, and right in the center sat a magnificent two-tier birthday cake frosted in deep blue and gold. Plates were overlapping each other just to fit on the cloth.
"Your mother went completely overboard," Vernon said, walking over and landing a heavy, affectionate pat on Harry's shoulder. "She's been down here since three in the morning fussing over every single plate."
"It is not overboard, Vernon," Petunia said, lightly swatting her husband's arm with a folded napkin before stepping around the table. "He turns eleven once. Besides, I know for a fact he'll eat half those tarts before noon if I don't lock the pantry."
Harry looked at the mountain of food, then at Petunia, who was already fussing with a teapot. The sheer effort behind it all, the early morning hours, the endless baking, the tiny details... hit him right in the chest.
Without saying a word, Harry stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her into a tight, quiet hug.
Petunia froze for a fraction of a second, caught off guard, before her posture completely softened. She let out a small, breathless laugh, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and drawing him close. She rested her chin against his dark, messy hair and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the top of his head.
"Happy birthday, my sweet boy," she murmured gently into his hair.
"Thank you, Mum," Harry said, his voice a little low, buried against her shoulder. "For everything."
"Oi, I don't get any thanks... I have been up since 3 as well you know," Vernon said with mock offense.
"I didn't know you call snoring on the couch instead of the bed, being awake," Petunia countered, making both Abigail and Harry laugh.
Harry turned to them and smiled, "Thanks Dad, Abby. It's the best birthday... "
"Oh, don't start getting sentimental before we even sit down," she teased softly, though her voice had a delicate wobble to it. She patted his back twice before pulling away, brushing an imaginary speck of dust off his shoulder. "Go on, take your seat before the toast goes cold."
Harry sat down at the head of the table, pulling his plate closer. He looked around at the feast with a slight, hesitant smile. The truth was, despite the massive spread, Harry had never been a big eater. He didn't have one of those monstrous teenage metabolisms that could burn through three plates of bacon without breaking a sweat; he usually picked at his food, preferring small, light portions.
He reached for a single piece of French toast and a small spoonful of eggs, carefully placing them on his plate.
Abigail, who had already piled three sausages, two tarts, and a mountain of eggs onto her dish, watched him with deadpan judgment.
"That's it?" she asked, a fork poised halfway to her mouth. "It's your birthday, Harry. You're eating like a bird."
"I eat to live, Abby," Harry replied smoothly, cutting a neat, tiny square of toast. "I don't live to eat."
"You have the build of a tall coat hanger," Abigail chimed in, snatching a strawberry from a nearby bowl and popping it into her mouth. "Eat a sausage. You look like the wind could blow you into the next state."
Vernon let out a deep, chesty laugh as he pulled out his own chair, the wood scraping comfortably against the floorboards. "She's not entirely wrong, son. You spend too much time buried in those heavy leather books and not enough time putting meat on your bones. You'll need the strength once you get to that school."
"I am perfectly balanced," Harry argued weakly, taking a slow, deliberate bite of his toast. "I am built for speed and flexibility, not heavy lifting."
"You're built like a twig," Abigail corrected seamlessly, reaching over to drop a sausage directly onto his plate with a sharp clack of her fork. "Eat it."
Harry stared at his sister, his mouth half-open to deliver a crisp rebuttal, but Abigail didn't give him the chance. Before he could utter a word, she lunged across the corner of the table and unceremoniously shoved the end of the sausage right into his open mouth.
"Mmph!" Harry choked out, his eyes widening in complete betrayal as he was forced to take a bite just to keep from choking.
Vernon nearly choked on his coffee, letting out a loud, booming bark of laughter that vibrated off the walls. "Brilliant execution, Abby! No room for negotiation!"
"Abigail Dursley!" Petunia gasped, though her napkin was immediately pressed to her mouth to hide her own sudden onset of giggles. "Table manners! We do not force-feed your brother!"
"He was going to debate me, Mum," Abigail stated with absolute, cold logic, settling back into her chair and taking a neat bite of her own French toast. "If you let him speak, he talks nonsense for ten minutes and doesn't eat anything. You have to strike before he opens his mouth."
Harry chewed frantically, swallowed with a heavy gulp, and glared across the table with as much dark, brooding intensity as an eleven-year-old in messy pajamas could muster.
"You are an absolute monster," Harry said, wiping his lip with a napkin. "A feral, undisciplined beast."
"A feral beast who just made you eat protein," she replied smugly, pouring herself a glass of pumpkin juice. "You're welcome."
"Well you corrupted your sister into this feral monster," Vernon wiped a tear of laughter from his eye, setting his coffee mug down on it's saucer. "Right then. Now that the birthday boy has been properly coerced into fueling himself, let's get to the good stuff."
He gestured toward the sideboard where a mountain of carefully wrapped packages sat waiting. Petunia instantly set her teacup down, her eyes lighting up with eager, maternal anticipation, while Abigail leaned forward so far her chin was practically resting on the tablecloth.
"Presents!" Abigail declared, clapping her hands together twice. "Mine first! Open mine first!"
She scrambled out of her chair and dragged a long, slender box wrapped in dark blue paper from beside the sideboard, setting it down right in front of Harry.
"A long box?" Harry teased, raising an eyebrow at her. "Let me guess... a very long book?"
"Just open it!" Abigail bounced on her toes.
Harry carefully untied the silver ribbon and peeled back the paper. Resting inside a crushed-velvet lined casing was a sleek, beautifully crafted broomstick. The handle was carved from polished black walnut, featuring silver footrests and neat, gold lettering near the tip of the broom tail that read Comet 260.
"It's a Comet 260!" Abigail announced proudly, crossing her arms. "I made Dad take me to Quality Quidditch Supplies three times. The shopkeeper said it has excellent acceleration and built-in braking charms so you don't fly off and break your neck!"
"She got two.. One for herself and one for you." Vernon chuckled.
Harry ran a hand down the cool, smooth wood of the handle. It was a sturdy, reliable broom. A classic model perfect for learning the sport properly without being ridiculously wild like a racing prototype. He looked up at his sister, who was watching him with wide, hopeful eyes.
"Abby, this is incredible," Harry said softly, his voice full of genuine warmth. "A Comet 260? You really outdid yourself. We're definitely flying in the garden later."
Abigail beamed, puffing out her chest with absolute victory as she shot a smug look at her parents. "Hear that? I bought him a broom!"
"He hasn't even seen ours yet, you little show-off," Vernon chuckled, stepping forward to place his contribution on the table. He laid down a finely crafted leather satchel adorned with silver runic clasps. "This is from me, son."
Harry picked up the bag, feeling the surprising lightness of the leather despite its sturdy structure.
"It is a high-capacity subspace bag," Vernon explained proudly, leaning his hands on the back of his chair. "Completely feather-light and has the capacity of the largest vault in Gringotts. But the bag itself isn't the main gift. Look inside."
Harry unlatched the silver buckle and reached into the opening. His hand went deep past the physical bottom of the satchel, his fingers brushing against dozens of thick leather spines. He pulled out the first volume, then another, his eyes widening as he read the embossed gold lettering on the covers.
Advanced Transfiguration Matrices, Principles of Arithmancy and Spatial Geometry, Theoretical Charms of the Fifteenth Century, An Exhaustive Guide to Ancient Runic Wards.
Harry peered down into the endless depth of the satchel. There were at least thirty to forty heavy, high-level texts stacked neatly within the dimensional pocket, a complete personal library of advanced magic.
"I spoke with Mr. Flourish and made a special order," Vernon said, a warm, satisfied smile spreading across his face. "I figured if you're going to spend all your free time reading, you might as well have access to the heavy stuff."
Harry stared at the stack of books, his brain momentarily short-circuiting at the sheer value of the collection. "Dad, this... this is incredible. Some of these are restricted master-level texts!"
"Only the best for my boy," Vernon grinned, patting Harry's shoulder heavily.
Petunia stepped forward next, a serene, triumphant smile on her face as she gestured toward a massive wooden trunk lined with velvet, accompanied by several pristine garment boxes.
"And these are from me, darling," Petunia said smoothly.
Harry opened the first garment box to find four complete sets of tailor-made clothing. Petunia loved dressing Harry like a young prince, and it showed in every single stitch. There were two sets of sweeping formal robes made of midnight-blue acromantula silk with subtle silver embroidery along the lapels, and two sets of casual wear that looked effortlessly regal. The casual robes were crafted from soft cashmere and fine dragon-hide trim, complete with fitted trousers and tailored jackets that struck the perfect balance between high-society elegance and everyday comfort.
"Every single piece has self-adjusting seams," Petunia noted with immense pride, running a loving hand over the silk collar. "They will expand as you grow over the next two years. You will be the best-dressed wizard at Hogwarts, Harry. I won't have you walking around looking like a scruffy ragamuffin."
"They're incredible, Mum," Harry said, marveling at the rich texture of the fabric. "I'll look like nobility."
"You are family royalty," she corrected gently, kissing his cheek before gesturing to the heavy wooden trunk sitting beside the boxes. "And for your academic pursuits, I had this custom-built."
Harry flipped open the brass latches of the trunk, and his jaw dropped.
It was a full, professional-grade master's potions kit. Inside sat three distinct cauldrons mounted in cushioned compartments: one pure pewter, one solid brass, and one shimmering silver-plated cauldron designed for delicate ingredient reactions. Surrounding the cauldrons were rows of crystal phials, silver stirring rods, precision scales, dragon-hide gloves, an obsidian mortar and pestle, and dozens of rare, preserved ingredients neatly organized in climate-controlled drawers.
It was the kind of setup a seasoned Potions Master would envy, far beyond anything standard students ever touched.
"I know how much you love the precision of the subject," Petunia said softly, watching his face with deep maternal warmth. "Now you won't have to wait till getting to Hogwarts to get started."
Harry looked around the room at the brooms, the subspace bag full of rare texts, the prince-like wardrobe, the professional potion kit, and the three people smiling down at him.
In a world full of dark lords, ancient prophecies, and dangerous plots, sitting in this sunny morning room surrounded by a family that spoiled him so completely felt like an impenetrable fortress.
"Thank you," Harry said, his voice quiet, steady, and filled with deep, genuine emotion. "Every single one of you. This is the best birthday I've ever had."
"Save some of that energy," Vernon laughed, pulling his pocket watch out of his waistcoat. "We have reservations at the Obsidian Hearth in Diagon Alley tonight. But for now, I believe you and Abby have two brand-new broomsticks to test out in the garden."
"Last one to the pitch is a rotten egg!" Abigail shouted, already sprinting out of the morning room with her Comet 260 clutched in her arms.
Harry chuckled, grabbing his own broom and shaking his head. "I'm coming, you monster!"
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of flying in the garden. By seven in the evening, the family was gathered in the parlor, dressed in their finest attire.
The family gathered in the living hall to Floo to their destination. Vernon stepped up to the hearth first, tossed a pinch of shimmering green powder into the flames, announced "The Obsidian Hearth!", and vanished smoothly into the emerald fire. Petunia took Abigail's hand and stepped in right after, disappearing without a sound.
Then came Harry. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder, tossed it down, stepped into the fire, and yelled his destination.
Instantly, the world became a spinning, chaotic vortex of roaring flames and flying soot. Harry tumbled head over heels through the grate network, completely losing his balance. With a loud thud, he was launched face-first out of the fireplace at the Obsidian Hearth, skidding two feet across the pristine marble floor before coming to a stop at the feet of a startled maitre d'.
"Blasted, incompetent, dunderhead contraption!" Harry roared, scrambling up onto his knees, covered from head to toe in black soot. He began violently slapping at his silk sleeves, coughing up a small cloud of ash. "I swear on my life, whoever invented Floo travel was an absolute, brainless maniac! I am never taking this nightmare powder again! Never! I will walk! I will ride an angry hippogriff before I step into another chimney!"
Vernon, Petunia, and Abigail were already standing nearby, utterly unbothered and spotless.
"Every single time," Abigail said, shaking her head as she picked a piece of soot off Harry's nose. "You can fly a broom like a pro, but a chimney destroys you."
Petunia sighed, pulling out her wand and whisking away the ash with a swift Scourgify spell. "Mind your language, Harry. And do try to stand up before the staff thinks we brought a chimney sweep for dinner."
"I am an injured victim of terrible magical engineering, Mum," Harry grumbled, dusting off his coat as he finally stood up.
The maitre d' cleared his throat nervously, bowing low to lead them to their table. As they sat down in the dimly lit, elegant dining room, a senior waiter stepped up with gold-embossed menus.
"Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley," the waiter bowed. "We are delighted to host you tonight, especially as this is our final service for the season. The establishment will be closing at midnight to undergo a three-month architectural revamping, so our kitchen has prepared an exceptional menu for this evening."
Vernon nodded approvingly. "Then bring us your absolute best."
The food arrived quickly. They started with dragon-baked bread and rich lobster bisque, before moving on to the main courses. Abigail was practically vibrating in her chair, happily devouring her food while constantly interrupting Vernon to explain her flying techniques.
When the waiter returned for their drink orders, Harry leaned back, folding his hands over his knee with total composure.
"And for myself," Harry said smoothly, holding eye contact with the waiter, "a small glass of Dragon's Blood Vintage seventy-two. Neat, if you please."
The waiter blinked, his quill hovering.
A sharp cough sounded from across the table.
Petunia was staring at him, her eyebrows raised to an improbable height, her blue eyes locked onto his with absolute maternal authority.
"You are eleven years old," she said firmly. "You will be eleven for another three hours. You are not drinking Dragon's Blood Vintage."
Harry let out a small sigh, his smooth persona cracking instantly. "Mother, it is a historical brew. I merely wish to analyze the ingredient profile."
"Analyze pumpkin juice," Petunia replied without missing a beat. "Four Butterbeers, please."
Abigail pointed her fork at Harry and cackled. "Denied! You got shut down!"
"Eat your vegetables, Abby," Harry grumbled.
Twenty minutes later, while Vernon was deep in conversation with Petunia, Harry noticed a small decanter resting near Vernon's right elbow. It contained a splash of dark, aged whisky Vernon had requested to finish his meal.
Harry kept his face neutral. He waited until Vernon turned his head, then his hand began to move, creeping across the tablecloth like a silent spider.
Clack.
Petunia's butter knife came down with surgical precision, tapping the back of Harry's knuckles.
Harry froze. He looked up. Petunia was casually taking a sip of water, but her eyes were turned sideways, pinning him to his chair.
Harry slowly pulled his hand back. "Just checking if the decanter was balanced, Mum."
"It is perfectly balanced, Harry," she said smoothly.
Abigail snorted into her Butterbeer, nearly spraying it across the table. "You're terrible at this!"
Ten minutes passed. Conversation flowed, and Vernon reached for his water glass.
Harry saw another opening. He casually extended his arm behind his back, aiming to snag the glass from a completely different angle.
Tap.
Under the tablecloth, Petunia reached out and gave Harry's knee a sharp, warning pinch.
"Ow," Harry muttered, snapping his arm back.
"Did you say something, dear?" Petunia asked, smiling serenely as she cut her food.
"Just admiring the room, Mother," Harry grumbled politely.
Abigail doubled over in her chair, clutching her stomach with laughter. "Mum's caught you three times! Give up!"
Vernon nearly choked on his steak, burying his face in a napkin as his shoulders shook with laughter. "She's got hawk eyes, son. You'll never beat her."
By the time the dessert arrived, complete with tiny enchanted sugar dragons that circled the table, Abigail was leaning heavily against Harry's arm, completely exhausted from laughing and eating.
"Thank you for sharing your birthday dinner, Harry," she mumbled sleepily, hugging his waist as Vernon paid the bill.
Harry reached down, resting a hand on her head, feeling the warmth of the silver charm resting against his chest beneath his shirt.
"It was great, Abby," Harry said softly, looking around at his family. "The best one yet."
Four days passed in a comfortable blur of flying practice and advanced reading, bringing the warm afternoon of August the fourth. With a quiet pop, Harry appeared just outside the brick archway leading into Diagon Alley. The cobbled street was bustling with summer shoppers, but Harry had a very simple, singular mission for the day. He wanted to get a few treats from Sugarplum's Sweet Shop. Maybe some butterbeer fudge as he loved the taste. And maybe even some Chocolate Cauldrons since he couldn't exactly get those when he came with his mother.
He strolled leisurely down the busy thoroughfare, smoothly sidestepping witches with towering cauldrons and wizards arguing over the price of crushed beetle eyes. The summer heat made the thought of a sundae from Florean Fortescue's more appealing than Chocolate Cauldrons, but as he walked down the street, he found his feet slowing to a halt outside the familiar, slightly dusty display windows of Flourish and Blotts.
He certainly did not need any new reading material. His new subspace satchel was currently sitting in his pocket, packed with enough restricted, master-level magical theory to keep his mind occupied until Christmas. Still, old habits died hard. Deciding he could spare a few minutes to browse for some high-grade enchanted parchment and specialized copper-infused ink, Harry pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the comforting, quiet scent of old paper and leather bindings.
Harry picked his way through the narrower rows toward the back of the shop, where the specialty stationary and specialized drafting texts were kept. He began casually running his fingers along the spines, enjoying the quiet hum of the store, when the bell above the front entrance jingled loudly.
From the corner of his eye, Harry spotted something large, bright, and impossible to miss entering the shop. A family of seven spilled through the doorway right behind their mother. Every single one of them had bright red hair.
Before Harry could even take in their details, a sudden, sneering voice echoed clearly in his mind: Red hair and a hand-me-down robe. You must be a Weasley.
Harry flinched slightly, pulling his hand back from a leather-bound journal. The voice was unmistakably Draco Malfoy's, or at least the exact tone Harry imagined Malfoy would have based on his memories of the original story. It was astonishingly irritating. Harry shook his head, clearing his thoughts. It was a minor miracle he hadn't run into the Malfoy heir during any of his previous trips to Diagon Alley. He had briefly wondered if Malfoy even existed in this world, much like how Dudley didn't exist in his family, but he quickly pushed the thought aside.
He turned his attention back to the group. Arthur Weasley was adjusting his glasses as he looked around the store with open curiosity, while Molly fussed over the youngest children. Percy stood near the front with a stiff, haughty posture. Fred and George were exchanging identical mischievous grins, while Ron looked as though he would rather face a dragon than be dragged into a bookstore. Little Ginny hovered quietly behind her mother, clutching the hem of Molly's robes.
They were remarkably accurate to the stories Harry knew, at least on the surface. Deciding not to stare, Harry turned back toward his aisle, reaching for a small bottle of copper-infused ink.
A loud crash shattered the quiet hum of the store, followed immediately by the heavy thud of dozens of hardcovers striking the floorboards.
Harry turned his head toward the noise. A tall, towering display of reference guides near the central aisle had completely collapsed, scattering heavy volumes across the floor. In the middle of the wreckage stood Ron, his face and ears rapidly turning the exact shade of a ripe tomato. He scrambled frantically on his knees, muttering rapid apologies under his breath while Fred and George immediately began snickering and pointing.
Harry let out a small, silent sigh. Connecting with the Weasleys early was a logical move, even if he doubted his relationship with Ron would mirror the original story.
Stepping around the corner, Harry crouched down beside the mess and picked up three thick volumes of The Standard Book of Spells. "Here, let me give you a hand," he offered calmly.
Ron glanced up, startled by the sudden help. "Oh, uh, thanks," he mumbled, his face growing even redder as he took the books from Harry.
Harry didn't bother using magic to clear the mess. Revealing his abilities without a clear strategic reason was unnecessary, so he simply stacked the remaining volumes neatly and helped slide them back onto the lower display shelves.
"Ronald Weasley! What on earth did I tell you about watching your elbows?" Molly bustled over, her hands flustered as she adjusted her cloak. She began scolding her son, but her tone softened instantly when she noticed Harry straightening up beside him. "Oh, thank you for helping, dear. Honestly, this boy doesn't know his own feet from his hands half the time."
Harry brushed a speck of dust off his cuff and offered a polite, measured smile. "It was no trouble at all, ma'am."
Molly smiled warmly, giving him an appreciative look. "Still, it's very polite of you. Are you here for your school supplies as well? You look just about the right age for first year."
Harry returned the smile smoothly. "No, ma'am. I already received my core books back in July. I am just browsing for a few specialty items today. But yes, I will be attending Hogwarts for my first year this term."
"Oh, marvellous! The first trip for school supplies is always..." Molly started automatically, before blinking as his words registered. She laughed gently at herself, waving a hand. "Oh, listen to me, mind like a sieve today. You just said you've already been!
Arthur Weasley stepped around the corner, having helped set the top display shelf back in place. He pushed his glasses up his nose, offering Harry a warm, fatherly smile. "Pay her no mind, young man. We've been running about all morning, so her head is spinning a bit. I'm Arthur Weasley, and this is my wife, Molly." He held out a hand, looking closer at Harry's features with growing curiosity. "And what might your name be? You look remarkably familiar."
Harry took Arthur's hand, giving it a firm, polite shake. "I am Harry, sir. Harry Potter."
The reaction was instant. The entire family froze in place.
Ron's jaw dropped so fast it looked painful, while Fred and George exchanged identical, wide-eyed looks of pure shock. Little Ginny gasped softly, immediately retreating behind Percy, who suddenly stood up straighter, trying to compose his expressions.
Arthur blinked, his brows knitting together in awe. "Harry Potter?" he repeated softly, as if verifying the name. "Well, bless my soul. This is... an absolute honor, young man."
Molly placed a hand over her heart, her gaze softening into deep maternal sympathy. "Oh, you poor dear. After everything... You've grown into such a polite young man."
Harry offered a quiet, modest smile. "Thank you, Mrs. Weasley, but I'm really just Harry."
Arthur glanced toward the front entrance before turning back. "Are you here with your guardians today, Harry? Or visiting Diagon Alley on your own?"
"I came over via Floo on my own to get some ice cream, sir," Harry replied smoothly. "My parents were busy with business affairs today, so I decided to take a short trip."
Molly blinked, caught off guard by his wording. "Your... parents, dear?"
Harry nodded politely. "My adoptive parents. Vernon and Petunia Dursley. They took me in after my birth parents passed."
Arthur exchanged a subtle, significant look with Molly. The Dursley family was well-known among old-blood circles for their extensive wealth and influence, though they kept their private affairs closely guarded.
"Ah, the Dursleys," Arthur said, his tone turning respectful. "I see. Lord Dursley's firm handles quite a few major trade supply lines across magical Britain, including the distribution of EverClean products and potion ingredients."
"Yes, sir," Harry said softly. "They have raised me alongside my sister, Abigail. I couldn't have asked for a better family."
Fred broke the quiet tension with a grin, stepping forward slightly. "So the rumors were true then! People said the Dursleys took you in, but no one ever saw you out at the galas."
"Fred," Molly warned gently.
George chimed in with a theatrical flourish. "Must be proper grand living in Dursley Mansion! Rooms bigger than Gringotts, private duel rings..."
Harry let out a light, quiet chuckle, keeping his posture relaxed. "It is a comfortable home, though he mostly stick to the main wing. We don't have any house-elves these days." He paused for a brief beat, letting a small smile touch his lips. "Though my father does keep the private Quidditch pitch maintained on the grounds."
The effect on the younger Weasley boys was immediate.
"A private Quidditch pitch?!" Fred and George blurted out in unison, completely ignoring Molly's sharp glance.
Ron's eyes went wide. "A full-sized one? At your house?"
"Yes," Harry said, keeping his tone light and modest. "Though I mostly just fly solo on my Comet 260. I don't really have anyone to play proper matches with, so I haven't learned much about team strategy or game rules."
"That is an absolute tragedy," Fred declared, placing a hand over his heart.
"A waste of good turf!" George added. "Can we come over today? We'll teach you everything!"
Ron looked ready to jump at the offer. "Yeah, can we?"
Harry offered an apologetic smile, raising a hand slightly. "I would love to, really, but my family has plans for the evening, so today wouldn't work. Perhaps another time?"
He had no intention of inviting them into Dursley Mansion just yet. He needed to evaluate their character in a neutral setting first.
Molly stepped in, giving her sons a stern look before turning back to Harry with a warm, approving smile. "That is entirely understandable, Harry. But if you are free tomorrow mid-morning, you are more than welcome to visit us at the Burrow instead! It is nowhere near as grand as a mansion, mind you, but the boys can show you the basics on our paddock. That way you'll know what to do on your own pitch."
Harry's eyes gleamed with subtle interest. Visiting the Burrow was the ideal scenario. It gave him a direct, natural opportunity to inspect Scabbers and confirm whether Peter Pettigrew existed in this timeline.
"That sounds wonderful, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said politely, bowing his head slightly. "I would be delighted to visit."
Arthur nodded warmly, stepping back slightly to gesture toward his family. "Where are my manners? Let me introduce everyone properly. This is my eldest here today, Percy."
Percy stepped forward with a stiff, formal posture, adjusting his glasses. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Harry. If you ever require guidance or assistance navigating Hogwarts, do not hesitate to ask. I am a Gryffindor Prefect and it's my duty to help first years navigate the castle."
Harry offered a polite, respectful nod. "Thank you, Percy. I appreciate the offer."
Percy looked visibly pleased by the dignified response, puffing out his chest slightly.
Arthur then pointed toward the twins, who were grinning identically. "These two troublemakers are Fred and George."
"At your service," Fred said with a slight bow.
"Master of all things chaotic," George added with a wink.
"And this is Ronald," Arthur continued, placing a hand on his youngest son's shoulder.
Ron gave a somewhat awkward, flush-faced nod. "Er... hi."
"It's a pleasure to meet you all," Harry said smoothly.
Finally, Arthur looked down toward his wife's robes, where a small girl was desperately trying to make herself invisible. "And this shy little lady hiding behind Molly is our youngest, Ginny."
Ginny peeked out from behind her mother's skirt for half a second. The moment her bright brown eyes met Harry's green ones, her entire face flushed a deep crimson. She let out a tiny, squeaking noise, turned on her heel, and bolted toward the back display racks of the bookstore.
Harry blinked, watching her retreat with genuine, mild surprise. He turned back to the twins, tilting his head slightly. "Did I... say something wrong?"
Fred burst into a sudden, barking laugh, while George clapped a hand over his mouth to hide a massive grin.
"Er, no," Ron muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, looking deeply embarrassed for his sister. "She's just... like that. Around you."
Harry feigned a touch of confused innocence, letting his cheeks warm just enough to look convincing. "Around me? Why would she be shy around me?"
"Mate," Fred whispered, leaning in with an amused grin, "she's had a massive crush on you since she was five."
Harry ducked his head slightly, pretending to be flustered by the revelation. "Oh. I... I didn't realize. Should I apologize?"
"Don't bother!" George snickered. "She'll run further! It's much more entertaining this way."
Molly shot the twins a stern, sharp glare that instantly silenced their laughter, before turning back to Harry with a warm, maternal smile. "Pay those two no mind, Harry. Ginny will come around once she gets used to having you about."
She smoothed down her apron and looked at him kindly. "So, about tomorrow mid-morning. Shall we expect you at the Burrow around ten? We can have you over for lunch, and the boys can show you around the paddock."
"That sounds perfect, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said, offering a polite, well-mannered bow of his head. "I look forward to it."
With the arrangements settled, the Weasley family began gathering their armfuls of secondhand books to head toward the counter. Harry exhaled softly as he watched them move off. The encounter had gone remarkably well, and tomorrow at the Burrow would give him the exact access he needed to resolve the question of Peter Pettigrew once and for all.