# Saturday Morning - Parker Residence
Harry had been awake since 5:47 AM.
He knew the exact time because he'd been watching his alarm clock like it was personally responsible for his anxiety, which in a way it was, because it kept reminding him that he was getting closer and closer to 2 PM, which was when he had to be at MACUSA headquarters to meet eight potential classmates who already knew he was the Boy Who Lived.
No pressure.
Just casual Saturday afternoon plans involving his entire social future and the weight of magical celebrity.
Totally fine.
Everything was fine.
Nothing was fine.
Harry stared at his closet with the kind of intense focus usually reserved for defusing bombs or solving complex mathematical proofs. He'd been standing there for approximately twenty minutes, wearing his pajamas and experiencing what could only be described as a full-scale wardrobe crisis.
"Okay," he muttered to himself, pulling out a shirt and then immediately putting it back. "This one says 'I'm trying too hard.' This one says 'I gave up.' This one says 'my aunt bought this and I had no say in the matter.' This one says—"
"Harry, are you talking to your clothes again?" Ben's voice came from the doorway, warm with amusement and just a hint of concern.
Harry turned to find his uncle leaning against the doorframe, holding two mugs of hot chocolate (the good kind, with tiny marshmallows) and wearing what Harry privately called his "Dad Is Worried But Trying Not To Show It" expression.
"I'm not talking TO my clothes," Harry defended, though he absolutely had been. "I'm talking ABOUT my clothes. To myself. While they happen to be present. There's a difference."
"Subtle but important distinction," Ben agreed, handing Harry one of the mugs. "Though I should mention you've been in here for half an hour and you're still in your Spider-Man pajamas, so your conversation with/about your clothes doesn't seem to be particularly productive."
Harry accepted the hot chocolate gratefully, wrapping his hands around the warm mug. "That's because nothing looks right. Everything I own either makes me look like I'm trying too hard to seem cool, or like I've given up on life entirely, or like I'm going to a funeral, or—"
"Harry," Ben interrupted gently, "it's eleven-year-olds meeting other eleven-year-olds. Not a job interview for NASA."
"It's WORSE than a job interview for NASA!" Harry said, his voice climbing toward panic. "At NASA, they'd judge me on my qualifications and skills! These kids are going to judge me based on whether I live up to their expectations of what the Boy Who Lived should be like!"
Ben set his own mug down on Harry's desk and moved to sit on the bed, patting the space next to him. "Come here. Sit. Let's talk about this for real."
Harry hesitated, then joined his uncle on the bed, still clutching his hot chocolate like a lifeline. For a moment they sat in comfortable silence—the kind that only happened between people who'd lived together long enough to not need constant conversation.
"You want to know what I think?" Ben said finally, his voice carrying that particular warmth that made even difficult conversations feel manageable. "I think you're not actually worried about what shirt to wear. I think you're worried about something much bigger and you're focusing on clothes because that's something you can control."
Harry stared into his hot chocolate, watching the tiny marshmallows slowly dissolve. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who knows you pretty well," Ben said. "So talk to me. What's really going on in that brilliant, overthinking brain of yours?"
Harry took a breath, trying to organize the chaos of his thoughts into something coherent. "What if I'm not... enough? What if they meet me and realize that Harry Potter is just this weird kid who asks too many questions and doesn't even go to Hogwarts yet? What if all their expectations about the Boy Who Lived meeting them turns into disappointment when they realize I'm just... me?"
"Just you," Ben repeated softly. "Harry, do you know what 'just you' means to me?"
Harry shook his head.
"'Just you' means a nine-year-old kid who studies theoretical magic for hours every day because he wants to be ready to support his friends when they need him," Ben said. "Who asks questions about whether Transfigured rats have existential crises because he genuinely cares about understanding the ethical implications of magic. Who worries more about other people's wellbeing than his own comfort."
"That just sounds like overthinking with extra steps," Harry muttered.
"It sounds like empathy," Ben corrected. "And analytical thinking. And dedication. All qualities that make you remarkable, not ordinary."
Harry picked at a loose thread on his pajama pants. "But what if they don't see it that way? What if they just see the kid who's not as cool or confident or magical as they expected?"
"Then that says everything about their expectations and nothing about your worth," Ben said firmly. "Harry, here's something I've learned after forty-three years of being alive: you can't control what other people think about you. You can't prevent disappointment if someone's built an entire fantasy version of you in their head before they've even met you."
"So what am I supposed to do?" Harry asked, his voice small.
"Be yourself," Ben said simply. "I know that sounds like unhelpful greeting-card wisdom, but I mean it. Be the kid who asks interesting questions. Be curious. Be thoughtful. Be the Harry that Peter and MJ and the others love so much they write you seventeen-page letters every week."
"Peter's letters are longer than seventeen pages," Harry said with a slight smile.
"Because he's Peter and words are his love language," Ben agreed. "But my point stands. Your friends don't love you because you're the Boy Who Lived. They love you because you're Harry. Smart, kind, funny, slightly neurotic Harry who makes them laugh and thinks deeply about things and shows up for them when it matters."
Harry let this sink in, feeling some of the tension in his shoulders start to ease. "What if some of these kids turn out to be jerks? What if they're the kind of people who only care about the legend and not the actual person?"
"Then you'll have learned something valuable about them before you're stuck at school together," Ben said pragmatically. "Better to know now than find out the hard way later. And honestly? If Aurora's involved in the selection process, I trust that most of these candidates are probably decent kids who are just as nervous about meeting you as you are about meeting them."
"They're nervous about meeting me?" Harry asked, skeptical.
"Harry, you're a legend in their world," Ben pointed out. "You're the kid who survived the impossible, who's connected to their history in ways they've been hearing about their entire lives. Of course they're nervous. They're probably standing in front of their own closets right now, having their own wardrobe crises, wondering if the Boy Who Lived is going to think they're cool enough."
Harry blinked. He hadn't considered that. The idea that other people might be nervous about meeting him—not because of what he'd done (which was nothing, really, just survived) but because of what his name represented—was almost more overwhelming than his own anxiety.
"That's kind of a lot of pressure for everyone involved," he said.
"Welcome to social situations," Ben said with gentle humor. "Everyone's worried about what everyone else thinks, and nobody's actually as confident as they pretend to be."
"That's depressing," Harry observed.
"It's also freeing," Ben countered. "Because once you accept that everyone's a little bit terrified of social interactions, you can stop worrying so much about whether you're doing it wrong. We're all doing it wrong. That's the secret."
Harry laughed despite himself. "So your advice is to accept that I'm going to be awkward and that's fine because everyone else is also awkward?"
"Essentially, yes," Ben confirmed. "Though I'd phrase it as 'accept that you're going to be human and that connecting with other humans is inherently complicated, but also kind of wonderful when you find people who appreciate your particular brand of humanity.'"
"That's very philosophical for eleven in the morning," Harry said.
"I've been up since six thinking about how to help you through this," Ben admitted. "May and I both heard you pacing around your room. We flipped a coin for who got to have the serious talk. I won."
"Lucky you," Harry said dryly.
"Lucky me," Ben agreed with genuine warmth. "I get to remind my brilliant, kind, overthinking son that he's exactly who he needs to be and that anyone who doesn't appreciate that is missing out."
Harry leaned against his uncle's shoulder, feeling the last of his panic start to recede. "I'm still nervous."
"Good," Ben said. "Nervous means you care. Means this matters to you. That's healthy."
"What if I say something stupid?"
"Then you'll say something stupid," Ben said pragmatically. "Everyone says stupid things sometimes. The secret is not letting one awkward moment define the entire interaction."
"What if I ask them about rat existential crises?"
"Then they'll either think it's a fascinating question or they'll think you're weird, and honestly, you're going to be weird regardless of what you ask them," Ben said with affection. "Might as well be weird about something interesting."
Harry pulled back to look at his uncle. "You think I'm weird?"
"I think you're wonderfully, brilliantly weird," Ben clarified. "In all the best ways. You see the world differently than most people, ask questions others don't think to ask, care about details that seem small but are actually profound. That's not a flaw, Harry. That's what makes you special."
"Peter says the same thing," Harry said quietly.
"Peter's a smart kid," Ben said. "Speaking of which—you're going to see him today. And MJ, and Gwen, and Ned, and Felicia. Your actual friends who know you and love you exactly as you are. Focus on that. The candidate meeting is just a couple hours, but you get the whole weekend with people who already think you're great."
That helped more than Ben probably realized. Whatever happened at the candidate gathering, Harry would have his friends there. Would have Peter's enthusiastic support, MJ's dry wit, Gwen's logical reassurance, Ned's genuine kindness, Felicia's confident pragmatism.
He wasn't going into this alone.
"Okay," Harry said, taking a breath and feeling genuinely calmer. "Okay. I can do this."
"You absolutely can," Ben confirmed. "Now, let's solve the wardrobe crisis. What's wrong with all your clothes?"
Harry gestured helplessly at his closet. "Everything either looks too formal or too casual or too... I don't know, everything just feels wrong."
Ben stood and examined the options with the serious consideration of a man who understood that sometimes clothing choices were really about emotional preparation. After a moment, he pulled out a blue button-down shirt and dark jeans.
"This," he said firmly. "Comfortable, appropriate, not trying too hard but also not looking like you rolled out of bed five minutes ago. Plus, blue's a good color on you."
Harry accepted the clothes, then looked up at his uncle. "Thanks. For the talk, I mean. Not just the clothes."
"Anytime," Ben said warmly. "That's what I'm here for. Well, that and embarrassing you at inappropriate moments. It's in the uncle contract."
"There's an uncle contract?" Harry asked, distracted from his anxiety.
"Oh yes," Ben said seriously. "Very official document. Requires at least three embarrassing stories told at holidays, mandatory bad jokes, and providing life advice at crucial moments. I'm just doing my job."
"You're ridiculous," Harry said, but he was smiling.
"Part of my charm," Ben replied. "Now get dressed. May's making her famous pre-stressful-event breakfast, which means pancakes shaped like things that may or may not be recognizable. Last time she attempted a dinosaur and it looked more like a blob with attitude."
"The dinosaur was great," Harry defended as Ben headed for the door.
"The dinosaur was a Rorschach test," Ben corrected. "But we ate it anyway because we love her."
After Ben left, Harry changed into the clothes his uncle had selected, and had to admit they felt right in a way nothing else had. Comfortable but presentable. Casual but not sloppy. The kind of outfit that said "I'm a normal kid attending a normal gathering" rather than "I spent two hours having a crisis about what the Boy Who Lived should wear."
He studied himself in the mirror, trying to see what these candidates would see. Dark hair that refused to behave no matter what he did to it. Green eyes that seemed too bright for his face. A lightning bolt scar that was usually hidden by his hair but was visible if you knew to look for it. Nine years old but tall enough that people sometimes thought he was older.
Just a kid. That's all he was. Not a legend, not a chosen one, not anything special except the love he'd received from people like Ben and May and his friends.
Maybe that was enough.
Maybe being "just Harry" was actually the whole point.
He took a deep breath, grabbed his hot chocolate (which had gone lukewarm but he drank it anyway because it was a gift from Ben and that mattered), and headed downstairs to face May's dinosaur pancakes and the day ahead.
Whatever happened at MACUSA headquarters, he'd deal with it. With his friends beside him, his family supporting him, and the knowledge that being himself—weird questions, analytical thinking, and all—was not just acceptable but actually pretty great.
The Boy Who Lived could handle meeting eight potential classmates.
Harry Potter-Parker could definitely handle it.
Probably.
He hoped.
Time would tell.
But at least his shirt looked good.
Small victories.
---
# 1:30 PM - In the Car
The drive from Queens to Manhattan should have been straightforward, but of course Harry's anxiety had decided to manifest as excessive bathroom requirements, which meant they'd stopped twice already and were now running exactly on time instead of fashionably early.
"I'm sorry," Harry said from the backseat for the third time, clutching his water bottle like it was personally responsible for his overactive bladder. "I don't know why I keep needing to pee. It's like my body has decided to sabotage me."
"It's called anxiety," May said from the passenger seat, where she was conducting what appeared to be a final review of her own appearance despite having looked perfect for the past hour. "Your body's stress response includes increased bathroom frequency. Perfectly normal."
"It's annoying," Harry muttered.
"Most anxiety symptoms are," Ben agreed from the driver's seat, navigating Manhattan traffic with the calm competence of someone who'd been doing this for twenty years. "But you're doing fine. We're going to arrive exactly on time, you look great, and you're going to see your friends for the first time in months."
"And meet eight strangers who probably have completely unrealistic expectations about who I should be," Harry added.
"Well, yes, that too," Ben admitted. "But we're focusing on the positive parts."
"What if there are no positive parts?" Harry asked.
"Then we'll deal with that," May said firmly. "But Harry, sweetie, you're catastrophizing. You don't know these kids yet. Maybe they'll be wonderful. Maybe you'll make new friends. Maybe—"
"Maybe they'll be exactly as nervous as I am and we'll all just be awkward together," Harry finished.
"That's the spirit," May said. "Collective awkwardness builds character."
Harry watched Manhattan's skyline grow closer through the window, the familiar buildings looking somehow more intimidating than usual. MACUSA headquarters was in the Woolworth Building—he'd been there once before, during their initial orientation for the exchange program, and he remembered being overwhelmed by the sheer scale of magical government hidden within ordinary architecture.
"What if I say something stupid?" he asked, voicing the fear that had been circling in his brain since Ben's pep talk.
"You probably will," Ben said with pragmatic honesty. "Most people say something stupid when they're nervous. The trick is not letting one awkward moment derail the entire interaction."
"But what if it's really stupid?" Harry pressed. "Like, memorably stupid? The kind of stupid that people remember years later?"
"Then it'll be a funny story eventually," May said. "Some of the best friendships start with someone saying something completely ridiculous and everyone else recognizing the shared humanity in that moment."
"That sounds fake," Harry said.
"It's actually true," Ben confirmed. "Some of my closest friendships started because I said something stupid and the other person laughed instead of judging me."
"Name one," Harry challenged.
"Your Uncle David," Ben replied immediately. "Met him at college orientation. I was so nervous I introduced myself as 'Ben Parker, Professional Disaster.' He thought I was hilarious instead of pathetic. We've been friends for twenty-three years."
"You never told me that story," Harry said.
"Because it's embarrassing," Ben said. "But also kind of endearing in retrospect. Point being—sometimes the stupid things we say are actually what make us likeable because they reveal our authentic humanity."
Harry considered this, then nodded slowly. "Okay. So if I accidentally ask someone about rat existential crises—"
"It might actually make you more approachable," May finished. "Because it shows you think deeply about things and aren't afraid to ask unconventional questions."
"Or it'll make them think I'm weird," Harry said.
"Por qué no los dos?" Ben said in terrible Spanish.
"Why are you speaking Spanish?" Harry asked, distracted from his anxiety.
"Because I'm cultured and sophisticated," Ben replied.
"You took one semester of Spanish in college and barely passed," May said.
"A semester counts as education," Ben defended.
"You can't order food in Spanish," May pointed out.
"I can order tacos," Ben said. "Tacos are food."
"Tacos are one food," May corrected. "Knowing one food word doesn't make you bilingual."
"It makes me taco-lingual," Ben said proudly.
"That's not a thing," Harry said, but he was smiling despite his nerves.
"It's absolutely a thing," Ben insisted. "Very specific subset of bilingualism focusing exclusively on Mexican cuisine."
"That would be the worst superpower," Harry observed.
"I disagree," Ben said. "Knowing every taco in the world? That's valuable information."
"No it's not," May said.
"It absolutely is," Ben maintained. "Food is important."
They were getting closer now—Harry could see the Woolworth Building's distinctive architecture rising above the surrounding structures, all neo-Gothic glory and turn-of-the-century ambition. Somewhere inside that building, eight potential classmates were probably also arriving, probably also nervous, probably also having their own wardrobe crises and bathroom emergencies.
Collective awkwardness builds character, May had said. Maybe she was right.
Maybe everyone was just as terrified as he was, and they could all be terrified together, and somehow that would be better than being terrified alone.
"We're here," Ben announced, finding a parking spot with the kind of luck that suggested the universe was occasionally on their side. "You ready?"
"No," Harry said honestly.
"Good," May said. "If you were ready, I'd be worried. Nervous means you care."
"Everyone keeps saying that," Harry muttered, unbuckling his seatbelt.
"Because it's true," Ben said. "Now come on. Your friends are waiting, and I promised Peter I'd document this reunion with photographic evidence for posterity."
"Please don't," Harry said automatically.
"Too late, I already promised," Ben replied cheerfully. "Uncle contract requires embarrassing photo documentation at crucial life moments."
"I regret everything," Harry said, but he was climbing out of the car anyway, his legs feeling slightly unsteady as they made their way toward the Woolworth Building's entrance.
Through those doors was MACUSA headquarters. Through those doors were eight candidates who might become his classmates. Through those doors were his friends, whom he hadn't seen in months.
Through those doors was the next step in his journey toward Hogwarts.
Harry took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and tried to channel whatever courage had gotten him through every other scary thing in his nine years of life.
He could do this.
Probably.
Maybe.
Time would tell.
But at least his shirt looked good, and his family was with him, and somewhere in that building, Peter was probably already preparing seventeen different enthusiastic greetings.
Small victories.
He'd take them.
[Continue with arrival at MACUSA, Peter and the others are there waiting for him]
---
# MACUSA Headquarters - 2:00 PM
The Woolworth Building's lobby looked exactly as Harry remembered from their orientation visit—all marble floors and brass fixtures and the kind of architectural grandeur that said "we were built in 1913 and we're very proud of it, thank you very much." But unlike regular visitors who would see just an ordinary office building lobby, Harry could see the subtle shimmer at the far end where the magical entrance existed, hidden behind layers of perception charms that made regular people's eyes slide right past it without conscious awareness.
May, Ben, and Harry approached the security desk where a witch in professional business robes sat reading what appeared to be a newspaper that was vigorously arguing with itself about economic policy.
"Parker family," Ben said with practiced politeness. "We're here for the exchange program candidate gathering."
The witch looked up, consulted a list that appeared to be self-updating in real-time, and nodded with bureaucratic efficiency. "Fifth floor, Conference Room C. Take the elevators on your right, they're authorized for magical access today."
"Thank you," May said, guiding Harry toward the indicated elevators before he could start analyzing the self-updating list's magical properties or ask about the newspaper's editorial independence.
The elevator ride was quiet—just the three of them ascending through the building while Harry's stomach did complicated gymnastics that would have impressed Olympic judges. The elevator itself was larger than seemed physically possible given the building's external dimensions, which Harry's brain wanted to analyze but his anxiety was too busy spiraling to properly engage with architectural impossibilities.
"Breathe," May said softly, squeezing his shoulder. "In for four, hold for four, out for four."
Harry followed the breathing pattern—an anxiety management technique they'd practiced dozens of times—and felt his heart rate slow from "hummingbird on espresso" to merely "anxious but functional."
The elevator doors opened on the fifth floor with a gentle chime, revealing a corridor that was significantly more magical than the ground floor had been. The walls were decorated with moving portraits of important magical historical figures, the carpet had subtle runic patterns woven into it that probably served some protective or organizational function, and the lighting came from floating orbs rather than overhead fixtures.
"This way," Ben said, consulting the directional signs that helpfully updated themselves as they approached.
Conference Room C was at the end of the corridor, its double doors standing open to reveal what appeared to be a carefully designed social space rather than a sterile meeting room. Comfortable seating was arranged in conversation clusters, a refreshment table held both magical and non-magical food options, and large windows showed a view of Manhattan that definitely wasn't visible from the actual fifth floor, which meant magical enhancement or dimensional manipulation or possibly just really good interior decorating.
But Harry barely registered any of that because—
"HARRY!"
The shout came from near the refreshment table, where Peter Parker was currently abandoning what appeared to be a very full plate of snacks to sprint across the room with the kind of reckless enthusiasm that suggested he'd either forgotten about or was actively ignoring any concept of social grace.
"Peter!" Harry barely managed to get the name out before his friend crashed into him with a hug that was equal parts relief, excitement, and what felt like months of accumulated affection compressed into a single moment of enthusiastic greeting.
"Oh my god, you're actually here, I thought maybe you'd decide not to come but you're here and you look great and I missed you so much and—"
"Peter," came MJ's dry voice from across the room, "maybe let him breathe before you accidentally suffocate him with affection?"
Peter pulled back but kept his hands on Harry's shoulders, his brown eyes bright with genuine happiness. "Sorry, sorry, I'm just—we haven't seen you in months and I have so much to tell you and—you got taller! Did you get taller? You look taller!"
"You got taller too," Harry said, taking in his friend's appearance with the kind of careful attention he gave to everything important. Peter had grown at least an inch since September, his brown hair was somehow even more chaotic than usual (which should have been physically impossible but here they were), and he was wearing Ravenclaw robes that made him look simultaneously more mature and more excited than Harry had ever seen him.
"Hogwarts has good food," Peter said by way of explanation. "Like, really good food. I've been eating approximately seventeen meals a day and apparently growing in multiple directions as a result."
"That's not how growth works," Gwen Stacy said, approaching with her characteristic systematic efficiency and immediately pulling Harry into a much more restrained but equally genuine hug. "Welcome back to our lives. We missed you."
"Missed you too," Harry said, feeling his anxiety start to recede in the presence of people who actually knew him. "Your study guide has been incredibly helpful and also occasionally makes me want to cry."
"That's the intended effect," Gwen confirmed. "Emotional distress builds character and academic resilience."
"That's deeply concerning educational philosophy," Harry observed.
"It's effective though," Gwen replied with absolute certainty.
"HARRY!" Ned's voice preceded him as he bounded over with Felix perched on his shoulder, the Pygmy Puff cycling through excited shades of gold and orange. "Oh my god, buddy, it's been forever! How are you? Are you okay? Are you ready for today? Felix wants to know if you've gotten a pet yet because he's been very concerned about your emotional support animal situation."
"I don't have an emotional support animal situation," Harry said, reaching up to scratch Felix behind his tiny ears, which prompted a contented squeak. "Unless we count Uncle Ben, who sometimes provides moral support through terrible jokes."
"Hey," Ben protested mildly from where he and May were being greeted by Aurora near the entrance.
"I stand by my assessment," Harry called back.
MJ appeared at his other side, having apparently taken her time crossing the room in favor of making a dramatic entrance. Her artistic sensibilities were evident in the way she'd somehow managed to make standard school robes look effortlessly stylish, and her copper-red hair caught the light in ways that made Harry think of sunset over the East River.
"Hey," she said simply, pulling him into a brief hug that was somehow more meaningful for its brevity. "You look good. Nervous, but good."
"That's my baseline emotional state," Harry replied. "How are you? How's Hogwarts? Your letters have been great but they can't really capture what it's actually like to be there."
"It's..." MJ paused, searching for words. "It's everything and more and also occasionally overwhelming in ways I didn't expect. But we'll talk about it later when we're not surrounded by candidates who are probably judging our emotional reunion."
"Are they judging us?" Harry asked, suddenly hyperaware that they were in a room with other people.
"Probably," MJ said pragmatically. "But who cares? We haven't seen you in months. They can judge all they want."
Felicia Hardy arrived last, her approach more measured but her smile genuine. "Well, well. The boy who lived to study Transfiguration theory while his friends were actually at magic school. How've you been, Harry?"
"Existentially conflicted but functionally competent," Harry replied, accepting her elegant hug. "You look good. Ravenclaw's treating you well?"
"Ravenclaw's been excellent," Felicia confirmed. "Though I've been spending a concerning amount of time in the library. I think Gwen's organizational tendencies are contagious."
"They are absolutely not contagious," Gwen protested. "You're just discovering that systematic knowledge organization is actually useful."
"Same thing," Felicia said with a grin.
Harry looked around at his friends—all of them here, in person, after months of only letters and second-hand updates—and felt something in his chest unclench. Whatever happened with the candidates, whatever awkwardness or judgment or complicated social dynamics emerged from this gathering, he had his people here. His actual friends who knew him and liked him despite (or maybe because of) his tendency to overthink everything and ask weird questions.
"Okay," he said, taking a breath that felt genuinely calm for the first time since waking up. "I can do this. I can meet eight potential classmates and not make a complete fool of myself."
"You'll probably make at least a partial fool of yourself," MJ said with characteristic honesty. "But that's part of your charm."
"That's a concerning definition of charm," Harry observed.
"And yet accurate," Peter said. "Come on, let's get you some snacks before Aurora starts the official introduction thing. You need proper nutrition to fuel your anxiety-driven overthinking."
"I don't—" Harry started, then reconsidered. "Okay, yes, I absolutely do need snacks for anxiety-driven overthinking. That's fair."
As they moved toward the refreshment table—Peter providing enthusiastic commentary on which snacks were best ("The tiny sandwiches are surprisingly good!" "The cookies have some kind of magical freshness charm!" "I don't know what this purple thing is but it tastes like childhood memories!")—Harry caught glimpses of the other attendees.
Eight candidates, Aurora had said. Eight students who might become his classmates, who were also probably nervous, who were probably also having their own complicated feelings about meeting Harry Potter.
They looked... normal. Just kids, really. Some around his age, some maybe slightly older. All of them dressed in various combinations of casual and formal that suggested they'd also had wardrobe crises this morning. All of them glancing at him with expressions that ranged from curiosity to nervousness to what might have been genuine friendliness.
Just kids. Like him. All of them probably terrified of screwing this up in different ways.
Collective awkwardness builds character, May had said.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe this would actually be okay.
Time would tell.
But for now, Harry had his friends, his family, a plate of snacks that Peter promised were magically enhanced for emotional support, and the comforting knowledge that whatever happened next, he wouldn't be facing it alone.
Small victories.
He'd take them.
---
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