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𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙝𝙧𝙚𝙚: 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙜𝙤𝙣 𝘼𝙡𝙡𝙚𝙮

London was busy—but Wizarding London was even worse. While the no-magics sometimes stared and looked at his scar, they were not like the wizards and witches of the magical world.

They bowed and shook Harry’s hand, claiming it was a joy to meet “The Boy Who Lived” and were offering him discounts and offers to their shops if he ever needed something. Children pointed and shoved when they saw him walking with his aunt and cousin, whispering and shouting his name.

“Harry Potter?”

“That’s the Harry Potter?”

“Harry Potter, look at his scar!!”

Harry Potter this, Harry Potter that. Fingers were pointed in his direction and he was glaring at every one of them. He wished he could’ve taken Kitty and maybe let him have a fingery snack or two.

All while this was going on, his aunt greeted each wizard with kindness and a polite smile. Something unlike his mother. His mother would’ve glared and spat in their faces while holding an aura of sophistication and superiority over them. His father would’ve stood in front of him, glaring at the wizard folk, calling them names in Italian.

“Harry, darling, this way,” Aunt Ophelia held Harry’s pale hand in her tanned one, leading him through the pub he rathered liked (the dark and damp aesthetic of the pub spoke to him and reminded him of home) out the back where a large and tall brick wall stood. Harry gave his aunt a curious look.

“Dearest Aunt, I don’t mean to be rude, but why are we here?” Ophelia giggled behind her hand and shook her head. “Watch my dear.” She whipped her wand and tapped the tip to certain bricks. Harry’s green eyes widened in shock as the wall shifted and opened, revealing a long cobblestone alley with shops lining both sides of the streets.

“Welcome to Diagon Alley, Harry dear,” Ophelia smirked at her nephew and he smirked back at her, pleased to see this magic. The three family members walked down the cobblestone pathway as Ophelia led them to a tall, marbled building.

“Gringotts, the wizarding bank,” whispered Beatrice. Her eyes held a mischievous glint as she studied Harry’s reaction to the building.

Aunt Ophelia stopped, turned her head, and smirked at Harry. Her eyes held a glint of excitement, and Harry narrowed his eyes.

“Nephew, Bea darling, why don’t you two go wait for me in Flourish and Blotts? That way, we can get your books first and get that out of the way, dear. Oh, and you’re welcome to look around, and if you see anything you’d like, let me know. I do love to spoil my family.” She smiled at Beatrice and Harry before she disappeared into the marble building.

“Come, Harry, I’ll show you the way. Do you like to read?” Beatrice slipped her hand into Harry’s cold porcelain one, tugging him in the direction of what he’d assumed was the store his aunt talked about. Grimacing at the touch of his cousin, he recoiled away from her and dusted his hand on his trousers.

“Yes, I do. Though I’d hardly think this bookstore will have the certain titles, I particularly enjoy.” He frowned, shaking his head. When he did read, he read books about war, certain weapons of different time periods, and medieval torture devices. Sometimes he picked up a fiction title at the local library here and there, but he never enjoyed all the happiness and love that oozed off the pages.

“Oh, that’s sad. But let’s hope they will, shall we?” Beatrice gave him a smile and together they weaved through the crowd. The cousins ignored the gasps and whispers that followed young Harry. Witches and Wizards spoke behind their hands, leaning into each other, trying to point out or make out his scar. It sent Harry on edge. He wished to scoop out their eyeballs and feed them to a dragon, yet his mother’s voice echoed in his head.

“Remember, dear spider, we do not commit murder in front of witnesses; that sets you up for failure. In order to get away with it, you must lure them to a secluded place where no one can hear or see them. Talk to your father about the murder of his dreadful cousin. That’s how we met, you know, He was still a suspect. But he was able to be cleared of all suspensions. Yes, your father was rather cleaver in his murder of his Cousin Alberto.”

Biting his cheek, Harry breathed deeply before he stuffed the instinct to kill deep down, locking it in its box. He threw away the key and made sure to lock the doors where he kept his urge.

He sighed and allowed Beatrice to pull him into the bookshop.

The shop was… cozy. It had bright colors; reds, oranges, yellows, deep purple armchairs, mahogany bookshelves, and a spiral staircase that led to a loft with a railing. Signs hung from the ceiling.

“Wizard Fiction,”

“Hogwarts Material,”

“Arcane & Unusual,”

“Little Wixen Fiction,”

“Muggle Works,”

“Creatures & More,”

“Witches Tea & Books Bookclub: this way,”

“Book signings every month!”

Young and old witches and wizards occupied the space, combing through the shelves, while others spoke in whispers. Somewhere in the back of the shop came a soft lull of music, and the sound of a fireplace crackled and popped, giving the shop an atmosphere.

Harry’s green eyes took in everything. He raised an eyebrow, quizzically, as his cousin pulled him towards the staircase.

“Up here is where our Hogwarts books are. They should have everything on our list. If not, we could go to Obscurus Books or Charlus’s Tomes & Scrolls, they’re second-hand bookstores.” Beatrice smiles softly. “Mum likes to go to them every now and then, she says buying second-hand books is like purchasing souls. Each book has a unique character—it’s been places, has seen things, has aged and withered and has seen life. It’s almost like a person or a soul.” Harry nods his head in understanding. He could see what his aunt meant. Souls were precious things. As a person ages and explores; they see the world and experience certain situations—they take in and remember. Learning from their lives and others.

“I quite agree, Beatrice,” Harry mutters to his cousin. Together, the cousins walked up the spiral staircase, pulling out their letters of acceptance from Hogwarts where their list of supplies was located.

“The first year section is right there Harry.” Beatrice pointed a finger towards the back wall. “The second year–” she pointed to a section near the first year. “Is right there. If you need help, just ask me, okay?” Harry nodded his head. He watched as his cousin's dark hair disappeared between the stacks before he turned his attention towards his list.

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

When Harry received his letter of acceptance, it was the first time he realized that this was the first time his name did not contain his adopted surname. Addams was not attached to his biological surname of Potter. There was no indication that he was an Addams. He was reduced to the name of his birth. The name of his father and grandfather he never met. Though Harry knew of his adoption and his true family and their demise; he’d grown used to seeing his name with the addition of Addams. It was the name of the family that raised him, who helped him tie his bow tie, who showed him how to use his toy guillotine (without child-proof of course), who showed him the art of dueling, who showed him how to be an Addams. He was a Potter, but he was also an Addams. And seeing his name without it made something in him crack. What was it? He did not know. Only he hated seeing his name so bare.

So cold.

So unfeeling.

He disliked emotions but seeing his name disconnected from his beloved family he loved and would kill for made the viper in him uneasy.

He wanted to strike.

“Mother, come on, let's go!! I want to go see the latest broom!” A sickening high pitch voice interrupted young Harry’s thoughts, making the boy look up, a glare in his emerald green eyes. He watched as a boy with straw hair pulled his mother down the stairs, yelling all the way down about the sport of Quidditch.

Harry growled and rolled his eyes at the boy with no manners. How was it that mothers raised such unruly and loud children? His mother would be displeased. No. His Grandmama and Aunty Selma would have a right old fit, learning of the lack of manners. Thank goodness his dear Aunty was away in Italy, staying in one of the Addamses estates with her newest boyfriend. How the old bat could still hook up with men Harry had no clue. She was a scary woman who clearly stopped aging when she was in her late thirties (Harry once asked when his parents them visited for Yule and his Aunty told him she bathed in the blood of virgins and drank a concoction that stopped her body from aging—apparently it was an old ritual within the Addams family—and she simply gave him a smirk before she continued speaking with her sister, Aunt Greta Hyde.) and wore an eyepatch. She knew how to dance the mazurka since she was a toddler and took her first heart when she was barely Harry’s age. Yes, she was a very scary woman to cross.

Tearing his eyes away from the rude boy, Harry looked back at his letter and skimmed down to where his supplies were listed.

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1)

by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic

by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory

by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration

by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi

by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions

by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection

by Quentin Trimble

Harry walked through the section, keeping an eye open for any of the titles on his letter. As he browsed, finding Magical Drafts and Potions and A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, he found curious titles he’d thought were interesting. Picking up Hogwarts: A History, he skimmed through the book. Smiling to himself, he placed it onto his pile. He also grabbed a few other titles about the Wizarding World of Britain and its history. If he was to go to school here, he must adapt and be educated as much as possible. Smirking, he walked over to the fiction area of the first-year section. Perhaps he could buy a few wizarding novels for his sister? As long as it was dark as possible, of course. Dear Wednesday could not stand a happily ever-after.

As he thought about his little sister, Harry didn’t see where he was going until it was too late.

His shoe caught on something that made an “Ouch!” before he tumbled down to the floor. Books were scattered, his glasses tumbled off his face, and his chin made contact with the hardwood floors. He groaned, feeling the throbbing pain spread through his face.

“Oh, Merlin! I’m so sorry!” said a small, timid voice. Harry opened his eyes and blinked repeatedly. His vision was blurry, but what he could make out was a small figure picking up the books that fell from his arms. He could tell it was a girl as she continued to ramble her apologies and tried to tell Harry her story and as to why he couldn’t see her, all while she stacked up the books into a pile. Harry groaned and rubbed his head.

“Again, I’m so sorry. I thought I was out of the way, truly I did! I feel so terrible that I tripped you. Oh! Your glasses, right.” She scrambled over to where his glasses fell as Harry stood up, rubbing his chin. “Here you are, all fixed!” She practically shoved the frames into Harry’s hands. Harry placed them back on and his eyes adjusted to his prescription. Relieved that he could see once again, he narrowed his eyes at the girl standing before him.

Green met silver.

Her eyes were wide, full of fear and recognition. The silver pools flickered to the scar before flicking back to his narrowed eyes. She was scared, yet curious. He noticed her hands were twitching at her sides, her bottom lip was pulled in between her teeth, and loose strands of hair framed her face.

“I—I—I,” She tore her eyes away from Harry, focusing on her mary-jane shoes as if she found those more interesting than him. He glared.

“(Y/n!) let's go!” The girl turned her head towards the spiral staircase, obviously noting the urgency in the voice that called her name. She whimpered before looking back towards Harry. She took a deep breath.

“Again, I’m sorry. I …” She shook her head before striding to the staircase, leaving Harry to glare at the place where she once stood, stuttering and whimpering.

“You okay Harry?” Harry turned to look behind him. Beatrice walked up to him, carrying her own stack of books. “Yeah, I’m fine.” He picked up his pile of books and together they walked down the staircase, forgetting the book he wanted to pick up for Wednesday. As they walked up to the front desk, Aunt Ophelia walked in carrying a yellow pouch with embroidered daisies with what Harry assumed were her initials: O.B.H.

“Harry dear, did you find all your books you needed?” she asked sweetly. She still wore the obnoxious smile that Harry never saw on his own mother’s face. Reminding him once again, though they might look the same, they were not. He felt a stab in his heart.

“Yes, Aunt Ophelia.” She nodded her head, pleased, before she spoke with the witch behind the counter. It seemed the overweight witch knew who he was and quickly whispered frantically with his aunt until Ophelia gave her an extra galleon as a way to silence her about their visit to the shop.

“Alright dears, here ya go. Make sure you get yer wands!”

The family of three exited the shop and as they walked towards Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions, Harry thought about the girl with silver eyes. Why was she scared? Why is it that everyone knows him or makes a fuss about his scar? Why was she scared?

Nothing made sense.

~~~~

Next Chapter

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐍𝐨 𝐎𝐧𝐞

Next Chapter

The escape of the Brazilian boa constrictor earned Harry and his twin, Y/n their longest-ever punishment. By the time they were allowed out of their cupboard again, the summer holidays had started and Dudley had already broken his new video camera, crashed his remote control airplane, and, the first timeout on his racing bike, knocked down old Mrs. Figg as she crossed Privet Drive on her crutches. (Y/n wanted to strangle his dimwitted cousin at that. Could he not see the old woman who just recently broke her leg?!)

Harry was glad school was over, but there was no escaping Dudley's gang, who visited the house every single day. Piers, Dennis, Malcolm, and Gordon were all big and stupid, but as Dudley was the biggest and stupidest of the lot, he was the leader. The rest of them were all quite happy to join in Dudley's favorite sport: Harry and Y/n Hunting. This was why Y/n and Harry spent as much time as possible out of the house, wandering around and thinking about the end of the holidays, where they could see a tiny ray of hope. When September came, they both would be going off to secondary school and, for the first time in their life, they wouldn't be with Dudley. Dudley had been accepted at Uncle Vernon's old private school, Smeltings. Piers Polkiss was going there too. Harry, on the other hand, was going to Stonewall High, the local public school. Dudley thought this was very funny. "They stuff people's heads down the toilet the first day at Stonewall," he told Harry. "Want to come upstairs and practice?"

"No, thanks," said Harry. "The poor toilet's never had anything as horrible as your head down it ― it might be sick." finished Y/n, and then ran, before Dudley could work out what they'd said. One day in July, Aunt Petunia took Dudley to London to buy his Smeltings uniform, leaving Harry and Y/n at Mrs. Figg's. Mrs. Figg wasn't as bad as usual. It turned out she'd broken her leg tripping over one of her cats, and she didn't seem quite as fond of them as before, however, Y/n was still very fond of them and he continued to pet and play with them even though Harry refused to get near any of them. Mrs. Figg even let Harry and Y/n watch television and gave them a bit of chocolate cake that tasted as though she'd had it for several years.

That evening, Dudley paraded around the living room for the family in his brand-new uniform. Smeltings' boys wore maroon tailcoats, orange knickerbockers, and flat straw hats called boaters. They also carried knobbly sticks, used for hitting each other while the teachers weren't looking. This was supposed to be good training for later life. As Y/n looked at Dudley in his new knickerbockers, Uncle Vernon said gruffly that it was the proudest moment of his life. Aunt Petunia burst into tears and said she couldn't believe it was her Ickle Dudleykins. He looked so handsome and grown-up. Y/n wanted to laugh, he thought two of his ribs might already have cracked from trying not to laugh.

There was a horrible smell in the kitchen the next morning when Harry and Y/n went in for breakfast. It seemed to be coming from a large metal tub in the sink. They went to have a look. The tub was full of what looked like dirty rags swimming in gray water. "What's this?" Y/n asked Aunt Petunia. Her lips tightened as they always did if he or Harry dared to ask a question. "Your new school uniform," she said. Y/n looked in the bowl again. "Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it had to be so wet."

"Don't be stupid," snapped Aunt Petunia. "I'm dyeing some of Dudley's old things gray for you both. It'll look just like everyone else's when I've finished." Y/n and Harry seriously doubted this, but thought it best not to argue. They sat down at the table and tried not to think about how they were going to look on his first day at Stonewall High ― like they were wearing bits of old elephant skin, probably. Dudley and Uncle Vernon came in, both with wrinkled noses because of the smell from Harry's and Y/n's new uniform. Uncle Vernon opened his newspaper as usual and Dudley banged his Smelting stick, which he carried everywhere, on the table. They heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

"Get the mail, Dudley," said Uncle Vernon from behind his paper.

"Make Harry and Y/n get it."

"Get the mail, Harry."

"Make Dudley get it."

"Poke them with your Smelting stick, Dudley." Harry and Y/n dodged the Smelting stick and went to get the mail. Three things lay on the doormat: a postcard from Uncle Vernon's sister Marge, who was vacationing on the Isle of Wight, a brown envelope that looked like a bill, and ― a letter for Harry and Y/n. Harry picked them up, and he handed Y/n his letter before he stared at it. Y/n's heart twanging like a giant elastic band. No one, ever, in his whole life, had written to him. Who would? He and Harry had no friends, no other relatives ― he and Harry didn't belong to the library, so they'd never even got rude notes asking for books back.

Yet there it was, a letter addressed so plainly there could be no mistake: Mr. Y/I. Potter The Cupboard under the Stairs 4 Privet Drive Little Whinging Surrey.

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of yellowish parchment, and the address was written in emerald-green ink. There was no stamp. Turning the envelope over, Y/n's hand trembling, Harry and Y/n saw a purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms; a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H.

"Hurry up, boys!" shouted Uncle Vernon from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" He chuckled at his own joke. Harry and Y/n went back to the kitchen, still staring at their letter. They handed Uncle Vernon the bill and the postcard, then Y/n sat down, and slowly began to open the yellow envelope. Uncle Vernon ripped open the bill, snorted in disgust, and flipped over the postcard.

"Marge's ill," he informed Aunt Petunia. "Ate a funny whelk―."

"Dad!" said Dudley suddenly. "Dad, Harry, and Y/n got something!" Y/n and Harry were on the point of unfolding their letter, which was written on the same heavy parchment as the envelope when it was jerked sharply out of their hands by Uncle Vernon."That's ours!" said Harry and Y/n, trying to snatch it back.

"Who'd be writing to you two?" sneered Uncle Vernon, shaking the letter's open with one hand and glancing at it. His face went from red to green faster than a set of traffic lights. And it didn't stop there. Within the second set was the grayish white of old porridge."P-P-Petunia!" he gasped. Dudley tried to grab the letters to read them, but Uncle Vernon held them high out of his reach. Aunt Petunia took them curiously and read the first line. For a moment, it looked as though she might faint. She clutched her throat and made a choking noise.

"Vernon! Oh my goodness ― Vernon!" They stared at each other, seeming to have forgotten that Harry, Y/n, and Dudley were still in the room. Dudley wasn't used to being ignored. He gave his father a sharp tap on the head with his Smelting stick.

"I want to read those letters," he said loudly.

"I want to read it," said Harry furiously, "as it's mine."

"Get out, all of you," croaked Uncle Vernon, stuffing the letters back inside its envelope. Harry didn't move, while Y/n glared at his aunt and uncle furiously. "I WANT MY LETTER!" Harry shouted. "Let me see it!" demanded Dudley.

"OUT!" roared Uncle Vernon, and he took both Harry and Dudley by the scruffs of their necks and threw them into the hall and grabbed Y/n by his arm and shoved him into his twin brother, then slammed the kitchen door behind them. Harry and Dudley promptly had a furious but silent fight over who would listen at the keyhole; Dudley won, so Harry, his glasses dangling from one ear, lay flat on his stomach to listen at the crack between door and floor, while Y/n pushed Dudley over to look into the keyhole (the two of them ended up pushing the other out of the way for a while until Dudley decided to place his head on top of Y/n's, but he didn't care, he was too busy trying to listen to his aunt and uncle).

"Vernon," Aunt Petunia was saying in a quivering voice, "look at the address ― how could they possibly know where they sleep? You don't think they're watching the house?"

"Watching ― spying ― might be following us," muttered Uncle Vernon wildly. "But what should we do, Vernon? Should we write back? Tell them we don't want ―" Harry could see Uncle Vernon's shiny black shoes pacing up and down the kitchen.

"No," he said finally. "No, we'll ignore it. If they don't get an answer... Yes, that's best... we won't do anything....,"

"But ―"

"I'm not having one in the house, Petunia! Didn't we swear when we took them in we'd stamp out that dangerous nonsense?" That evening when he got back from work, Uncle Vernon did something he'd never done before; he visited Harry and Y/n in their cupboard. "Where's my letter?" said Harry, the moment Uncle Vernon had squeezed through the door. "Who's writing to me?" asked Y/n, his arms were crossed over his chest.

"No one. It was addressed to you, by mistake," said Uncle Vernon shortly. "I have burned it."

"It was not a mistake," said Harry angrily. "It had our cupboard on it."

"SILENCE!" yelled Uncle Vernon, and a couple of spiders fell from the ceiling. He took a few deep breaths and then forced his face into a smile, which looked quite painful.

"Er ― yes, Harry, Y/n ― about this cupboard. Your aunt and I have been thinking... you both are really getting a bit big for it... we think it might be nice if you guys moved into Dudley's second bedroom."

"Why?" said Harry.

"Don't ask questions!" snapped his uncle. "Take this stuff upstairs, now."

The Dursleys' house had four bedrooms: one for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia, one for visitors (usually Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge), one where Dudley slept, and one where Dudley kept all the toys and things that wouldn't fit into his first bedroom.

It only took Harry and Y/n one trip upstairs to move everything they owned from the cupboard to this room. Y/n sat down on the bed and stared around him as Harry put their stuff away. Nearly everything in here was broken. The month-old video camera was lying on top of a small, working tank Dudley had once driven over the next-door neighbor's dog; in the corner was Dudley's first-ever television set, which he'd put his foot through when his favorite program had been canceled; there was a large birdcage, which had once held a parrot that Dudley had swapped at school for a real air rifle, which was up on a shelf with the end-all bent because Dudley had sat on it.

Other shelves were full of books (which Y/n was happy about). They were the only things in the room that looked as though they'd never been touched. From downstairs came the sound of Dudley bawling at his mother, "I don't want them in there... I need that room... make them get out...." Harry sighed and Y/n stretched out on the bed. Yesterday, they'd have given anything to be up here. Today, they'd rather be back in their cupboard with that letter than up here without it.

"G'night Harry," mumbled Y/n, he closed his eyes and curled up to sleep. Harry looked at his twin, smiling. "Good night Y/n,"

The next morning at breakfast, everyone was rather quiet. Dudley was in shock. He'd screamed, whacked his father with his Smelting stick, been sick on purpose, kicked his mother, and thrown his tortoise through the greenhouse roof, and he still didn't have his room back. Harry was thinking about this time yesterday and bitterly wishing he'd opened the letter in the hall, while Y/n watched his cousin throwing a tantrum in amusement.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia kept looking at each other darkly. When the mail arrived, Uncle Vernon, who seemed to be trying to be nice to Harry and Y/n, made Dudley go and get it. They heard him banging things with his Smelting stick all the way down the hall. Then he shouted,

"There's another one! 'Mr. H. Potter and Mr. Y/I Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, 4 Privet Drive ―'"

With a strangled cry, Uncle Vernon leaped from his seat and ran down the hall, Harry and Y/n right behind him. Uncle Vernon had to wrestle Dudley to the ground to get the letter from him, which was made difficult by the fact that Harry had grabbed Uncle Vernon around the neck from behind while Y/n was on his arms, trying to get the fat man to stay still.

After a minute of confused fighting, in which everyone got hit a lot by the Smelting stick, Uncle Vernon straightened up, gasping for breath, with Harry's and Y/n's letter clutched in his hand.

"Go to your cupboard ― I mean, your bedroom," he wheezed at the boys.

"Dudley ― go ― just go."

Harry walked round and round his new room with Y/n right behind him. Someone knew Y/n and Harry had moved out of their cupboard and they seemed to know they hadn't received their first letter. Surely that meant they'd try again? And this time, Harry will make sure they didn't fail.

He had a plan. The repaired alarm clock rang at six o'clock the next morning. Harry turned it off quickly and dressed silently. He mustn't wake the Dursleys. "Harry? What are you doing?" asked Y/n. He rose up from the bed, sleep still in his e/c eyes. "I'm going to go get our letters," he said. Y/n looked at his brother.

"But -"

"No, no buts. You stay here." Y/n tried to object, but Harry strode out of the small bedroom. He stole downstairs without turning on any of the lights. He was going to wait for the postman on the corner of Privet Drive and get the letters for number four first. His heart hammered as he crept across the dark hall toward the front door― Harry leapt into the air; he'd trodden on something big and squashy on the doormat—something alive!

Lights clicked on upstairs and to his horror, Harry realized that the big, squashy something had been his uncle's face. Uncle Vernon had been lying at the foot of the front door in a sleeping bag, clearly making sure that Harry didn't do exactly what he'd been trying to do. He shouted at Harry for about half an hour and then told him to go and make a cup of tea. Harry shuffled miserably off into the kitchen and by the time he got back, the mail had arrived, right into Uncle Vernon's lap. Y/n looked at his brother and shook his head. He was awoken by his uncle shouting at Harry and he dragged himself out of bed to help his brother make breakfast.

Harry could see three letters addressed in green ink. "I want―" he began, but Uncle Vernon was tearing the letters into pieces before his eyes. Uncle Vernon didn't go to work that day. He stayed at home and nailed up the mail slot.

"See," he explained to Aunt Petunia through a mouthful of nails, "if they can't deliver them, they'll just give up."

"I'm not sure that'll work, Vernon."

"Oh, these people's minds work in strange ways, Petunia. They're not like you and me," said Uncle Vernon, trying to knock in a nail with the piece of fruitcake Aunt Petunia had just brought him.

On Friday, no less than twelve letters arrived for Harry and Y/n. As they couldn't go through the mail slot, they had been pushed under the door, slotted through the sides, and a few even forced through the small window in the downstairs bathroom. Uncle Vernon stayed at home again. After burning all the letters, he got out a hammer and nails and boarded up the cracks around the front and back doors so no one could go out. He hummed "Tiptoe Through the Tulips" as he worked and jumped at small noises. On Saturday, things began to get out of hand. Twenty-four letters to Harry and Y/n found their way into the house, rolled up and hidden inside each of the two dozen eggs that their very confused milkman had handed Aunt Petunia through the living room window.

While Uncle Vernon made furious telephone calls to the post office and the dairy trying to find someone to complain to, Aunt Petunia shredded the letters in her food processor.

"Who on earth wants to talk to you this badly?" Dudley asked Harry and Y/n in amazement. On Sunday morning, Uncle Vernon sat down at the breakfast table looking tired and rather ill, but happy.

"No post on Sundays," he reminded them cheerfully as he spread marmalade on his newspapers. "no damn letters today ―"

Something came whizzing down the kitchen chimney as he spoke and caught him sharply on the back of the head. The next moment, thirty or forty letters came pelting out of the fireplace like bullets. The Dursleys ducked, but Harry leapt into the air trying to catch one, while Y/n rolled his eyes at his brother and picked one up from the floor, tearing it open in seconds.

"Out! OUT!"

Uncle Vernon seized Harry around the waist and grabbed Y/n by his arm, ripping the now open letter out of his hands before Y/n could even read the cursive ink writing, and threw them into the hall. When Aunt Petunia and Dudley had run out with their arms over their faces, Uncle Vernon slammed the door shut. They could hear the letters still streaming into the room, bouncing off the walls and floor.

"That does it," said Uncle Vernon, trying to speak calmly but pulling great tufts out of his mustache at the same time. "I want you all back here in five minutes, ready to leave. We're going away. Just pack some clothes. No arguments!" He looked so dangerous, with half his mustache missing, that no one dared argue. Ten minutes later, they had wrenched their way through the boarded-up doors and were in the car, speeding toward the highway.

Dudley was sniffling in the back seat; his father had hit him round the head for holding them up while he tried to pack his television, VCR, and computer in his sports bag. They drove. And they drove. Even Aunt Petunia didn't dare ask where they were going. Now and then, Uncle Vernon would take a sharp turn and drive in the opposite direction for a while. "Shake'em off... shake 'emoff," he would mutter whenever he did this.

They didn't stop to eat or drink all day. By nightfall, Dudley was howling. He'd never had such a bad day in his life. He was hungry. He'd missed five television programs he'd wanted to see, and he'd never gone so long without blowing up an alien on his computer. Uncle Vernon stopped at last outside a gloomy-looking hotel on the outskirts of a big city. Dudley, Harry, and Y/n shared a room with twin beds and damp, musty sheets. Dudley snored, but Harry and Y/n stayed awake, sitting on the windowsill, staring down at the lights of passing cars and wondering ... They ate stale cornflakes and cold tinned tomatoes on toast for breakfast the next day.

They had just finished when the owner of the hotel came over to their table."'Scuse me, but is one of you Mr. H. Potter and Mr. Y/n. Potter? Only I got about an 'undred of these at the front desk." She held up a letter so they could read the green ink address:

Mr. H. Potter and Mr. Y/I. Potter.

Room 17

Railview Hotel Cokeworth.

Harry and Y/n made a grab for the letter, but Uncle Vernon knocked their hands out of the way. The woman stared. "I'll take them," said Uncle Vernon, standing up quickly and following her from the dining room.

"Wouldn't it be better just to go home, dear?" Aunt Petunia suggested timidly, hours later, but Uncle Vernon didn't seem to hear her. Exactly what he was looking for. None of them knew. He drove them into the middle of a forest, got out, looked around, shook his head, got back in the car, and off they went again.

The same thing happened in the middle of a plowed field, halfway across a suspension bridge, and at the top of a multilevel parking garage.

"Daddy's gone mad, hasn't he?" Dudley asked Aunt Petunia dully late that afternoon. Uncle Vernon had parked at the coast, locked them all inside the car, and disappeared. It started to rain. Great drops beat on the roof of the car. Dudley sniveled.

"It's Monday," he told his mother. "The Great Humberto's on tonight. I want to stay somewhere with a television."

Monday. This reminded Harry of something. If it was Monday ― and you could usually count on Dudley to know the days of the week, because of television ― then tomorrow, Tuesday, was Harry's and Y/n's eleventh birthday.

Of course, their birthdays were never exactly fun ― last year, the Dursleys had given Harry a coat hanger and a pair of Uncle Vernon's old socks and Y/n got a moth-eaten pair of socks with some string. Still, you weren't eleven every day.

Uncle Vernon was back, and he was smiling. He was also carrying a long, thin package and didn't answer Aunt Petunia when she asked what he'd bought.

"Found the perfect place!" he said. "Come on! Everyone out!" It was very cold outside the car. Uncle Vernon was pointing at what looked like a large rock way out at sea. Perched on top of the rock was the most miserable little shack you could imagine. One thing was certain, there was no television in there.

"Storm forecast for tonight!" said Uncle Vernon gleefully, clapping his hands together. "And this gentleman's kindly agreed to lend us his boat!" A toothless old man came ambling up to them, pointing, with a rather wicked grin, at an old rowboat bobbing in the iron-gray water below them. "I've already got us some rations," said Uncle Vernon. "so all aboard!"

It was freezing in the boat. Icy sea spray and rain crept down their necks and a chilly wind whipped their faces. After what seemed like hours, they reached the rock, where Uncle Vernon, slipping and sliding, led the way to the broken-down house. The inside was horrible; it smelled strongly of seaweed; the wind whistled through the gaps in the wooden walls, and the fireplace was damp and empty. There were only two rooms. Uncle Vernon's rations turned out to be a bag of chips each and four bananas. He tried to start a fire, but the empty chip bags just smoked and shriveled up.

"Could do with some of those letters now, eh?" he said cheerfully. He was in a very good mood. Obviously, he thought nobody stood a chance of reaching them here in a storm to deliver mail. Harry and Y/n privately agreed; though the thought didn't cheer them up at all.

As night fell, the promised storm blew up around them. Spray from the high waves splattered the walls of the hut and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. Aunt Petunia found a few moldy blankets in the second room and made up a bed for Dudley on the moth-eaten sofa. She and Uncle Vernon went off to the lumpy bed next door, while Harry and Y/n were left to find the softest bit of floor they could and to curl up under the thinnest, most ragged blanket.

The storm raged more and more ferociously as the night went on. Harry couldn't sleep. He shivered and turned over, trying to get comfortable, his stomach rumbling with hunger. Y/n was sitting up, his knees brought to his chest as he shivered. Dudley's snores were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight. The lighted dial of Dudley's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist, told Harry and Y/n they'd be eleven in ten minutes' time. Harry laid and watched his birthday tick nearer, wondering if the Dursleys would remember at all, wondering where the letter writer was now.

Five minutes to go.

Y/n heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.

Four minutes to go.

Maybe the house on Privet Drive would be so full of letters when they got back that he'd be able to steal one somehow.

Three minutes to go.

Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that?

And (two minutes to go) what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea?

One minute to go and he and Harry would be eleven.

Thirty seconds... twenty ... ten...nine ― maybe he'd wake Dudley up, just to annoy him ― three... two...one...BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Harry sat bolt upright and Y/n shot up, his eyes wide and staring at the door.

Someone was outside. Knocking to come in.

𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙬𝙤: 𝙊𝙥𝙝𝙚𝙡𝙞𝙖 𝙁𝙧𝙪𝙢𝙥

Harry had everything packed and ready for his trip to England. He checked and double-checked his trunk to make sure he had everything, and placed his travelers’ ID he received from MACUSA in his suit jacket he was to wear tomorrow.

Everything was in order. He had a port key scheduled for 10:30 AM, and was to meet his dear Aunt Ophelia at the British Ministry of Magic. Then after that, together they would go get his supplies for his first year at Hogwarts. Apparently, Aunt Ophelia was excited to see her nephew again and reassured Harry that her eldest daughter was in her second year at Hogwarts, so he wouldn’t be alone.

It amused Harry to no end that his mother’s twin was so different, though she looked the same. They were two sides of the same coin.

“Harry?”

Wednesday stood in the doorway of his room, clutching her doll. He looked at his sister with his cold green eyes and patted the space on the bed next to him. She scrambled in and sat down. Wednesday’s hair was loose and in waves and she wore her long black nightgown. She looked up at Harry and he noticed that his little sister’s eyes were red and tears flowed down her corpse-like cheeks.

“What’s wrong, little spider?” asked Harry. He gave her a concerned look and watched as her bottom lip quivered. “I don’t want you to go,” she whispered. Harry brought his arms around her and held her close as she sobbed into his shoulder. “I-I don-don’t want you to-to go,” she hiccupped. This was the first time Harry had seen her cry and let out so many emotions. His usual level-headed sister, who thought emotions were a weakness and tried her best to remain as cold and distant as possible — broke in front of him.

“Oh Wednesday,” He rocked her back and forth, trying to provide comfort to his beloved sister. “I wish I could stay. I wish I could stay here and play headless dollhouse and show you all the ways to psychologically torture someone. But I can’t,” she looked up, sniffling. “Why not?”

“Because,” he sighed. “Because I need to practice and perfect my magic skills. I also wish to see the school that Mother attended when she was a girl,” he explained. Wednesday nodded her head, sadly. “One day you’ll understand that some decisions have to be your own and you must choose your own path.” Harry kissed the top of her head.

“But you’ll be home for Yule, right?” she asked, hope in her eyes. He nodded his head. “Of course, little spider. How could I miss out on Grandmama’s Chocolate death and Mother’s Yule cake?” She laughed as he tickled her, making her smile of death appear on her face.  “You promise to write to me and tell me all your adventures?”  “I promise.” Wednesday flicked Harry on the nose and scrambled off his bed.

“Night, Harry,” she bid. “Night Wednesday. I hope you’ll have pleasant nightmares.” She gave him a smirk and returned it with his own. He surely was going to miss his little sister and her antics.

•••★•••

Harry waited patiently for his aunt to show up. The office of the Department of Magical Transportation was spacious, yet it felt suffocating. The two Aurors were stiff and didn’t engage in small talk — which Harry was grateful for—and stood in silence. He didn’t mind the stiff nature of the Aurors, but he did mind when their eyes kept flip-flopping between staring at him or the door.

Every time their eyes landed on him, he knew they were staring at the scars that marred his forehead and ran down his left brow and down his cheek. It was something he’d always had as a child, this scar, and he wasn’t at the slightest self-conscious about it. He was used to no-magic staring at him and his scar, always wondering what happened to him and always thinking it happened because his family was the Addames.

Harry didn’t care what they thought in their small minds, but these “Aurors” kept staring at it like it meant something to them. As if they wished they had the scar on their face. It made him want to deploy a smoke bomb and slip out and wait for his aunt at the Atrium in this Ministry.

Finally, after throwing glares at the Aurors, the door opened and an exact replica of his mother walked in. However, she wasn’t wearing her long black dress, or had sharp dipped red nails, or even blood-red lips. No. She was wearing a yellow sundress with white polka dots littering the fabric. Her hair was black but was up in an elegant twist on her head, and she wore white pumps on her feet. Behind her was a young girl with the same black hair as Harry’s own sister, but instead of wearing a scowl, she wore a small smile and wore a light green skirt with a white oxford button-down short-sleeve and had black mary-janes on her feet.

Aunt Ophelia’s eyes were bright, making her black eyes seem like a dark brown, and she smiled prettily at the Aurors and Harry.

“Beloved nephew!!” She pulled Harry into a hug and his body immediately stiffened up. He didn’t like hugs unless he was the one to initiate them. In fact, he didn’t really like to be touched and would rather prefer to keep a distance. Aunt Ophelia pulled back and patted his face, smiling at him. “How good it is to see you! You’ve grown!” Her eyes traveled down the length of his body, inspecting his growth. He was tall for his age, he’s been told that many times. But he was also very lanky.

“Aunt,” he greeted, after realizing his aunt was waiting for him to greet her. She smiled even wider — if that was even possible — before turning to speak with the Aurors. The young girl behind his aunt gave him a shy smile and wave.

“Hello, I’m Beatrice, your cousin.'' She had a quiet demeanor and Harry liked that. Perhaps she would be the tolerable one in his aunt’s children. “I’m Harry,” he said, quickly and quietly.  “I know. I think everyone knows who you are.” Harry gave her an odd look. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well,” she blushed, her fingers started trembling, and she started making weird patterns on her skirt. “What I mean is that, your scar. Everyone knows who you are because of your scar.” She pointed her index finger at his forehead.

Harry was still confused but was saved by his aunt before he asked his cousin another question.

“Come darlings, let’s get going. We have to shop for both yours and Beatrice's Hogwarts supplies.” Harry shook his head. “What about my trunks?” He asked, pointing to the trunks piled up. Ophelia smiled at him and chuckled.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ve scheduled a few Aurors to take your trunks to my place. I’ve also asked them to place some more protective charms around the property and house. That way, we won’t have any paparazzi or wizards trying to break in and see you, my famous nephew.”

Harry tried to speak, but was interrupted by Ophelia once more. “Now, come along. We must get going if we’re to beat the noon rush. I’d really hate to get stuck in Madam Malkins for hours. That place is terribly dull.”

She ushered her nephew and daughter out of the office and they made their way to the lift/elevator and she pressed a button before a lady spoke in the overhead and they were off.

~~~~

Next Chapter

Ｎａｖｉｇａｔｉｏｎ

i'm a fangirl freak who writes to get away from school, society, and bullshit----i'm also a whore for fictional characters, so expect some very indulgent shit in my works

Started: Jan 13th, 2022

Last Updated: July 30th, 2022

Total Works:

𝙍𝙚𝙘𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙒𝙤𝙧𝙠𝙨

Citrus & Smoke (Draco Malfoy x Gender-neutral reader)

𝙈𝙚𝙩𝙖𝙣𝙤𝙞𝙖 |𝘿𝙧𝙖𝙘𝙤 𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙛𝙤𝙮 𝙭 𝙈𝙖𝙡𝙚 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧|𝘾𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙏𝙚𝙣: 𝙒𝙚𝙡𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙃𝙪𝙛𝙛𝙡𝙚𝙥𝙪𝙛𝙛 𝙃𝙤𝙪𝙨𝙚

Little Witch (Idea/One-shot/T. Riddle x Reader)

Harry Addams and the Philosopher's Stone Chapter Five

(𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘐 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘍𝘰𝘳 / 𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘐 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘍𝘰𝘳)

𝘍𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮𝘴

𝐀 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐟 𝐈𝐜𝐞 & 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐞/𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬

Oneshots

Blurbs

Series

Ideas

𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐏𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫

Oneshots

Blurbs

Series

Ideas

𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐥

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐬

𝐎𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐚

𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙤𝙡𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙍𝙤𝙨𝙚 (Tyrion Lannister x Tyrell!Reader)

Chapters

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘐 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘍𝘰𝘳

Harry Potter Characters

A Song Of Ice & Fire/Game of Thrones Characters

Marvel Characters

Book Characters