Mariesdeluluworld - Marie

𝘚𝘩𝘪𝘱𝘴 𝘐 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘍𝘰𝘳

Dramione (Draco Malfoy x Hermione Granger)

Fremione (Fred Weasley x Hermione Granger)

Sirmione (Sirius Black x Hermione Granger)

NotPot (Theo Nott x Harry Potter)

Other Slytherin x Gryffindor Character Ships

Luna/Theo (Luna Lovegood x Theo Nott)

Etc

(This post updates as I find/start writing ships for other characters and different fandoms)

piece of memory

𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐝

Next Chapter

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.

Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere.

The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as un-Dursleyish as it was possible to be.

The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had two small sons, too, but they had never even seen the boys. They were another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with children like that.

When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for work and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.

None of them noticed a large tawny owl flutter past the window.

At half-past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley goodbye but missed, because Dudley was now having a tantrum and throwing his cereal at the walls. 'Little tyke,' chortled Mr. Dursley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of number four's drive.

It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar—a cat reading a map. For a second, Mr. Dursley didn't realize what he had seen—then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but there wasn't a map in sight. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been a trick of the light. Mr. Dursley blinked and stared at the cat.

It stared back. As Mr. Dursley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the cat in his mirror. It was now reading the sign that said Privet Drive—no, looking at the sign; cats couldn't read maps or signs. Mr. Dursley gave himself a little shake and put the cat out of his mind. As he drove towards town, he thought of nothing except a large order of drills he was hoping to get that day.

But on the edge of town, drills were driven out of his mind by something else. As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn't help noticing that there seemed to be a lot of strangely dressed people about. People in cloaks. Mr. Dursley couldn't bear people who dressed in funny clothes—the get-ups you saw on young people! He supposed this was some stupid new fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and his eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by.

They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Dursley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren't young at all; why that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Dursley that this was probably some silly stunt—these people were obviously collecting for something ... yes, that would be it. The traffic moved on, and a few minutes later, Mr. Dursley arrived in the Grunnings car park, his mind back on drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. If he hadn't, he might have found it harder to concentrate on drills that morning. He didn't see the owls swooping past in broad daylight, though people down in the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as owl after owl sped overhead.

Most of them had never seen an owl, even at night-time. Mr. Dursley, however, had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He yelled at five different people. He made several important telephone calls and shouted a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunchtime, when he thought he'd stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy himself a bun from the baker's opposite.

He'd forgotten all about the people in cloaks until he passed a group of them next to the bakers. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn't know why, but they made him uneasy. This lot was whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn't see a single collecting tin. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in a bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"The Potters, that's right, that's what I heard–"

"–yes, their sons, Harry and Y/n–"

Mr. Dursley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.

He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, snapped at his secretary not to disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialing his home number when he changed his mind. He put the receiver back down and stroked his mustache, thinking ... no, he was being stupid. Potter wasn't such an unusual name.

He was sure there were lots of people called Potter who had sons called Harry and Y/n. Come to think of it, he wasn't even sure his nephews were called Harry and Y/n. He'd never even seen the boys. It might have been Harvey, (similar name). Or Harold. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursley. She always got so upset at any mention of her sister. He didn't blame her—if he'd had a sister like that ... but all the same, those people in cloaks ...

He found it a lot harder to concentrate on drills that afternoon, and when he left the building at five o'clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

"Sorry," he grunted, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn't seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passersby stare: "Don't be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles like yourself should be celebrating this happy, happy day!"

And the old man hugged Mr. Dursley around the middle and walked off.

Mr. Dursley stood rooted to the spot. He had been hugged by a complete stranger. He also thought he had been called a Muggle, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car and set off home, hoping he was imagining things, which he had never hoped before, because he didn't approve of imagination.

As he pulled into the driveway of number four, the first thing he saw—and it didn't improve his mood—was the tabby cat he'd spotted that morning. It was now sitting on his garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it had the same markings around its eyes.

"Shoo!" said Mr. Dursley loudly.

The cat didn't move. It just gave him a stern look. Was this normal cat behavior, Mr. Dursley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to mention anything to his wife.

Mrs. Dursley had had a nice, normal day. She told him over dinner all about Mrs. Next Door's problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learned a new word ('Shan't!'). Mr. Dursley tried to act normally. When Dudley had been put to bed, he went into the living room in time to catch the last report on the evening news:

"And finally, bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation's owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise. Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping patterns.' The newsreader allowed himself a grin. 'Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more showers of owls tonight, Jim?"

"Well, Ted,' said the weatherman, 'I don't know about that, but it's not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they've had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early—it's not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight."

Mr. Dursley sat frozen in his armchair. Shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks all over the place? And a whisper, a whisper about the Potters ...

Mrs. Dursley came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He'd have to say something to her. He cleared his throat nervously. "Er—Petunia, dear—you haven't heard from your sister lately, have you?"

As he had expected, Mrs. Dursley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended she didn't have a sister.

"No," she said sharply. "Why?"

"Funny stuff on the news," Mr. Dursley mumbled. "Owls ... shooting stars ... and there were a lot of funny-looking people in town today ..."

"So?" snapped Mrs. Dursley.

"Well, I just thought ... maybe ... it was something to do with ... you know ... her lot."

Mrs. Dursley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Dursley wondered whether he dared tell her he'd heard the name "Potter". He decided he didn't dare. Instead, he said, as casually as he could, "Their sons—they'd be about Dudley's age now, wouldn't they?"

"I suppose so," said Mrs. Dursley stiffly.

"What's their names again? Howard and (similar name), isn't it?"

"Harry and Y/n. Nasty, common names, if you ask me."

"Oh, yes," said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly. "Yes, I quite agree."

He didn't say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Dursley was in the bathroom, Mr. Dursley crept to the bedroom window and peered down into the front garden. The cat was still there. It was staring down Privet Drive as though it was waiting for something.

Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with the Potters? If it did ... if it got out that they were related to a pair of—well, he didn't think he could bear it.

The Dursleys got into bed. Mrs. Dursley fell asleep quickly, but Mr. Dursley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if the Potters were involved, there was no reason for them to come near him and Mrs. Dursley. The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their kind ... He couldn't see how he and Petunia could get mixed up in anything that might be going on. He yawned and turned over. It couldn't affect them ...

How very wrong he was.

Mr. Dursley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the cat on the wall outside was showing no sign of sleepiness. It was sitting as still as a statue, its eyes fixed unblinkingly on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn't so much as quiver when a car door slammed in the next street, nor when two owls swooped overhead. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved at all.

A man appeared on the corner the cat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you'd have thought he'd just popped out of the ground. The cat's tail twitched and its eyes narrowed.

Nothing like this man had ever been seen on Privet Drive. He was tall, thin, and very old, judging by the silver of his hair and beard, which were both long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a purple cloak which swept the ground, and high-heeled, buckled boots. His blue eyes were light, bright, and sparkling behind half-moon spectacles and his nose was very long and crooked, as though it had been broken at least twice. This man's name was Albus Dumbledore.

Albus Dumbledore didn't seem to realize that he had just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots was unwelcome.

He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he did seem to realize he was being watched because he looked up suddenly at the cat, which was still staring at him from the other end of the street.

For some reason, the sight of the cat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, "I should have known."

He had found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it open, held it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a little pop.

He clicked it again—the next lamp flickered into darkness. Twelve times he clicked the Put-Outer until the only lights left in the whole street were two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn't be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement.

Dumbledore slipped the Put-Outer back inside his cloak and set off down the street towards number four, where he sat down on the wall next to the cat. He didn't look at it, but after a moment, he spoke to it.

"Fancy seeing you here, Professor McGonagall."

He turned to smile at the tabby, but it had gone. Instead, he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman who was wearing square glasses exactly the shape of the markings the cat had had around its eyes. She, too, was wearing a cloak, an emerald one. Her black hair was drawn into a tight bun. She looked distinctly ruffled.

"How did you know it was me?" she asked.

"My dear Professor, I've never seen a cat sit so stiffly."

"You'd be stiff if you'd been sitting on a brick wall all day," said Professor McGonagall.

"All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here." Professor McGonagall sniffed angrily.

"Oh yes, everyone's celebrating, all right," she said impatiently. "You'd think they'd be a bit more careful, but no—even the Muggles have noticed something's going on. It was on their news." She jerked her head back at the Dursleys' dark living-room window. "I heard it. Flocks of owls ... shooting stars ... Well, they're not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent—I'll bet that was Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense."

"You can't blame them," said Dumbledore gently. 'We've had precious little to celebrate for eleven years.'

"I know that," said Professor McGonagall irritably. "But that's no reason to lose our heads. People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight, not even dressed in Muggle clothes, swapping rumors."

She threw a sharp, sideways glance at Dumbledore here, as though hoping he was going to tell her something, but he didn't, so she went on: "A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared, at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone, Dumbledore?"

"It certainly seems so," said Dumbledore. "We have much to be thankful for. Would you care for a sherbet lemon?"

"A what?"

"A sherbet lemon. They're a kind of Muggle sweet I'm rather fond of."

"No, thank you," said Professor McGonagall coldly, as though she didn't think this was the moment for sherbet lemons. "As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone–"

"My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this,"You-Know-Who" non-sense—for eleven years I have been trying to persuade people to call him by his proper name: Voldemort." Professor McGonagall flinched, but Dumbledore, who was unsticking two sherbet lemons, seemed not to notice. "It all gets so confusing if we keep saying,"You-Know-Who".' I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort's name.'

"I know you haven't," said Professor McGonagall, sounding half-exasperated, half-admiring. "But you're different. Everyone knows you're the only one You-Know—oh, all right, Voldemort—was frightened of."

"You flatter me," said Dumbledore calmly. "Voldemort had powers I will never have."

"Only because you're too—well, noble to use them."

"It's lucky it's dark. I haven't blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs."

Professor McGonagall shot a sharp look at Dumbledore and said, "The owls are nothing to the rumors that are flying around. You know what everyone's saying? About why he's disappeared? About what finally stopped him?"

It seemed that Professor McGonagall had reached the point she was most anxious to discuss, the real reason she had been waiting on a cold hard wall all day, for neither as a cat nor as a woman had she fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was plain that whatever 'everyone' was saying, she was not going to believe it until Dumbledore told her it was true. Dumbledore, however, was choosing another sherbet lemon and did not answer.

"What they're saying," she pressed on, "is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric's Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumor is that Lily and James Potter are—are—that they're—dead."

Dumbledore bowed his head. Professor McGonagall gasped.

"Lily and James ... I can't believe it ... I didn't want to believe it ... Oh, Albus ..."

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder. "I know ... I know ..." he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall's voice trembled as she went on. "That's not all. They're saying he tried to kill the Potters' sons, Harry and Y/n. But—he couldn't. He couldn't kill those little boys. No one knows why, or how, but they're saying that when he couldn't kill Harry and Y/n Potter, Voldemort's power somehow broke—and that's why he's gone."

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

"It's—it's true?" faltered Professor McGonagall. "After all, he's done ... all the people he's killed ... he couldn't kill two little boys? It's just astounding ... of all the things to stop him ... but how in the name of heaven did Harry and Y/n survive?"

"We can only guess," said Dumbledore. "We may never know."

Professor McGonagall pulled out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a great sniff as he took a golden watch from his pocket and examined it. It was a very odd watch. It had twelve hands but no numbers; instead, little planets were moving around the edge. It must have made sense to Dumbledore, though, because he put it back in his pocket and said, "Hagrid's late. I suppose it was he who told you I'd be here, by the way?"

"Yes," said Professor McGonagall. "And I don't suppose you're going to tell me why you're here, of all places?"

"I've come to bring Harry and Y/n to his aunt and uncle. They're the only family they have left now."

"You don't mean—you can't mean the people who live here?" cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four. "Dumbledore—you can't. I've been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they've got this son—I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Harry and Y/n Potter come and live here!"

"It's the best place for them," said Dumbledore firmly. "They're aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to them when they're older. I've written them a letter."

"A letter?" repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. "Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! They'll be famous—a legend—I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Harry and Y/n Potter Day in the future; there will be books written about Harry and Y/n; every child in our world will know their name!"

"Exactly," said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. "It would be enough to turn any boy's head. Famous before they can walk and talk! Famous for something they won't even remember! Can't you see how much better off they'll be, growing up away from all that until they're ready to take it?"

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed and then said, "Yes—yes, you're right, of course. But how are the boys getting here, Dumbledore?" She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Harry and Y/n underneath it.

"Hagrid's bringing them."

"You think it—wise—to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?"

"I would trust Hagrid with my life," said Dumbledore.

"I'm not saying his heart isn't in the right place," said Professor McGonagall grudgingly, "but you can't pretend he's not careless. He does tend to—what was that?"

A low rumbling sound had broken the surrounding silence. It grew steadily louder as they looked up and down the street for some sign of a headlight; it swelled to a roar as they both looked up at the sky—and a huge motorbike fell out of the air and landed on the road in front of them.

If the motorbike was huge, it was nothing to the man sitting astride it. He was almost twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He looked simply too big to be allowed, and so wild—long tangles of bushy black hair and beard hid most of his face. He had hands the size of dustbin lids and his feet in their leather boots were like baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms, he was holding a bundle of blankets.

"Hagrid," said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. "At last. And where did you get that motorbike?"

"Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir," said the giant, climbing carefully off the motorbike as he spoke. "Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I've got them, sir."

"No problems, were there?"

"No, sir—the house was almost destroyed, but I got them both out all right before the Muggles started swarmin' around. They fell asleep as we was flyin' over Bristol."

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundles of blankets. Inside, just visible, were two baby boys, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair and h/c hair over their foreheads, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

"Is that where–?" whispered Professor McGonagall.

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "They'll have that scar forever."

"Couldn't you do something about it, Dumbledore?"

"Even if I could, I wouldn't. Scars can come in useful. I have one myself above my left knee, which is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well—give them here, Hagrid—we'd better get this over with."

Dumbledore took Harry and Y/n in his arms and turned towards the Dursleys' house.

"Could I—could I say goodbye to them, sir?" asked Hagrid.

He bent his great, shaggy head over Harry and Y/n and gave them what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. Then, suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

"Shhh!" hissed Professor McGonagall. "You'll wake the Muggles!"

"S-s-sorry," sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large spotted handkerchief and burying his face in it. "But I c-c-can't stand it—Lily an' James dead—an' poor little Harry and Y/n off ter live with Muggles―"

"Yes, yes, it's all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we'll be found," Professor McGonagall whispered, patting

Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. He laid Harry and Y/n gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Harry's blankets and then came back to the other two. For a full minute, the three of them stood and looked at the little bundle; Hagrid's shoulders shook, Professor McGonagall blinked furiously and the twinkling light that usually shone from Dumbledore's eyes seemed to have gone out.

"Well," said Dumbledore finally, "that's that. We've no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations."

"Yeah," said Hagrid in a very muffled voice. "I'd best get this bike away. G'night, Professor McGonagall—Professor Dumbledore, sir."

Wiping his streaming eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid swung himself onto the motorbike and kicked the engine into life; with a roar, it rose into the air and off into the night.

"I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall," said Dumbledore, nodding to her. Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply.

Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner, he stopped and took out the silver Put-Outer. He clicked it once and twelve balls of light sped back to their street lamps so that Privet Drive glowed suddenly orange and he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

"Good luck, Harry and Y/n," he murmured. He turned on his heel, and with a swish of his cloak, he was gone.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the inky sky. The very last place you would expect astonishing things to happen. Harry Potter rolled over inside his blankets without waking up, while his twin wrapped his chubby little arm around him. Holding him close. In the light, you could see the tear stains on Y/n's cheeks and his little fingers wrapped around Harry, almost afraid to let him go.

One small hand closed on the letter beside Harry and the boys slept on, not knowing they were special, not knowing they were famous, not knowing they would be woken in a few hours' time by Mrs. Dursley's scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles, nor that they would spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by their cousin Dudley ... They couldn't know that at this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses and saying in hushed voices: "To Harry and Y/n Potter—the boy's who lived!"

𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘴 𝘐 𝘞𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘍𝘰𝘳

Harry Potter Characters

A Song Of Ice & Fire/Game of Thrones Characters

Marvel Characters

Book Characters

It’s so rare seeing memes that praise men and boys so here are two nice ones.

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.

~~~~

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