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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.

~~~~

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