Harry had long since stopped asking where things went wrong for his family. Not because he didn't care, but because no one ever gave him an answer that made any sense. Maybe the truth was that nothing had ever gone right to begin with for his family.
He heard the door open before he saw her. A gust of cold air swept in, followed by the dull thud of a bag hitting the floor. His mother was home — late again, and drunk again — on what was supposed to be her day off. Harry didn't bother looking up from the couch. The distant voices behind her, laughter fading into the night, told him she hadn't come home alone. Maybe the rumors were true — about his parents, about their wandering affections, about how little anything mattered anymore.
She didn't greet him. She never did.
In the kitchen, glass clinked as Sirius emptied another armful of wine and firewhiskey bottles into the bin. The bag rustled. More glass. Then a long, tired and familiar sigh. Harry had heard that sound a hundred times. Sirius was the only one who still cleaned up after them. And even then, only once the stench became impossible to ignore. His parents didn't even feel embarrassed anymore — not about the drinking, not about the mess they create, not about the fact that someone who didn't even live there had to be the responsible one.
Things had always been like this — at least, for as long as Harry could remember. The photos in the albums said otherwise: James and Lily, smiling and sun-kissed, arms around each other like they were still in love. A toddler on James's shoulders, cheeks flushed with laughter. A picnic blanket in the background. A cat swiping at a bowl of tuna. Lily pouring pumpkin juice into a little cup while Harry grinned up at her like she hung the moon.
He didn't smile like that anymore.
As far as Harry can remember, the smell of pumpkins turned his stomach. Perhaps, too many memories clawing for space he no longer had.
Sirius had told him that everything changed when the Dark Lord won. It hadn't been sudden — not really. There were signs. Hushed conversations. Dumbledore's grim face behind closed doors. Late-night meetings of the Order. Warnings that no one wanted to hear or believe. But still, they hadn't expected it to actually happen. Not even the ones who should've known better. And when it did, it was like the sky itself had dimmed. The Ministry fell first. Then Hogwarts. And then Albus Dumbledore was killed — wandless, kneeling, murdered in public while the crowd was forced to applaud. They didn't even let him die in dignity.
There had been no last heroic stand.
The resistance had crumbled quickly after that. Some surrendered the moment Albus Dumbledore's body hit on the ground. Others tried to run — they were hunted down. The rest just disappeared — just like poof. Harry had heard the stories long before he understood them. Muggles were drained of their souls, left to wander until they died. The Death Eaters had made sure that the message was clear: there were worse things than death.
Sirius had told him that Peter Pettigrew's betrayal had shattered James. He tried to hide it, kept pretending for a while. But when Remus was found torn to pieces by Fenrir Greyback, dumped outside their home as a message — James broke for good. The brightness behind his eyes went out and never came back.
Now, Harry mostly saw his father drunk. His wand forgotten in some corner. His voice hollow. Smiles are rare, and never real.
Sirius kept James upright, more out of loyalty than love. Maybe because he didn't know what else to do. He was the only one who still looked at Harry like he mattered. Even then, it felt like Sirius was waiting for something — like he wasn't sure which way Harry would eventually fall.
Lily was harder to read. Sirius said she had once been fire and steel and cleverness wrapped in kindness. But whatever had burned inside her, had now burned out. Now, she came home late, snapped more than she spoke, and argued with James until one of them left the room. She hadn't told Harry to smile in years. She didn't check on him anymore. Not even when he cried.
He wasn't sure if she heard. Honestly, he didn't even care.
It was Sirius who taught him. Who explained magical theory in whispers and showed him how few words and a flick of the wand could bend reality itself. He was the one who smuggled him into Diagon Alley for school supplies, who stood proudly as Harry gripped his first wand. Wide-eyed. Breathless. Like discovering that he had been missing a part of his body till then.
It was Sirius who intercepted his Hogwarts letter before Lily or James could toss it into the fire.
"I promise you Harry, you will go to Hogwarts," he'd said, jaw clenched, eyes hard. "I don't care who's running the place. You deserve this chance."
And as promised, Harry was able to go to Hogwarts.
Contrary to what his parents had told told him, Hogwarts was still filled with wonders… but perhaps a little different. Little stricter and colder. But the warmth was still there, unlike what his parents told him. A few Death Eaters taught classes now too. Some of his classmates hated them. But honestly, Harry didn't care because they were brilliant, and thats all he cared about. He was the best in every subject — except History of Magic. He was fast, focused. hungry, powerful. He soaked up knowledge like he had been starved for it — which he had been. He learned to disappear when it served him. To stay quiet. To observe. And act when it suited him.
The Sorting Hat had hesitated.
"You have the mind for Ravenclaw," it said thoughtfully.
"No," Harry whispered. "Put me in Gryffindor. Please. If I am not, then they won't let me stay."
A pause. A sigh. And then: "Very well."
Gryffindor it was.
He didn't belong there, not really. He wasn't brave like the ones in the old stories. His courage was quieter. Sharper. Like a boy growing claws because he didn't have them before.
When his end-of-year results arrived, an unfamiliar owl delivered the letter, eyeing him expectantly until he handed over a scrap of bacon from his plate. He watched it fly off, a flicker of envy twisting in his chest. He wanted an owl of his own. They could afford it — they weren't dirt poor like those fucking Weasleys, he has seen his family's vault, it was filled to the brim — but when he had asked, Lily had dismissed him with a flat, "You're too young to take care of something like that."
Harry unfolded the letter with careful hands.
"An Outstanding in Dark Arts," Lily said when she saw it. She didn't smile, nat that he had expected her to. She held the parchment and gripped it tightly. "And an Acceptable in History of Magic. Honestly, Harry. You could be doing so much better."
She didn't notice how he tensed.
James shuffled in a moment later, still reeking of liquor. He blinked down at the letter.
"An Outstanding in Transfiguration and an Outstanding in Charms also. That's my boy."
Harry said nothing. No one mentioned the hours he had spent studying by wandlight while they fought down the hall. No one noticed how he had learned more than the textbooks even offered. That, he was far ahead of his peers. It didn't matter to his parents.
"I picked up another night shift," Lily said, grabbing a teacup without looking at him. "I'll be gone this evening."
Harry nodded. "I'm done with lunch," he muttered, folding the letter and pocketing it.
He left before the next fight of his parents could begin.
Outside, the air was crisp and clean — a stark contrast to the weight pressing on the walls inside. The cottage stood on the edge of nowhere. Harry never understood why they lived here. Maybe his parents liked the silence.
He walked to the far end of the garden, where an old tree leaned awkwardly over the fence. Its bark was cracked. The roots curled like claws. It looked like it had been trying to escape for years.
He liked it there.
Leaning against the trunk, Harry pulled the letter back out and unfolded it again. His name was at the top. His marks were listed neatly below. Proof — real, tangible proof — that he was more than a shadow in his parents's house. That he existed. That he mattered.
That he would be great.
_______________________________________________________________________
By his second year at Hogwarts, Harry had learned that there were two kinds of Gryffindors.
The first kind — loud, stubborn, and hopelessly idiotic idealists — still clung to stories of the past. They whispered about possible rebellion, about courage, about the 'right side' of history. Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom led them like the boys trying to walk in their parents' footsteps, always ready to throw words at him like "traitor" across the common room with all the maturity of a flobberworm. The second kind — Harry's kind — had stopped pretending long ago, and have accepted the new order.
They didn't care who ran the school and ministry, not really. Hogwarts still taught magic. The castle still stood. The meals were hot, the beds were warm, and the professors still handed out exams and detentions. Some of the portraits had been replaced sure — the ones that used to show Dumbledore and his likes now bore the visages of Dark Lord's approved figures — but the foundations hadn't changed.
And Harry… Harry didn't waste time grieving over old legends. He focused on what mattered now and the future.
Few of his classmates might have expected him to be some kind of foolish rebel, given who his father was. James Potter, the once-famous Auror, one of the symbols of the old resistance, now worked as a "reformed" citizen in the new Ministry. Some still praised him, called him noble for choosing neutrality when it mattered most for his family — the day Dumbledore fell. Others whispered about his weakness. His cowardice.
Harry didn't care what they called his father.
All he cared about was becoming great and making Sirius proud. And the best way to do that, he knew, was to make a place for himself in the new world. Not by resisting it. Not by running from the reality. But by mastering it. He would carve out a future with his own hands, even if he had to do it all alone.
His academic record became his shield and sword.
His first-year classes were rigorous — Transfiguration, Charms, History of Magic, Potions, Herbology, Astronomy, Dark Arts, and Defensive Magic. He didn't only memorized every textbook, he understood it to a deeper level, he challenged every theory, and casted spells with a precision that left even the stricter professors blinking.
By the end of the first year, Harry had racked up seven Outstandings and a lone Acceptable in History of Magic — the one subject he couldn't bring himself to care about, with its endless droning about past.
His second year brought more of the same, with new additions: bi-monthly lectures in Arithmancy and Healing Arts, both were technically electives but were treated more like luxuries only serious students bothered with. Harry devoured the material. Before third year even began, he had sat for early O.W.L. exams in Astronomy and Herbology, walking out with perfect scores. He selected four electives in his third year, and Healing Arts was among them, surprising a few professors who hadn't pegged him for the empathetic type and also considering his talent in the Dark Arts.
He didn't care about their assumptions either.
Academically, he soared. But socially, he failed.
He didn't laugh in the common room with his other housemates. He didn't linger at meals with others. He didn't go flying unless it was required. Most of his housemates stayed out of his way — partly out of dislike, partly out of confusion. The few who tried to provoke him learned the hard way that Harry's silence didn't mean that he was weak.
His disciplinary file included few infractions: unauthorized dueling outside class hours with his housemates, a near fistfight with his housemates in Potions, unauthorized spell used on his housemates in corridors. Once, he cursed a fifth-year Gryffindor so hard that the boy missed two weeks of school. But Harry never apologized for any of this.
On Harry's fourteenth birthday, a snowy white owl showed up at his window with a red ribbon around her leg and a note tied to her ankle in Sirius's spiky handwriting: "For when you're finally ready to fly on your own."Harry named her Lilith. He never told his parents. It wasn't their business.
When his third-year exam results arrived, Lily tore them in half.
"Compliments in the Dark Arts and Dueling from Barty Crouch Jr.?" she snapped, slapping a letter from his Dark Arts professor onto the table. "This is what you're proud of? Being told that you have a natural gift for hurting others?"
She didn't wait for an answer. She rarely did.
James didn't say anything either. He just poured himself another glass and left the room. As always.
So Harry kept to himself. He studied harder. Slept less. Pushed himself further. He found hidden corners of the Hogwarts no one else used — dusty classrooms, long-forgotten books in the library, places where he could be alone and feel whole.
Then, in his fourth year, everything changed.
It started with Lysandra Lestrange.
The name alone made people stare. The Lestranges were as famous as they were feared — tied directly to the Dark Lord's inner circle.
Harry had noticed that Lysandra was polite, observant and brilliant.
In their Dark Arts class, she chose to pair with Harry.
She didn't ask anyones permission. She simply walked over, set her books beside him, and said, "You're brilliant at Dark Arts, Potter. I hope we can push each other further."
Harry just blinked. And then nodded.
It was the first time a student in Hogwarts had spoken to him like… a person. Not an enemy. Not a disappointment. Not a danger.
Later that day, in the common room, Ron Weasley sneered from across the table. "Hanging around with the likes of Lestranges now, are you?" he spat. "How long before you start calling him 'My Lord'?"
Harry will be first to admit that he was impulsive. He didn't think. He just acted.
Ron never saw the curse coming. He flew halfway across the room. His robe was smoking, nose broken, wand spinning across the floor. People were screaming. Neville ducked under a table. Hermione tried to cast a Shield Charm — but it was too late. Someone ran to get a professor.
Harry would've kept going on the three of them, if, Professor Crouch hadn't arrived.
Crouch was one of the semi-stricter ones, a former enforcer for the restructured Department of Magical Order. He disarmed Harry in a blink and marched him straight to the Headmaster's office.
Snape was furious. A hundred points were stripped from Gryffindor. And a month's detention was given with Professor Crouch, along with a formal warning on his record.
But when Harry showed up for detention, Crouch didn't hand him any kind of punishment.
Instead, he handed him a book to read.
"As I told you previously Potter," the professor said without looking up. "You have a talent in Dark Arts and Duelling. But you lack discipline. Don't worry, I will help you in that."
Harry learned more in that month than he had in an entire term. Crouch was so impressed that he continued the lessons for two more months.
And for the first time, he found himself enjoying something more than just marks on a parchment. It wasn't about grades anymore. It was about control. Focus. Power. About knowing what to do and when to do it — and how to make sure no one could stop him.
Crouch didn't coddle him. He didn't play favorites. But he respected his competence. And Harry? He thrived under it.
And Lysandra noticed it.
"You're different lately," she said one day after class.
"Different how?"
"You are not as impulsive as you were before. It is harder to make you angry. You also don't look tense as you once were."
He didn't reply. He just smiled, just a little.
After Lysandra, others followed. Students who used to keep their distance now drifted closer. Not many. But enough. Quiet conversations started happening in the library. Shared notes were passed in class. A polite greeting in the hallway. A shared meal and laughs in the Great Hall. For years, Harry hadn't even known how alone he was — until suddenly, he wasn't.
He found comfort in that — even if it felt fragile. Even if part of him expected it all to shatter.
Still, Hogwarts was better than home.
Here, he could breathe. Study. Grow. Lock himself in an unused classroom and practice until his fingers burned. Stay up late in the Astronomy Tower with a textbook and hot chocolate. Here, no one told him he was too much. Too angry. Too cold.
Here, he didn't have to pretend.
Harry Potter didn't feel like a disappointment any longer.
And for the first time in his life, he loved his life.
_______________________________________________________________________
Harry had started practicing the Imperius Curse, the Cruciatus Curse, and the Killing Curse from the beginning of his fourth year.
It wasn't illegal anymore. Not under the new Ministry.
It was encouraged — if you were powerful enough. If you had the nerve. If you didn't flinch.
Most students didn't bother with the Unforgivables until the tail end of fourth year, and even then, they fumbled through the theory, hesitated at practice, or tried only under direct supervision. It was considered bold to attempt them before fifth year. And in the eyes of some — suicidal to try without help.
Harry didn't care.
He didn't need help. He didn't need anyone's permission.
By the time Yule come, he had mastered all three of them.
He had tested them out first on spiders behind the greenhouses, then rats he snuck from the supply cages in the dungeons. There was a rhythm to it, a discipline. The spells were easier than people liked to admit. The hard part was accepting what you were doing. Looking at the thing you were about to break — or kill — and deciding not to flinch.
Two weeks before end-of-year exams, Harry had already sat his early O.W.L. in History of Magic. He planned to drop the subject permanently, and he had walked out of the exam hall with barely a second thought.
That evening, he was in the Slytherin common room.
The common room was dim, all greenish candlelight and deep, echoing whispers. Students had clustered around one corner, whispering, and Harry saw why: a seventh-year Hufflepuff prefect was seated in an armchair, her left sleeve was pushed up. The skin beneath glowed faintly, the edges of the Dark Mark still red, raw, and swollen. Magic shimmered along the sigil like slow-moving fire beneath his skin.
The Dark Mark was fresh. It was given just the night before. People usually didn't get it while they were students. People have to prove to the Dark Lord that they are useful to get the Dark Mark. To receive it early meant that the person is talented.
Harry watched the mark in silence. Not jealousy, exactly. But something close.
But, he didn't let it show.
Later that week, in the Dark Arts class, they moved on from theory.
"We will begin with the Imperius Curse," Crouch announced, sweeping into the room. "You've learned the theory. Today we will see what that knowledge is worth."
With a flick of his wand, a loud snap echoed through the room as cages dropped onto each desk. Inside each one, a rat — scruffy, twitchy, whiskers trembling — scrambled in circles, sensing the tension in the room.
"Control it," Crouch said, voice flat. "And for Merlin's sake — don't bore me."
Harry's cage thumped softly beside him. He looked down at the rat inside — small, grey, frantic — and thought of Peter Pettigrew. The man had many a times transformed into a rat to make him laugh. Now Harry could barely remember what his laugh even sounded like during that time.
Around him, his classmates hesitated. Some waved their wands too fast, or shouted too loudly. Others stared at the rats like they might bite. Few spells even sparked. The room was filled with muttering, broken incantations, the occasional shriek from a startled rat.
Harry ignored it all.
He flicked his wand once, smooth and precise.
"Imperio."
A bolt of silvery mist burst from the tip, curling toward the rat. The moment it struck, the animal froze — not stiff, but still. Its limbs went slack, its panic gone. It sat in eerie calm, eyes glassy, waiting.
Harry gave it a command.
"Climb the bars."
It obeyed instantly, scurrying up the side of the cage like a marionette. He told it to spin. It did. Stand on its hind legs. Done. Fall over and stay limp. Done.
There were gasps from nearby desks — half the class still couldn't get the spell to spark.
"Merlin's shaggy balls," a voice said low behind him.
Professor Crouch was at his side now, leaning in, eyes gleaming. "Potter, have you practised the Imperious Curse before?"
Harry didn't blink. "Yes. In fact, I have mastered the Cruciatus Curse and the Killing Curse also."
"What did you practised it on?"
"Small animals like spiders or rats."
"Did someone help you?"
"No. I did it on my own."
Crouch straightened slowly. "Show me the Cruciatus curse."
Harry released the rat from the Imperius. It stumbled slightly, dazed.
Then he raised his wand again.
"Crucio."
The curse hit like a lash of burning red lightning. The rat's body seized, back arching, paws clawing at nothing. It shrieked — a thin, piercing sound that rattled against the walls. Its eyes bulged. It convulsed, legs kicking in the air, body contorted with pure agony.
A few students stepped back, white-faced. Granger turned away and gagged.
Harry ended the spell after about half a minute.
Crouch said "Now finish it."
Harry didn't hesitate.
"Avada Kedavra."
The words left his mouth with eerie softness.
A flash of brilliant green light burst from his wand — fast, bright, and final. It struck the rat in the chest, and it collapsed without a sound. No twitching. No slow death. It was simply… gone.
Dead.
Crouch was quiet for a long moment, then spoke softly, "Harry, few have done what you just did. Even fewer at your age." He looked around at the other students, most of whom had barely controlled their rats with Imperio, let alone moved on. "Ten points to Gryffindor."
Murmurs exploded in the room.
Harry sat down.
Everyone was already looking at him.
By the end of class, other than him, only Lysandra managed a successful Imperius Curse. She couldn't quite get the Cruciatus Curse yet. Harry knew that must have stung her — especially considering her mother was very proficient at it.
By dinner, the castle was already buzzing. Gossips spread like hexfire in the corridors. His name floated in and out of conversations like perfume. Some with awe. Others with caution. A few with fear.
Ron Weasley avoided him for a week after that.
_______________________________________________________________________
Coming home that year, it was only Sirius who met him at King's Cross.
Not James.
It wasn't a huge deal, not on the surface — people missed things. Life happened. But Harry had the gut-deep feeling something was off. His father never missed this. He always showed up, even if it was just to pretend. He liked appearances outside of his house.
Harry had watched the crowd thin out. He watched as Lysandra was swept up in a hug by Bellatrix Lestrange, as Narcissa Malfoy was fussing over Draco. Sirius was leaning against a post, with his arms crossed, watching him with unreadable eyes.
"Rough term?" Sirius asked.
Harry just shrugged. "Not really."
That was the end of it. No congratulations. No talk of exams. Which was strange. They took the Floo back to the cottage in silence. The green flames flared, and Harry stepped out into the sitting room he hadn't missed at all.
It smelled like alcohol and tea.
His mother was already there, standing stiff and pale in the center of the room like a judge waiting for sentencing to begin. His father was in the armchair by the fire, slouched low, swirling what looked like water in a tumbler. But knowing him, it maybe Vodka.
He barely had time to process the scene before Lily spoke.
"Bellatrix Lestrange wrote a letter to me."
Harry blinked. "Okay?"
His mother's face didn't change. But something in her voice sharpened. "She was bragging about you."
Sirius closed the side door with a soft thud.
"She mentioned that you casted the Imperius Curse, the Cruciatus Curse, and the Killing Curse, in your class successfully without anyone's help."
Harry didn't say anything at first. There didn't seem to be a point.
"Well?" Lily stepped forward.
He nodded once. "Yeah."
The slap came so fast he didn't register it. Her palm cracked across his face, sharp and flat, and his head snapped to the side. His teeth sank into his tongue, and the metallic tang of blood rushed into his mouth.
The silence afterward rang louder than the slap itself.
He turned his head slowly back toward her, tongue pressed to the cut in his mouth. Then he spat the blood on the carpet, dark and wet.
"Fuck you," he said.
His voice didn't shake. It didn't rise. Just two words, clean and deliberate, dropped like stones.
Then he turned and walked past her and climbed the stairs.
His room was the same as he'd left it. Cold. Dim. Neat in a way that made it feel like a museum exhibit rather than a place to live.
He didn't come out of his room again. Not even for dinner. Not when the arguments started downstairs.
Only when he heard the dull scrape of a trunk being shoved against his door did he move.
Everything was in order — too neat to be his parent's doing. His books stacked by subject. Wand holster wrapped in a spare robe. Clothes folded crisply. A small parcel was taped to the side with a small envelope on top.
It was Sirius's handwriting.
Inside was a letter.
Harry,
You are walking a path I will never approve of. You know that. And I think you've known it for some time. But for reasons I can't explain — maybe reasons I don't want to admit — I still love you. Maybe it was good that I surrendered. That I walked away and declared neutrality along with James. Now all I care about is my business, and enjoying my life. I am giving you 12 Grimmauld Place. It's yours now. Get out of there now. Don't wait. Take care of yourself. I'll write when I can.
— Sirius
Beneath the letter was a key — tarnished silver, unmistakably Grimmauld Place's.
The parcel was small. Inside was a bundle of galleons, a change of clothes, and a worn photo of the two of them — Harry was maybe eight when the photo was taken.
Harry folded the note slowly, slid it back into the envelope, and sat down on the bed beside his trunk.
He didn't cry.
He just sat there for a long time, staring at nothing or the photo, the envelope balanced on his knee and the echo of Sirius's words — I still love you — loud in the quiet.
Then, finally, he stood.
And began to pack the rest of his things himself.
_______________________________________________________________________
Harry left the cottage the same day he returned from Hogwarts, in 1995. He didn't even say goodbye to his parents.
He stood in front of Number 12 Grimmauld Place and let the wards scan him. The door opened by the silver key Sirius gave him.
The townhouse was old, sure — the floors creaked and the wallpaper peeled in places — but it was his now. The air tasted like dust and old spells, but it represented his freedom. He could breathe now.
The master bedroom was at the top of the staircase, and he claimed it without hesitation. There was a heavy four-poster bed with faded green curtains, a wide fireplace, a wardrobe that smelled faintly of mothballs.
Kreacher appeared, muttering about blood traitors and bowing low. At first, the elf eyed him with wary skepticism — until Harry greeted the portrait of Walburga Black with a respectful nod.
She screamed anyway, of course. But Harry didn't flinch. He stood before her patiently and listened.
"YOU ARE THE BLOOD OF TRAITORS," she screamed. "THE SPAWN OF MUGGLE LOVING FILTH—"
"I don't need you to tell me who my parents are," Harry said flatly. "Due to some... circumstances, I have to leave their house. I needed a place to stay. So, Sirius left this house to me. And whether you like it or not, I have Black blood in my veins through my grandmother."
Her eyes narrowed. The screaming stopped. And she started looking at him like he was some kind of puzzle.
Kreacher also began to watch him differently after that.
By the end of the week, Harry had moved in fully. The room was much cleaner than before. His books were stacked neatly. His wand lay on the nightstand, close enough to reach in his sleep. A fresh set of robes were hung in the wardrobe — robes he had chosen for himself, with silver fastenings and deep green linings. He liked the way they fit. He liked how they looked in the mirror.
Next morning he went to Daigon Alley. Through the Muggle streets, down the alley behind the Leaky Cauldron, through the familiar brick wall — the bricks obediently parting at his touch. Diagon Alley opened before him like a hidden world finally ready to be his.
For the first time, he walked it alone. And for the first time, he looked around and saw everything. There was no hurry this time.
The cobblestones were clean. Lanterns floated over the shop signs, their enchantments humming gently in the air. Stores were filled with merchandise Harry had never seen before — books with moving runes, potions that shimmered gold in the sun, robes cut in elegant dark silhouettes that hadn't been in any catalog his mother had allowed in the house. The people were different too. Happy. Relaxed. Confident.
It wasn't the cold, paranoid dystopia his parents had warned him about.
It was alive.
It was… thriving.
He wanted to learn more about the world, so, he walked into Flourish and Blotts and asked for a job.
The manager blinked at first, confused, but something about Harry's posture — the certainty in his voice, maybe the hint of something darker behind his eyes — made him say yes. It was simple work: unpacking crates, shelving books, organizing displays. But Harry didn't mind. He was surrounded by magic. Real magic. He was even allowed to visit the section about blood magic, infernal curses and political transformation.
The shop became his second home. The regulars started to greet him by name. An older witch with silver bangles once slipped him a handwritten spell she said she had invented herself. Another man asked if Harry would consider apprenticing under a curse breaker when he finished school.
He hadn't realized how much of the world he had been missing.
And how much of it had been kept from him.
His parents had always spoken about the new government like it was a shadow over their lives — a sickness. But the Wizarding Britain he saw wasn't broken. It was so much better.
There was order. Stability. Growth. Everything had its place. Everyone had a role. Power was no longer a dirty word. Strength was something to be respected.
He had grown up being taught that darkness was dangerous. But he was starting to think that maybe his parents had feared it because they didn't have the stomach for it.
And now, as he walked the streets on his own terms, he understood: they hadn't been protecting him. They had been limiting him. Polishing off the edges, trying to fit him into a mold that didn't suit him. Trying to teach him to be small in a world that rewarded greatness.
He could have had this years ago. And they had kept it from him out of pride and fear.
The rage burned hot in his chest.
Let them rot in their self-imposed semi-exile. Let them drink themselves into stupors and pretend they were still on the right side of history.
Harry was done trying to forgive them.
He wasn't James and Lily Potter's legacy.
He was his own man.
And this world had a place waiting just for him.