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The Dursleys received a little orphan boy on their doorstep with nothing but a blanket and a note. Petunia Evans, who had found her nephew sleeping soundly in the chilly autumn air, immediately brought him inside. If anyone asked, they would readily comment on how callous of a woman she was, how even her joy was superficial and for the benefit of her own good standing, but even callous, superficial people did not want to leave a baby out to die.

Petunia Evans set the baby gently on a play mat on the floor—the very same one where her little Dudley would spend hours of his day, giggling in happiness at the toys dancing above him—and then read the letter immediately, a bit unnerved by being addressed so plainly.

Apparently, her sister was dead. Apparently, she had been murdered. Apparently, the boy was her nephew and he had nowhere else to go—really? His father may have been dead as well, but surely the boy’s paternal family had someone who could take over? Someone more equipped to deal with her sister’s kind?

In desperation, she woke her husband, who had dozed off on the rocking chair next to Dudley’s crib.

“Vernon,” she said, “Vernon, wake up!”

“I’m awake, I’m awake!” said Vernon, coming to life at once. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“My sister is dead!”

Vernon, who knew very little about Petunia’s sister other than the fact that she resented her deeply, offered a tentative, “I’m sorry.” He did not know what else to say about the woman who had given his wife so much grief—he still remembered how Petunia had thrown the invitation to her sister’s wedding in the trash and ran out of the living room in tears. As far as Vernon knew, Lily Evans had been an arrogant, cruel girl who grew up to be a good-for-nothing woman. Still—the death of a sister must hurt. Vernon would be devastated if Marge died.

Petunia said, “Her husband is dead, too, Vernon!”

“How?”

“Murder!”

Vernon grew pale. “That’s awful.”

“Yes, yes, but Vernon—they had a son! Just a month younger than our Dudders!”

“Is the boy all right?” he asked because Vernon Dursley was just as callous and superficial as his wife but child death was not a line he crossed.

“That’s the thing—he’s here right now. Left on our doorstep by a friend of my sister’s! Says that the boy has no family left other than us!”

Vernon, who had previously been very sympathetic, suddenly felt much worse. To have another child thrust upon them while they were still taking care of Dudley—it was too much! He told Petunia, “We can call someone—the police. A local foster agency. They’ll take him off our hands and make sure the boy is taken care of.”

“He’s my nephew!” Petunia said. “I can’t hand him over to a foster agency! Do you have any idea what people will say?”

“No one needs to know.”

“Everyone will know by morning! The boy has been out on our doorstep for everyone to see!”

Vernon took in the rage on his wife’s face and said, “So, we’re stuck with the boy?”

“For now, at least! I’ll have to contact that dreadful old man—that is, Lily’s friend. The boy is…special, Vernon.” Her voice lowered and, conspiratorially, she repeated, “Special. My sister was like that, too, and I reckon the boy’s father was, as well. I’ll need to try and contact that man’s side of the family, they’ll be more able to take care of him than us.”

“And until then?” demanded Vernon.

Petunia, who now felt much calmer and much more in control, said, “Until then, we take care of him. We should contact someone right away, anyway—the boy came with a blanket and nothing else…no medical records, no birth certificate, nothing! I don’t even know if he’s vaccinated, Vernon! We can’t let him near Dudley until he’s had a full check up at least!”

Vernon considered this, then told his wife, “Let’s do it all in the morning. For now, we have that old crib my mother lent us—the one with the chipped leg. The boy can sleep there for the night.”

“Of course,” said Petunia.

“What’s the boy’s name, anyway?”

Petunia swallowed. “Harry,” she croaked out. “Harry James Potter.”

Harry Potter was an ordinary baby in every sense of the word. He cried when he was frustrated and giggled when he was happy and he’d started haltingly using words when he spoke. Petunia and Vernon were satisfied, if a bit chagrined that Harry could already walk steadily while Dudley was still stumbling around and grasping furniture. Petunia, though, was pleased by Harry’s normalcy because she had grown up hearing stories of Lily’s magic, of how it had presented itself from an early age.

Oh, how jealous she was when she heard of her little sister making toys float for her amusement, or making the fire in the fireplace burn brighter at her whim. But Harry did none of those things—his toys stayed on the floor and the fire was as stable as ever.

Harry was a normal child.

And then, one summer day six months after Harry had begun to live with them, Petunia was working in the kitchen with the back door wide open. It was nearly too hot to function and the fans were not enough to chase away the heat but there was a wonderful breeze outside that Petunia made sure was running through the room. Not wanting her son and her nephew to die of heatstroke, she set them to play in the living room with strict instructions to not go out the open door. She then happily set to cooking.

She did not notice the black and white scales as they slithered into her home, and she did not notice the way the creature eyed the children. Dudley had noticed, though, and found himself frightened…too frightened to speak. Instead, he grasped onto Harry, who finally turned to look.

It was a few minutes later that Petunia heard a scream. She immediately went to look and found, to her horror, an adder snake in her living room. Her only solace was that it was well and truly dead, laying limp in Harry’s hands.

“Oh God!” cried Petunia, immediately grabbing the corpse by its tail and hurling it out of her house. “Were you bitten?” But she knew that children could not speak and so she looked them over herself—first Dudley, who had been the one to scream and who was still crying, and then Harry, who simply giggled at her ministrations. Once assured that neither of them needed to go to hospital, she could not help but wonder what had happened.

She told her husband of the events when he had come home, and he had told her to never leave the door open again.

It was later that night when realization struck. She remembered the way Harry had been holding the adder in his hands, the way he’d been swinging it around in delight. With a gasp, she said to Vernon, “He strangled it! Harry strangled the adder to death!”

Vernon, half asleep, responded, “That’s nice, dear.”

Petunia could not think straight, so she carefully crawled out of bed and made her way to the cupboard under the stairs. That was where Harry’s crib had been and where it remained to this day. It was too heavy to carry out—Vernon had nearly broken his back trying to get the gift into their house in the first place—and Harry seemed content enough to be staying there.

Petunia wrenched the door open and woke Harry harshly. “What did you do, boy?” she demanded. “How could you strangle it? You’re too weak!”

But Harry just smiled at her, not at all upset about being woken from his slumber, and replied with a single word: “Magic!”

Petunia slammed the cupboard door shut. Harry had never said that word before and Petunia made sure it was not a mainstay in their household. And yet, Harry had said the word without hesitation, answering her question firmly. And even after closing the door, she could hear Harry giggling from inside.

For the first time in a while, Petunia found herself frightened.

The boy was a ghostly specter in Petunia’s mind, cornering her whenever she thought she was safe.

At lunch, when she was patiently trying to get Dudley to eat some peas, Harry grabbed his sippy-cup of orange juice, frowned at it mightily, and then giggled as the liquid turned from water to juice. In the parking lot outside the grocery store, when Petunia had accidentally collided with a heavily-pregnant young woman who proceeded to spill all the contents in her bags, Harry had gathered them all with strength that a one-year-old should not have and handed it back to the woman. Perhaps most damning of all, though, was the way the latch to the cupboard door would come undone at the oddest moments, even though it was on the outside. At night, Petunia would latch the door shut so that Harry would not wake up and wander about the house, but in the morning, the door would be wide open, no matter how many latches she attached.

And she did, of course, keep attaching latches. Locks, as well, both the ones that require a key and the sliding ones. She would add them to the cupboard door, almost as if it was a game, just to see if all of them would be unlocked come morning—and, indeed, they always were.

Vernon, who watched the proceedings with growing concern, finally asked, “What on earth does the cupboard need so many locks for?”

“Just making sure,” said Petunia.

Vernon shook his head but let his wife be.

It wasn’t until a neighbor had come over, bearing leftover casserole meant for a party that had been canceled, that it finally struck Petunia how obsessive she was being. The kind middle-aged woman had taken one look at the locks on the cupboard door and said, “Must be something mighty precious inside. Locked up all tight—I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many in my life!”

And suddenly, Petunia felt shame, because there was not anything precious inside the cupboard at all—only a crib that was too heavy to be moved, meant to hold a boy that couldn’t be locked in, anyway.

Vernon came home that day and witnessed Petunia mechanically dismantle every lock she had added until the only one left was the one the cupboard had been built with.

The next morning, Petunia walked down stairs and saw the cupboard door just as wide open as ever, with Harry awake and giggling on the other side. That night, she sat her husband down, took a deep breath, and said, “Vernon, there’s something I need to tell you…”

It was odd, how certain Vernon was that magic wasn’t real. For Petunia, who’d been scared into keeping it a secret by both her parents and the occasional grown wizards who visited, it seemed logical that any normal person would immediately recognize magic as part of reality. For most of her teenage years, and for a great while afterward, Petunia was always scared to bring it up at all for fear of someone taking her seriously.

And then, when she finally came clean, her husband simply would not believe her. It ended up taking a trip to Petunia’s parents’ home, which contained some of Lily’s teenage belongings, before Vernon finally gave in. She watched anxiously as her husband’s stony gaze scanned the moving photographs and half-melted but very much animate chocolate frogs. She watched him observe the card with Albus Dumbledore on it critically, and watched as his jaw clenched when the visage of the eccentric old man gave Vernon a single, unimpressed look and promptly exited the frame.

When they went home, Vernon asked, “Are you like that, too, Pet?”

“No,” said Petunia, and she nearly didn’t feel bitter about it.

Vernon nodded. “We can’t get this anywhere near our Dudley. It’s—it’s too fanciful. It’s obscene. He’ll want to run away into it and never come back to the real world.”

“They don’t let normal people into their world,” assured Petunia. “They’ll kick him out if he tries.”

“Better not give him the opportunity to get hurt like that, I say.” As they approached the front door of #4 Privet Drive, Vernon turned to her and said, “From now on, there is no such thing as magic—especially in this house. Understand, Petunia?”

Petunia nodded, relieved. She said, “But what about the boy?”

“We’re his aunt and uncle—it’s our job to train it out of him. If not, then we’ll have to separate him and Dudley as much as possible.”

With that, Vernon opened the door. The kind old woman from down the street who had agreed to babysit for the day greeted them with a smile, not remarking upon their grim dispositions at all. In fact, she seemed quite eager to leave the house entirely, nearly shoving Dudley into Petunia’s arms before racing out the front door. In the living room, Harry was curled up on the couch, watching the telly. The program was a nature documentary and Harry evidently did not find it worthy of his time, judging by his scowl. And, just like that, the channel changed entirely, the channel number ticking up by one.

The remote, Petunia noted, was on the dresser a good half a room away from Harry.

The news channel seemed to enrage Harry even more for the channels began to flip rapidly, the numbers steadily climbing higher, until it suddenly stopped on what Petunia was reasonably sure was Doctor Who.

Shakily, Vernon said, “Petunia…”

“I’ll put Harry and Dudders to bed,” Petunia replied quickly. She hurried over and grabbed Harry first, getting him ready as fast as she could before placing him in his crib, closing the cupboard door, and sliding the latch shut.

Vernon, who was eyeing the door, said, “Now I understand why you wanted all those locks.”

For some reason, that made Petunia sick…though she could not for the life of her understand why.

From then on, Harry received a cold reception from Vernon every morning. Petunia herself was bitter and often turned away from the boy or ignored him entirely if possible. Despite it all, Harry remained a happy, upbeat child, and Dudley seemed absolutely enamored with him no matter how much his parents encouraged him to avoid his cousin.

Likewise, the neighborhood children flocked to him once he and Dudley were old enough to venture outside for playtime. Even as Petunia and Vernon attempted to sow the seeds of doubt into their neighbors, no one seemed upset with the boy—rather, they uniformly found him cute and charming, if a little mischievous. The worst anyone could complain about was Harry’s habit of stealing candy out of their kitchens—even then, it was only a few bits. No matter how much Petunia scolded him or Vernon threatened him, he would not stop, and the neighbors would only egg him on, finding the childish theft endearing.

In an act of pettiness, once Harry had outgrown his crib, Vernon spent the entire day hauling it out of the cupboard and out of the house before dragging in a cot. He placed it firmly in the cupboard, turned to Harry, and smiled. “You like your room, don’t you, boy?”

“I don’t mind it,” said Harry, who was a remarkably articulate four-year-old. “I’d like a lock on the inside, too, though.”

Vernon refused but Petunia, still frightened by the boy, managed to convince her husband; the cupboard had two locks once again, one on the inside and one on the outside. Petunia still locked the door at night from the outside, but Harry also locked it from the inside, and for the first time ever, it was not wide open in the morning.

As far as Petunia was concerned, things were looking up.

In the summer of 1986, during an awful heatwave that already had Petunia remembering the adder in the living room, an ice cream van toured the streets of Little Whinging. It found, much to its delight, many children of well-off parents who were eager to have something cold and sweet to stave off the heat. The man who was running it was well into his sixties, with graying hair and a kind smile, and he delighted in the joy he could bring the children—and the occasional teenager and adult—with his products.

Then, he arrived at Privet Drive, where he was once again flocked. The children already had the money ready, and he set to handing out a large variety of ice cream, right up until a young boy with sandy blond hair—Dudley Dursely, of course—asked for two. The man stared at the money and apologetically said that it would only pay for one ice cream. Dudley turned to his cousin, concerned, and wondered if he should go back and ask for more.

Harry, knowing he would not receive any more, simply smiled and told Dudley to just get himself something.

The man, touched by Harry’s kindness and maturity at such a young age, still handed them each a cone for the price of one. “You’re a good young man,” he told Harry kindly, and Harry smiled brightly.

Then, so suddenly that the man nearly didn’t notice, extra notes, adding up to nearly a hundred pounds, appeared on the counter in front of him. The man gasped, looking around, wondering who could have slipped it there so quickly without alerting him. When he did look, he found most of the children staring at it with wide eyes—but Harry was simply smiling and enjoying his ice cream.

The man never found out where the money came from…but the children knew. The children knew that Harry was kind and, when he thought someone else was kind, as well, he would help them. Dudley knew it very well and that was what he told Petunia and Vernon when they came home with one ice cream cone each.

Vernon turned and stared speculatively at the boy. “You don’t think I’m kind, Potter?” asked Vernon.

Harry shrugged. “You do keep me in a cupboard.”

And, well, what could he say to that?

When his Hogwarts letter arrived in June, 1991, it was addressed to Harry J. Potter, residing in the second bedroom on the second floor of #4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. Harry picked it up with the rest of the mail and, when his eyes glanced over the Hogwarts crest, he smiled. He said to Petunia, “I was accepted!”

“What?” asked Petunia, setting her pan aside. She glanced over, bewildered, but she froze when she saw the letter. Her face went pale and her hands were shaking and Harry watched with concern as his aunt seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack. “How do you know? I never said a word to you about that!” Not even when Harry made things float or made things disappear or once turned water into wine at the goading of the neighborhood children.

Harry just laughed and said, “Aunt Petunia, of course I know! I spent an entire year with my parents before I was sent your way—they would talk about Hogwarts non-stop.”

Petunia could not conceive of having such an accurate memory but she supposed that if anyone could remember everything that had ever happened to them, it would be Harry Potter. Instead, she grabbed the letter out of his hands and observed it as if it were a bomb waiting to explode. The contents of the note didn’t seem too different from what Lily had gotten all those years ago up until Petunia saw the list of required materials. Her head went into overdrive, immediately trying to pick out which of Lily’s old, left behind school supplies Harry could use, but then she realized what she was doing.

Was she really going to send her nephew off to that same, wretched school as her sister? Was she going to allow her nephew to learn magic while her own son was forced to stay in the real, mundane world?

“I’m going to talk to your uncle,” she finally said, “and we’ll decide if you can go.”

Harry smiled. He said, “Aunty, don’t you know what happens to witches and wizards who never learn to control their magic?”

Petunia froze because she did know. She’d heard Lily and that awful boy—what was his name, again? Sev?—talk about it sometimes, talk about all the freaky children who would never go to that school of theirs for one reason or another, how their magic would grow out of control and cause nothing but havoc. Or, worse, their magic would repress itself to the point of bursting out in a violent inferno. It had terrified her to her very core. It was after overhearing that conversation that Petunia stopped trying to convince her parents to pull Lily out of Hogwarts.

Petunia did not want to die like that.

When she focused back on Harry, who was still smiling lightly, she said, “It will take some convincing but…I suppose you can go to that school.”

And Harry said, “Brilliant.”

It did take some convincing, in fact, and quite a lot of it, but when Petunia finally gave in and whispered her fears to Vernon, he went just as pale and shaky as her before finally agreeing. “And maybe,” said Vernon, “the boy will find some other relatives and finally leave us alone.”

But Harry had no other relatives, at least not in this continent, so Petunia did not hope.

When Lily was eleven, their parents had dragged Petunia to go shopping with that awful boy—Sev? Really? Surely that wasn’t his whole name…—and that ugly mother of his and the experience had burned itself so harshly into Petunia’s brain that she’d never forgotten it, not one bit. So, a week after receiving the letter and sending off a reply, Petunia and Harry took the train to London.

“Keep your head down,” she instructed as they entered the back alley of a seemingly abandoned shop on Charing Cross Road. “Don’t talk to anyone—these folks are different and if you speak, they’ll know you’re normal.”

Harry said, “Aunt Petunia, I lived with magic for a year. I know how they talk, and it’s not too different from you.”

Petunia pursed her lips and shook her head, turning back to face the brick wall. “There’s a secret passage here somewhere,” she muttered. “I remember there being one—unless it was all a dream…”

God, she hoped it was all a dream.

Harry just instructed, “Lift me up.”

Petunia was a tiny woman with almost no arm-strength so that was easier said than done but Harry helped the process by making himself lighter than he actually was. Once Petunia managed to lift him to the right height, Harry trailed his finger down a certain pattern of bricks and, just like that, they were folding away, creating a tear in Petunia’s reality, and she was once again in a world that her mind had never been able to comprehend.

Petunia said, “Oh.”

Harry said, “It’s wonderful, isn’t it?”

Petunia said nothing—not because she agreed, but because the vibrant clothes and precarious architecture frightened her. She simply grasped her nephew’s hand and stepped into Diagon Alley, clutching Harry’s supply list close to herself. “Money first,” she whispered. “We need to get to that bank they have those tiny creatures run.”

“Gringotts,” Harry supplied.

Petunia nodded. “Gringotts.”

The creatures—goblins!—led her to a desk. One of the goblins, an awful, wrinkled thing, didn’t even look up from his paperwork when he asked, “Reason for visit?”

Petunia stuttered out, “I’m here to draw money for my nephew’s schooling…or, if there isn’t any, to open an account.”

“Name of nephew?”

“Harry James Potter.”

This caused the goblin to pause. He leaned over his desk and peered down at Harry, who smiled back genially. The goblin leaned back. He said, “Does Mr. Potter have his key?”

“Key?” Petunia asked, bewildered.

But then Harry reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a tiny golden key which definitely was not there before. “I have it, sir.”

The goblin nodded.

Before she knew what was happening, Petunia had been ushered onto a mining cart and forced to sit through a ride that could have put any rollercoaster she’d ever taken Dudley on to shame, much to her dismay. When they stopped, she stumbled out of the cart and emptied the contents of her stomach over the edge, Harry holding her back so that she wouldn’t topple over into the bottomless pit on the other side of the cart. It was a horrifying experience all around.

The goblin didn’t even look phased, merely asking Harry for his key and then swiftly unlocking his vault door, revealing stacks of golden coins so large that it made Petunia’s head spin.

Petunia asked, “How much will cover the first year school supplies for Hogwarts?” She ended up grabbing ten extra coins—galleons! How could she forget?—and handing them to Harry.

She watched as the boy bought vials of chopped up animals that shouldn’t exist. She watched as he talked to snakes in a slithery, skin-crawling language in a pet shop, though he still ended up buying an owl. She watched him buy books that made Petunia skitter away in anxiety. She watched as he waved wand after wand until he finally found one that was his, only to find out that it was the brother-wand of the one belonging to the man who murdered her sister.

Petunia asked, “Why does nothing ever go normally when you’re around?”

Harry said, “Where would be the fun in that?”

Petunia shot him a withering glare, which Harry ignored entirely. Instead, he dragged her to an ice cream shop, of all places. She protested heavily. “Why spend more money than necessary?” She couldn’t tell him off for spending any money on himself when it was Harry’s money they were spending, but she was sorely tempted to.

Harry said, “It’s been a long day. We deserve a treat.”

Petunia didn’t think that Harry deserved a treat at all, not when he had a vial of dried frog legs in his satchel, but she kept her mouth shut as Harry asked what ice cream flavor she wanted. When they were seated at one of the metal tables outside the shop, Petunia finally took a bite of ice cream and she had to admit: it was pretty damn good. She ate it forlornly and, despite herself, wondered if she’d ever be able to come back and try it again, even if she was by herself. Dudley would love it—if Petunia couldn’t bring him, she’d make Harry take him.

But no—no, she didn’t want her Dudders anywhere near this, did she? This awful freakishness?

She took another bite of ice cream and found her resolve melting away.

“Next week,” she said to Harry, who looked up at her serenely, “you’ll bring Dudley to this ice cream shop and get him whatever he wants.”

“Will Uncle Vernon be okay with that?”

“I’ll take care of your uncle,” Petunia said darkly. Her son simply had to eat this ice cream and that was all there was to it.

In the end, she had to lie to Vernon a tad bit about why she, Dudley, and Harry were going somewhere without him, but sacrifices had to be made. The children certainly weren’t going to fess up, anyway, so it was fine.

The day before Harry left for Hogwarts, Petunia found him sitting inside the cupboard under the stairs. She wrung her hands anxiously as he eyed the lock on the door. “What’s wrong?” she asked. Nothing good could come of the boy being in the cupboard. She still had nightmares of the damn thing coming unlocked and swinging open in the middle of the night.

Harry said, “I really didn’t mind this place, you know.”

“You said you didn’t like it when you were six,” Petunia pointed out.

“No, I said you and Uncle Vernon were unkind to keep me here. Those are two different things.”

“How is it unkind if you genuinely weren’t upset by it?”

“It’s only half about what I feel,” explained Harry. “The other half is just the symbolism. You threw me in a cupboard because you wanted to demean me, to make me feel less like a child and more like a thing that you could hide away with the rest of your property.”

“We put you in the cupboard out of necessity.”

“When the crib was here, maybe, but once Uncle Vernon dragged the crib out, it was all about power and spite.” Harry shook his head. “And the locks—even when I hadn’t used magic to open the door in years, you would still lock it from the outside. I was a child capable of walking around the house by myself without causing damage. What if I needed to use the bathroom? What if some creature got in the cupboard?”

“You’d be able to open the cupboard, anyway,” said Petunia.

“Then what was the point of locking me in at all?” He leaned closer. “I’ll tell you—it was all about power. You knew that you couldn’t do anything to contain me but you tried your best anyway. You literally tried to lock me into a cupboard, Aunt Petunia. Do you not hear how that sounds? Is that a sentence you’d ever let me tell the neighbors? No? If it’s not something you’d feel comfortable telling the neighbors, I’m confused why you thought to do it at all.”

Petunia protested, “It was just habit! Muscle memory from when you were younger!”

“Even habits are rooted in symbolism, Aunty.”

Petunia, in her outrage, took the opportunity to slam the cupboard door shut. Harry, who was inside, just laughed. “Are you going to lock it from the outside again?” he asked.

Petunia said, “I don’t need to.”

“Because you shut me in the cupboard and symbolically put me in my place,” agreed Harry.

“You’re making it very hard to feel like it, though.”

“Of course I am—I’ll be leaving soon. I can’t let you get complacent now. I have to give you something to chew over until the holidays.” He leaned closer to the grates on the cupboard. “Here, listen to this: do you want to know why I’m not offended by the whole situation? Why I actually found it rather nice?”

Curious despite herself, Petunia asked, “Why?”

Harry laughed and it made Petunia’s hairs stand on end. “Open the door and find out.”

Against her better judgment, she did. When Petunia peered inside, however, she did not see her nephew, and nor did she see a cupboard. Instead, she saw something that her muggle—no, human—brain could not comprehend. She saw stars and planets so large that the sun was a mere speck of dust next to them. She saw things so microscopic that they were inconsequential to the world, and yet vitally important at the same time. She saw every granule of sand on Earth and every asteroid in the rings of Saturn. She saw Niel Armstrong’s footprint on the moon. She saw dinosaurs in ages gone past and creatures that don’t yet exist in eras yet to come. She saw it all.

Petunia slammed the door shut, so full of emotion that she feared she may burst.

When Harry opened the door from the inside, it looked like a simple cupboard once again. Harry said, “Quite a show I got, every single night. I think I ought to thank you and Uncle Vernon for it.” And then he winked.

Petunia did not manage to get a single shred of sleep that night. Oddly enough, though, she was filled with neither hatred nor fear. Instead…she was practically bursting with awe.

Her sister had never done anything like that. She wished Lily had.

She also, quite alarmingly, hoped that Harry would do it again.

When Ron Weasley stepped onto the Hogwarts Express that day, it was without fanfare. He was the sixth Weasley son to get on the train and he was entirely unremarkable—not the oldest like Bill, not as quirky as Charlie, not as studious as Percy or as mischievous as the twins. Next year, Ginny would be coddled the entire way there because she was the only girl. Ron, though, was boarded on with his brothers with a simple peck on the forehead and a blessing for good luck.

He stumbled down the train, past the Prefect cabins wherever Fred and George decided to take up residence. He walked up and down the entire train, trying to find an empty section where he could sit down and wallow in his own misery, but there was none. Every compartment had at least two or three people already inside. At the very end, though, he found a compartment with a single kid, a kid who looked smaller than him, who was staring quietly out the window.

Ron asked meekly, “Can I sit with you? Everywhere else is full…” Which was not true but Ron was too embarrassed to say that he couldn’t stomach the thought of sitting elsewhere.

The boy looked over at him and smiled kindly and Ron was instantly overcome with calm acceptance. “Sure,” the boy said, voice childish and comforting. “I was hoping someone would wonder by. Seems my wish has been fulfilled.”

Ron crept inside. He said, “If you wanted to sit with someone, you could have gone to another compartment.”

“Oh, but that’s not the same.” He smiled mysteriously. “The universe works in the oddest of ways. I figured that, in this case, it was best to just let fate do its work without interfering myself.”

“If fate is in control then what’s meant to happen will occur no matter what you do,” Ron pointed out. “It’s all already predetermined. I, for one, don’t like the idea of fate or destiny all that much. I like to believe in the power of free will.”

The boy leaned forward, looking mightily intrigued. “So, if it were up to you, you’d rather deal with the uncertainty of a chaotic and unknowable future than the comfort of a certain destiny?”

“Exactly! I’d be very disappointed if everything was already set in stone. It would be like spending my entire life studying a vast array of questions only to find out that they all come to the same, mundane answer. I would go mad.”

Harry grinned. “Well, I think I agree. The nature of the universe is quite chaotic. There are a few linchpins of events that simply must happen, but they exist on too grand of a scale for you to comprehend. Effectively, you have free will and are untouched by fate, at least by any meaningful definition of the word.”

“Linchpins, huh? You mean like prophecies?”

Harry said, “Well, a prophecy is not a distillation of destiny…more like a very accurate prediction based on the state of the world. So no, that’s not what I mean. Prophecies don’t deal with things large enough to warrant a linchpin. I meant more along the lines of star deaths and galaxy creation.”

Ron stared. “That’s brilliant, I say. I guess whatever I do doesn’t matter to a star on the other side of the universe. The star must die but it will die whether or not I wear red or green tomorrow.”

“Precisely.”

Ron considered it, considered the conversation that he never suspected he would have with a boy who was all but a stranger to him. What he did know was that the boy seemed completely certain of his knowledge of the universe and, for some odd reason, Ron believed him. He grinned. He said, “I think you and I are going to get along splendidly. I’m Ron—Ron Weasely.”

The boy grinned back. “I’m Harry Potter.”

Ron’s world came to a screeching halt. “Like, the Harry Potter?”

“Yes, the Harry Potter.”

Nervously, Ron asked, “Do you have the…you know…the scar?”

The boy—Harry! Harry Potter!—laughed and lifted up the fringe of his bangs, revealing the crooked lightning bolt scar emblazoned on his forehead. Ron stared at the angry skin that hadn’t quite healed over, even after a decade. He felt the dark magic practically dripping off of it. But, still, he smiled because Harry smiled. Ron breathed out, “Wicked.”

“Quite,” agreed Harry.

And just like that, they became friends.

Hermione Granger met him—actually, truly met him—on the boat ride to Hogwarts. She sat primly next to Neville, the poor boy who had yet to find his toad, and across from two boys. One boy had the reddest hair she’d ever seen and so her gaze went to study him first. Then, though, her eyes flicked sideways and she caught sight of the lightning bolt scar sitting plainly on the other boy’s forehead.

Ah. She was sitting across from Harry Potter. Because she was eleven and thus had no filter, she said, “You’re Harry Potter.”

“I do believe I am, yes,” said Harry, looking quite amused.

Beside her, Neville said, “Really? My Gran used to tell me stories about you!”

The red-haired boy said, “I think everyone’s gran told them stories about Harry Potter, to be honest.” He leaned forward, flashing Hermione and Neville a smile. “I’m Ron, by the way—Ron Weasely.”

“Hermione Granger,” Hermione said, Neville introducing himself shortly thereafter.

Harry turned a critical eye upon them both after hearing their names. Then, much to Hermione’s chagrin, he ignored her entirely in order to make conversation with Neville. He said, “Our parents knew each other, didn’t they? Frank and Alice Longbottom, I think…my parents would talk about them sometimes. All good things. How are they?”

Neville all but deflated, leaning back so far that he nearly tipped over the boat. “Uh,” said Neville, “they’re…all right.” It was a lie if Hermione had ever heard one but she suspected that the truth in this situation was something too cruel to force the boy to say so she held her tongue. Harry and Ron shifted too, undoubtedly also recognizing the lie but being unwilling to actually call him out on it.

“Well,” said Harry, “that’s good. I don’t know what happened to most of my parents’ friends after they died. I know that they knew Ron’s parents—” (“They did?” cried Ron) “—but I’m otherwise in the dark. That’s all right, though. I’m sure I’ll be able to contact them later. Thank you for telling me about your parents.” Then, he took the opportunity to finally address Hermione. “I don’t think my parents knew yours, though.”

“They wouldn’t,” sniffed Hermione. “Both my parents are muggles.”

“Really?” asked Ron, who looked oddly interested. “My dad works in the Ministry in the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. He’s always been taken with muggles and muggle culture—it’s just that there are so many of them and we have so little contact…especially purebloods like my family. What do your parents do?”

“They’re dentists,” Hermione said slowly. She watched as a look of complete and utter bewilderment passed over Ron and Neville’s faces before Harry loudly whispered, “Muggle teeth healers.”

“Wicked,” said Ron, who Hermione had determined was easily impressed. “Mum always says that healing is a noble profession.”

Perhaps it was. All Hermione knew was that she would not be a dentist when she grew up, a sentiment dating all the way back to the winter after she turned eight, when her father had to go to hospital after someone bit him so hard that he needed stitches. Hermione had no intention of being bitten by unruly patients. She did not tell any of this to Ron, who was evidently interested enough in muggles to not snub her the way some of the other children on the train did—she didn’t want to scare him off.

At least he was easily impressed.

To Harry, though, she asked, “Weren’t you raised by wizards? How do you know what a dentist is?”

“I was actually raised by my aunt and uncle—they’re muggles, you see.”

“So you didn’t know that you had magic until now?”

“Ah, no—I have a very good memory. I remember my first year of life very well so I’ve always known that I’m a wizard. I’ve been doing magic all my life. I think I’m quite good at it.” There was a mischievous look in his eye.

Neville asked, “If you remember being a baby, then do you remember…”

Everyone went still because they knew exactly what Neville was asking. The boy looked horrified the moment the words left his mouth, as if he hadn’t meant to say them out loud. Perhaps he hadn’t. He was rather awkward and a clumsy conversationalist—of course he’d accidentally inquire about the murder of Harry’s parents. Harry didn’t look offended, though. If anything, he seemed delighted at being posed that question. He said, “I do! Worst day of my life, I must say, but I suppose I still have decades ahead of me so we’ll see if it stays that way.”

“Then did you really survive the Killing Curse?” asked Ron, who now seemed to gain the courage to ask.

Harry said, “Nope.” And then he did not elaborate. Sensing that the topic was closed, no one enquired further.

Hermione sat back and let the lull of the conversation wash over her. Harry was…different than what she expected. Yes, he was incredibly confident and kind, but he also had none of the posturing she’d come to expect from celebrities. No, Harry simply seemed…happy. Open. Friendly, in a benevolent sort of way. When Ron said, “We’re almost there—we should stick close to each other when we land or we might get separated,” Harry responded with, “Of course! I don’t want to lose track of my friends just yet.”

Oh.

It seemed that Hermione just made three friends.

And she smiled.

When Harry walked into Hogwarts, he was filled with a pleasant, ceaseless buzz, like gathering energy that could not escape. He felt like he was floating across the castle floors—and maybe he was, considering the awe-filled looks the others were throwing his way. He hummed along to a tune that no one else could hear and turned his kindest eyes upon anyone who made eye-contact with him.

When Draco Malfoy introduced himself, condescending both Harry and Ron, Harry said, “I know the right sort—do you?”

“I am the right sort,” Draco huffed.

Harry turned a speculative eye his way. “Maybe one day,” he allowed, “but that day has yet to come to pass. You’ll never be able to truly be proud of yourself until you let go of your preconceived notions. You’re more than the product of your environment, Draco…and one day, you’ll prove it. Then I’ll shake your hand.” And then Harry floated away.

Draco stared after him, trying to conjure up rage but only being able to summon bewilderment. “What does ‘product of your environment’ mean?” he asked no one in particular.

Hermione said, “It means you need to stop accepting everything your parents say.”

“But they’re my parents.”

“And you’re you.”

Draco stared at her before sneering, “What would you know, anyway? You’re barely a witch.”

Hermione decided that she ought to stay away from Draco until Harry shook his hand.

Harry, meanwhile, approached the Great Hall alongside a crescendo of music that only he could enjoy. He felt the buzzing in his fingertips, the joy swirling in his chest as he got closer and closer and closer…

When he stepped into the Great Hall, everything went silent.

Ah.

And so, the Chosen One was born.

Severus Snape first laid eyes on Harry Potter on September 1st, 1991. He made eye contact with the boy, expecting him to become uncomfortable and look away…but, instead, Severus found himself on the receiving end of the boy’s piercing emerald stare. Those eyes stared at him, knowing, and Severus stared back, unable to comprehend the situation.

And then Harry Potter smiled and Severus’s mind went oddly, blissfully blank.

There were legends, of course, of the Chosen One, tales much more ancient than any prophecy Trelawney could ever spout. They’d been lost to the sands of time, decaying into millions of stories that got more and more diverse with every passing moment. The tongues whispered in everything from Xhosa to Farsi to Hmong to Arrernte, and they spoke of a person—a special, chosen person, often by the gods.

Severus knew no Xhosa or Farsi or Hmong or Arrernte, but the moment that Harry Potter smiled, he could speak every one of those stories in every tongue known to man. He could recite a million prayers and travel to a million temples, all under the kind gaze of the boy. His eyes were the same emerald of his mother’s and Severus wondered if, perhaps, that was the reason he’d been so enamored with her for so long—maybe he’d looked into her eyes and known, deep in his soul, and she would one day birth the Chosen One.

Under the weight of the boy’s gaze, of his unfailing kindness and empathy, Severus Snape could not help it—he smiled back.

Everyone outside of the range of Harry Potter’s eyes gasped—never had they seen the Potions Master smile so softly. Everyone within the boy’s gaze was just as enraptured as Severus. Minerva McGonagall nearly dropped her scroll of names, the Sorting Hat nearly forgot to sing its song, and even Albus Dumbledore was struck well and truly speechless.

After Minerva finally stuttered out her introduction speech, the Sorting Hat sang a song like none before. Everyone listened, transfixed, to the gentle melody and elegant lyrics that sounded older than the castle itself. Only Harry hummed along, like he knew the words already.

Severus was not surprised. Perhaps he was the only one not surprised, too, because he was also the only one who seemed to see Harry for what he really was. Severus understood, almost instinctively, why he’d dedicated his life to the boy all those years ago—it wasn’t just for Lily, who he’d loved, but also for the very balance of existence.

Severus was going to stand by Harry Potter for as long as necessary—because that was his deepest, most ardent wish.

And Harry could always make miracles.