Chapter Text
They had gotten to London via international Portkey more than an hour ago, and he still felt like he had left his stomach behind in New York. His mom had hauled him up off the flagstones with a firm reminder that they had an important appointment and that the goblins were not known to be forgiving if you were late.
That was how Percy and his mom ended up trudging up the gold-inlaid steps of Gringotts, heaving Percy’s school trunk between them. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, per se, to lug a trunk around Diagon Alley—loads of Muggleborns needed supplies too—but it did draw stares once people realized exactly who was walking through the crowd. A few even tried to approach, but Sally smoothly blocked them, swapping sides with Percy under the pretense that her hand was tired, or swinging the trunk just enough to break their path while pointing out some random storefront and keeping herself between Percy and eager witches and wizards.
He loved his mom.
They entered the marble foyer, nodding to the armored goblin guards as they passed. Percy offered, “May you bite off your enemies’ fingers and use them as bookmarks for all your Gringotts ledgers.” That earned him a very sharp, very toothy grin and a bark of laughter that startled a nearby wizard so badly he backed away at speed. Percy took great pride in that.
They joined the queue for a familiar-looking goblin from the Grip-clan and inched forward until they reached the counter. They let the trunk drop with a thud.
“Greetings, Master Griptooth. May your coffers never empty,” Sally said with a kind smile. “I believe we have a meeting with Master Gripcutter today.”
“Mrs. Jackson.” The goblin inclined his head. “May your enemies fall at your behest.” He checked a large ledger and rattled off something in harsh, guttural Gobbledygook that to Percy sounded like grunts and gravel. A much younger goblin appeared through the side doors and strode toward them. “Ah. Please follow Gripclaw. He will take you back.”
“Thank you,” Sally said, giving a shallow bow before turning to go. Percy hefted the trunk to follow, then hesitated and glanced back.
“May your enemies’ bones shatter like glass beneath your boots, and may their screams echo for generations in the tunnels of their shame,” Percy offered.
Griptooth’s smile cut wide. As Percy dragged the trunk after his mom, he heard a snap behind him; the trunk shrank neatly to pocket size. He grinned and slipped it away.
Sure, the goblins were decidedly deadly, but it wasn’t that hard to get on their good side.
Gripcutter was waiting when they reached his office. He stood in front of his desk, his crest-engraved vambrace gleaming. He barely reached Percy’s hip, but Percy bowed anyway. “Greetings, Gripcutter. May your enemies’ heads be shrink-wrapped, labeled by offense, and displayed alphabetically.”
Gripcutter chuckled, eyes glinting. “Greetings, Mr. Potter. May your vaults overflow with gold and your enemies fall by your blade.”
“Thank you,” Percy said, grinning back.
“Now, for today’s visit,” Gripcutter said, businesslike. “I will personally escort you to Potter Manor, open the wards to admit you, and guide you to take custody of the ward stone. Are you ready?”
Percy nodded. Gripcutter produced a small leather band and extended it to both of them. “Hold this and say ‘Griffin.’ I will meet you there.”
They arrived on a grassy hilltop. Rolling fields stretched in every direction except one, where the land dropped sharply into a cliff edge that overlooked water running to the horizon. Long grasses shivered in the wind, and the cool breeze brushed across Percy’s face. He drew in a deep breath. The land smelled earthy and wild. It carried the faint scent of salt from the sea below, mingled with the sharp bite of heather and the light sweetness of blooming clover. It wasn’t like the city or the countryside he’d known. It felt raw and alive, and the magic prickled faintly against his skin.
His mom stood beside him, smiling as she took in the sweep of land. “It’s beautiful,” she said quietly.
“Yeah,” he answered, voice softer than he intended.
The only problem was the lack of any house in sight. Percy frowned. “Why would Gripcutter send us here if there’s nothing—”
A loud pop behind them made them both turn. Gripcutter appeared out of thin air, took a quick, appraising look around, and seemed thoroughly unimpressed by the view.
“It has been some time since I personally visited the House of Potter,” he said. “Come. This way.”
“Uh, sir,” Percy asked as they started after him. “Where is the house?”
Gripcutter glanced back with a smirk, clearly amused. “The house is Unplottable and protected by heavy wards. I set them myself at your grandfather’s request.”
“Why would he need wards that strong?” Percy asked, curiosity pushing him along in a direction that only seemed to make sense to the goblin.
“At the time,” Gripcutter said, “your kind was in the middle of a war. The first one, not the most recent.”
“There was another wizarding war?” Sally asked. She had read plenty about the last year, but this was new.
Gripcutter hummed, more rasp than note. “I do not keep details. Wars are inconsequential if they neither last a century nor involve us. Now—” He stopped so abruptly that Percy nearly walked into him. “Here.”
Percy looked around. The magic felt thicker here, like the air had weight, but all he saw were rolling hills swaying in the breeze. “I don’t understand. What is here?”
“You must apply blood to the land wards to open them,” Gripcutter said. “But you will remain here for the moment, Mrs. Jackson. Until Mr. Potter takes the ward stone, only he and I may enter.”
Sally nodded. “Thank you, Master Gripcutter.” She patted Percy’s shoulder, a small nudge forward. “You’ve got this.”
Percy patted his pockets, already knowing he had nothing sharp. “I—I don’t have anything to poke myself with,” he admitted, flushing.
Gripcutter huffed, then drew a slim dagger from the sheath strapped along his forearm. “You should carry a blade. I am of a warrior race and honor-bound to bear arms. You are a wizard, Mr. Potter—a powerful one—but your magic sticks will not always save you.”
Percy took the dagger carefully and nicked his palm. Blood welled fast, stinging. Sally grimaced but stayed quiet. Percy wiped the blade on his trouser leg, handed it back, and stood there with his bleeding hand raised. “Now what?”
“Hold your palm to the wards in front of you,” Gripcutter instructed.
Percy did, and he probably looked as silly as he felt, but his thoughts vanished the instant his palm met not air, but a solid wall of magic. It was thick and unyielding, humming against his skin. The magic didn’t just touch him—it acknowledged him. It smoothed across his palm, knitting the cut closed with deliberate care. It wasn’t neutral or cold. It felt calm and joyful, a welcome he hadn’t known he was missing. Warmth curled into him, insistent and sure, calling him home to a place he hadn’t known was waiting.
The wall shifted from flat barrier to dense depth. His hand sank in, then his forearm. Weight pressed on every inch of him. Panic flashed and he tried to pull back, but the magic tugged him forward, steady and irresistible.
“Do not fight it, Mr. Potter,” the goblin said behind him. “Let it draw you in. I will follow.”
Percy swallowed, forced himself to be still, and glanced back at his mom. Her eyes were steady. He nodded once and gave in.
The magic closed around him, warm against his skin and settling deeper, sliding into his chest as if it were checking the beat of his heart. It whispered in a language he didn’t know but somehow understood—soft, welcoming, protective. He held his breath as it pulled him through, then stumbled forward when it let go.
He blinked—and stopped dead.
A manor stood at the crest of the hill, its stone walls weathered gray and soft brown. A wide porch wrapped across the front with clean white railings. Tall chimneys rose from a slate roof, a faint thread of smoke curling as if a fire had been tended not long ago. Tall, paned windows caught the light. For all its size, it didn’t feel like a fortress. It felt lived in. It felt steady.
The grounds stretched wild and wide, the green of the Highlands rolling out in waves. A narrow, uneven stone path wound up from the base of the hill, the kind of path worn by generations. The porch looked like a place meant for quiet mornings and unhurried evenings. Everything spoke of care and permanence.
Percy couldn’t stop staring. His throat tightened, his chest aching in a way he couldn’t name. He had never been here, hadn’t even known it existed before today, but standing in its shadow felt inevitable—like something lost had just been returned.
Home pressed hard against his thoughts, and he dragged in a shaky breath.
“That is the magic accepting you, Mr. Potter,” Gripcutter said. “It welcomes you as Potter in blood and power. The feeling will pass.”
Percy only nodded, eyes fixed on the house. He hadn’t felt truly tied to the family until this moment, until the Potter magic met him and held fast.
“Come,” Gripcutter said.
Percy followed him inside, trying to keep up with the goblin’s quick stride while taking in everything at once. They passed rooms with comfortable furniture and thick rugs, long corridors with bright windows and sleeping portraits, and at one turn Percy caught a glimpse, far off through glass, of a half-sized Quidditch pitch. His heart kicked, excitement sparking even through the flood of everything else.
The house seemed larger within than its footprint suggested. Magic did that. Percy accepted it without argument.
At last Gripcutter paused at a heavy wooden door carved with an intricate griffin. He pushed it open to reveal a large office. A dark wooden desk faced tall windows; it was tidy but worn, its surface marked with scratches and nicks from years of use. A high-backed chair sat behind it, with two comfortable armchairs opposite. A deep, auburn rug covered most of the floor. One wall held a tall bookcase crammed with old volumes that smelled like the Hogwarts Library. In a corner, a light-colored settee made a small reading nook that brightened the room’s darker tones.
A tapestry dominated the long wall. Small roundels, each bearing a face, were connected by red lines that braided and forked. The figures did not move like portrait subjects; they were fixed, names stitched below them in gold thread. Percy stepped closer and realized what it was—the Potter family tree. It filled the wall, beginning with only a few at the top, spreading wide through the middle, then tapering in recent generations until only a few remained.
Sadness pricked. A great family, full of lives and voices, had narrowed to a single point—him. Guilt gnawed at him for reasons that didn’t make sense. He wasn’t born a Potter. He shared their blood and magic now, but the feeling still sat crooked, even though he knew the parents he barely remembered had loved him as their own.
He traced the top with his gaze. Fleamont Potter married to Euphemia—stitching worn soft with time. Below them, James Potter, younger than most on the cloth, rectangular glasses and untidy hair, bound by a red line to Lily Evans, bright hair and green eyes that seemed to glow even without motion. Beneath, an oval place marked Harry Potter sat grayed out where a moving portrait would have been.
Of course the house will list me as Harry, Percy thought. He lifted his hand and skimmed his fingertips over the fabric, stopping over his mother’s stitched name. His chest tightened.
Gripcutter cleared his throat, and Percy jumped, suddenly remembering he wasn’t alone. “This way,” the goblin said. He rose onto his toes to pull a green leather volume from the bookcase. The book tilted; a soft click sounded; the entire case swung inward.
“A ward stone is vital to wizarding families,” Gripcutter said, appraising Percy before stepping aside. “A family home is a heart. It is where a family’s magic gathers and where its members are strongest. The ward stone is the tie to all of it. Established when your line rose in power, the house has grown around it. It links the family, pools its magic, and defends the home. Only the lord or the accepted heir may approach. Any other is obliterated.”
He gestured toward the hidden doorway. “I cannot accompany you further. The ward stone must accept you before you take custody of the home and wards. Place your hand on the stone. You will know the rest. Do you understand?”
Percy nodded, throat dry.
Gripcutter stepped aside. The magic tugged at Percy’s skin, lively and expectant. Percy swallowed, then took a hesitant step into the passage. The sensation swelled—joyous, if magic could be called that—and he found the nerve to take another step, and another.
Before he knew it he was through the door and meeting denser wards. They thinned around him as he moved, warming his skin. The air went stifling, and his breath shortened as he reached the chamber.
This room was plain compared to the rest of the house. Circular stone walls held the chill of age. In the center, a marble dais was carved with intricate markings—runes etched deep and precise, humming faintly with power. Percy didn’t know their meanings, but instinct told him they mattered. He wanted someone to stand here and explain, but the silence felt intentional, like the room was waiting.
Floating above the dais, a deep mahogany-red stone hovered on a steady axis, casting a low glow. Its surface was smooth and polished to a mirror sheen, yet there was a pulse beneath the gloss, a sense of contained force. Percy couldn’t look away.
The magic thickened, pressing in waves until every breath rasped. His skin tingled. His heart climbed. He stepped closer without deciding to. His hand lifted and pressed to the stone.
The world shifted.
Heat flooded his skin and surged through his veins. Pressure blew outward, then rushed back and wrapped around him like the house itself had inhaled. Something deep and old stirred. Percy felt it in the floor, in the walls, and far above, where the outer wards kept their watch. For a beat he couldn’t tell where he ended and the magic began.
It wasn’t painful or frightening. It was overwhelming in a way that tightened his chest and burned his eyes. The warmth pressed deeper until it settled into bone. He felt anchored, claimed, set.
Then came the knowing.
He couldn’t explain it. One moment his palm was on the stone; the next he could sense the world inside the boundary. He knew the air outside was damp with drifting mist. He knew the wards stretched in layered circles well beyond the hill, interlaced like catchlines. He knew a bird perched on the porch railing, wings twitching awake, and that the gravel path was empty but expectant.
Details hummed at the edges of awareness, not as thoughts or pictures, but as if the house spoke to him, reminding him what belonged here. The manor’s quiet was gone. It was awake. Magic ran through it like circulation, filling corners, stirring the boundaries, pushing outward with intent.
Percy dragged in a sharp breath. His heart ached with something he couldn’t name. It wasn’t just power or knowledge. It was connection—solid and complete. For the first time in his life, he felt he belonged to something larger than himself, and that it belonged to him in return.
Everything went a bit too quickly for Percy to follow after that. He was still trying to come to terms with the overwhelming magic that had overtaken him and now clung to him like a weight he couldn’t shake. He vaguely remembered leaving the ward chamber and meeting Gripcutter in the hall. The goblin had smiled at him—surprisingly gentle for someone with teeth that looked like they could cut stone. Percy thought he had nodded or said something polite in return, but the words slipped away as quickly as they came. The next thing he remembered clearly was his mom’s hand guiding him down a hallway and into a sitting room.
She pushed him onto a wide, comfortable couch. The cushions sank and held him like they had been waiting. The room smelled faintly of smoke and polish, with shelves of books along one wall and a low fire glowing in the hearth. A silver tea set rested neatly on a table, as if placed there that morning, it was empty though, which suggested that wasn’t the case.
“Mom?” Percy asked. His voice sounded scratchy to his own ears. His eyes focused on her slowly, as though he had to remember who he was looking at.
“Hey, starfish,” she said softly. She brushed his messy bangs off his forehead, her hand lingering at his temple. “You back with me?”
He blinked, then nodded. “Yeah.” He looked around again, his vision settling more firmly now. The fireplace gave off steady warmth. Dark wood panels lined the walls. Curtains hung open to the slope of land outside. The place didn’t feel empty. It felt aware, like the walls were paying attention to him. He swallowed and said the first thing that came to mind. “I really like the house.”
Sally chuckled quietly. “That’s wonderful, sweetheart. I’m glad you like it.” She leaned down and kissed his head, then pulled back to meet his eyes. “I’m so proud of you, Percy.”
Something warm and sharp rose in his chest. He grinned without thinking. “Thanks, Mom.”
A sharp pop cracked the air. Percy flinched. Sally was on her feet at once, placing herself between him and the sound.
Percy shifted to look past her. Three small figures stood in the center of the room, their large eyes fixed on him. Their ears stretched wide and pointed, their limbs thin but strong, and their hands wrung or twisted at their uniforms. One wore black trousers and a red vest with the Potter crest stitched over the heart. Two wore red dresses with white aprons, the same crest neat on the bodice.
Sally’s voice cut cleanly through the silence. “What are you?” She didn’t raise her voice, but it carried enough weight that even Percy straightened.
The smaller of the female elves burst into tears, her apron crumpled in her fists. “Oh, what a wondrous day!” she squeaked. “Master has returned to us, Dolly is seeing him with her own eyes!”
“What?” Percy blurted, his confusion tightening into unease. “Who are you?”
The male elf stepped forward and bowed deeply, back straight, voice steady. “We is the Potter house-elves. We is at your service, Heir Potter.”
Percy’s mouth opened, then closed again. “House-elves? What are house-elves?”
“We is servants to the Potter family,” the elf said. “We has been serving many generations.”
“Servants?” Percy repeated, the word sour in his throat. “You mean like slaves?”
The elf shook his head, calm and sure. “No, young master. We is not slaves. We is bound to the house, yes, but it is no cruel bond. We is giving our service and care, and the house is giving us strength. It is mutual.”
Percy’s stomach twisted. “So… you live off the family’s magic?”
“Not living off,” the elf said, mouth quirked. “Sharing. A house-elf tied to a family is stronger than a free elf. Our magic grows when the bond is strong. A cruel family weakens us. A kind family strengthens us.”
The kitchen elf wrung her apron. “We is fearing the worst, young master. When Master Jamie and Mistress Lily is dying, and no one is coming home, we is fearing the Potter line is gone. We is fearing we would fade. But then…” She drew a deep breath. “We is feeling the wards stir again. We is knowing Heir is alive. And now, Heir is here.”
Percy’s throat was dry. He didn’t know what to say. “What are your names?”
The male elf bowed again. “Snick, head of the Potter elves. Peaches is kitchens. Dolly is cleaning and mending. She is young, but she is loyal and hard working.”
Dolly sniffled and wiped her cheeks, eyes bright. “It is nice to meet you, Master Harry. We is so happy you is back.”
Percy’s lips twitched into something between a smile and a grimace. “I’m Harry,” he said, the name coming automatically in this world. “This is my mom, Sally.”
Sally’s voice softened, though her shoulders were still tight. “It’s very nice to meet you all.”
They bowed their heads together. Percy wanted to ask more questions, but the weight in his body grew heavier by the second. His thoughts still buzzed too loudly.
Sally noticed first. “That’s enough for now. He needs rest.”
Snick nodded. “The Heir will use the master’s chamber. He is the next in line for the lordship and there is no sitting lord.”
“No,” Percy said at once. It came sharper than he meant. He shook his head and pushed himself a little straighter. He wasn’t the lord yet. He didn’t want that just yet. “That doesn’t feel right.”
Snick did not argue, he stared at Percy for a moment. “He will stay in the Heir’s room, then. It is ready.”
Peaches gave a small curtsy with one last smile at Percy. “Peaches be making dinner now.” She vanished with another pop.
Dolly straightened. “Dolly be putting fresh linens on the bed.” She disappeared as well.
Snick gestured toward the hallway. “If Heir and Mistress will follow, I will show the way.”
Percy stood carefully, his legs heavier than he liked, and his mom slipped an arm under his just enough to steady him. He let her. Snick led them down a long corridor lined with sconces that brightened as they passed. Portraits hung evenly along the walls, painted eyes tracking them. Some figures nodded. Percy’s stomach tightened at the sight of a young man with messy dark hair grinning from a frame, elbow slung around a friend. He kept walking, pulse loud in his ears.
Snick stopped at a door near the end of the corridor and pushed it open. Inside was a spacious bedroom paneled in dark wood, with a tall four-poster bed made up in white linens and dark blue accents. A rug stretched across the floor, woven in rich red and gold patterns.
Percy stepped inside, breath catching. Gryffindor memorabilia dotted the space. A broom hung mounted on the wall, its handle smooth from years of use. A pair of trophies glinted on a shelf, their bases etched with small engravings. A red-and-gold scarf hung over a chair back, threads slightly frayed at one end. Framed photographs rested on the dresser, the figures inside them moving lazily, smiling and waving as if waiting for him to notice.
“This be Master Jamie’s old room,” Snick said quietly. “Before he moved into the master chambers when the late master and mistress passed. Before he and Mistress Lily went into hiding. It be yours now.”
Percy swallowed hard and stepped farther in, eyes moving from object to object. He wanted to touch everything, to hold the details of who his father had been, but his arms felt heavy and his legs unsteady. Gratitude, sorrow, longing, and pride pressed together until he couldn’t tell them apart.
Sally brushed her hand over his shoulder. “Bed, Percy,” she said softly.
He wanted to argue, to say he wasn’t done looking, but his body betrayed him. His eyelids felt like weights. She nudged him toward the bed, and he sank onto it without a word. The sheets were cool and crisp under his hands. Sally pulled the blanket up and smoothed it down, her movements calm and steady.
Percy’s eyes drifted to the photographs one last time. He wanted to memorize them, but the room blurred as exhaustion dragged him under. His last thought before sleep took him was that, for the first time, the word home didn’t feel wrong.
When Percy woke a few hours later, the room was dim, the last of the afternoon light slipping through the tall windows. His stomach growled loud enough to echo. He pushed himself up, blinking against the haze of sleep, pulled on his socks, and padded out of the bedroom. The hallway stretched quiet, sconces glowing faintly, the portraits along the walls watching him with polite interest.
He descended the stairs carefully, trailing a hand along the polished banister. The faint hum of magic followed him like a steady pulse. The manor didn’t feel empty—it felt like it was waiting.
He found his mom in the sitting room, curled on a chaise. Her shoes were kicked to the side, socked feet tucked up as a heavy book lay open in her lap. One arm was tucked behind her head. She read with the same focus she had in library stacks.
Percy smirked. He circled behind her and dropped onto the chaise, leaning into her side without warning.
She raised her arm automatically to make room. “Hey, starfish,” she murmured, brushing the corner of the page with her thumb so she didn’t lose her place. “Are you feeling better?”
“Yeah,” he said, voice still rough. His eyes drifted to the books stacked on the low table. They smelled of ink and old parchment. He picked one up and squinted. The pages were handwritten in looping letters that shifted the longer he stared. He frowned and rubbed his temple. Even with his dyslexia glasses, the words tumbled. “What are you reading?”
“Gripcutter recommended a few books on magical houses and ward stones,” she said, flipping a page. “He said he saw them in the study while he was waiting for you.”
Percy tried to make out a line, failed, and set the book down with a sigh. “Anything interesting so far?”
She huffed softly. “It’s all a bit stuffy,” she admitted, thumbing back through, “but there’s some fascinating material tucked in. Did you know the ward stone can only be activated by the lord or the heir of a house?”
Percy leaned back, eyes closing for a beat. “Yeah. Gripcutter mentioned that earlier.”
Sally gave him a look, then tapped the page. “Did you know that when someone who hasn’t been permitted onto the grounds tries to break in, the ward stone automatically raises the war wards and alerts the entire family that the house is under attack?”
His eyes snapped open. “I didn’t know that.”
She nodded, pleased. “It’s very interesting.”
He groaned and let his head tip back. “I’ll take your word for it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my break reading. I’m going to be doing enough of that when school starts.”
She chuckled and closed the book. “Fair enough. Peaches said there’s still an hour before dinner. Want to check out the house?”
Percy perked up. “That sounds amazing.”
They started outside, moving through the back doors onto the sloping grounds. The air was cooler here, with the faint smell of grass after rain. To the right stood a cluster of greenhouses, their glass panes fogged and streaked with time. Vines pressed against the glass, some thorned, others giving off a faint glow. The magic around them was sharp, wild, and restless, humming against Percy’s skin. He shifted uneasily at the curl of movement from a plant that looked far too alive for comfort.
“Let’s… not go in there,” Percy said quickly, lifting a hand as his mom started toward the nearest door. “I don’t know what any of those plants are, but they don’t look friendly.”
Sally studied the tangle and nodded. “Fair point. We can ask someone who knows later.”
“I can ask Neville when I see him,” Percy said. “He likes Herbology.”
“That’s a good idea, starfish.”
They left the greenhouses and followed a stone path curving down the slope. It opened onto a wide clearing where a half-sized Quidditch pitch stood. The grass was uneven but still marked, with three tall hoops at one end. Even as a half pitch, it was one of the best things Percy had ever seen.
Excitement rushed up and split his face into a grin. He walked out onto the grass and tilted his head back to stare at the hoops. “This is—wow. This is actually ours?”
Sally’s eyes softened at his smile. “Looks that way.”
His stomach flipped. He could imagine flying here, broom braced under his hands, air cold in his lungs. The thought alone made his palms itch.
They circled back toward the house and entered through a side door into a stone corridor. From there, they stepped into an old potions lab. The room was long, with heavy worktables scored by knives and acid, and shelves lined with dusty glass jars. The air smelled faintly of herbs and something metallic that hadn’t faded. Several cauldrons stood along the far wall, rusted but upright, and notes in a firm hand were pinned to a corkboard, yellowed with age.
“Do you think someone in my family was a Potions master?” Percy asked, curious rather than daunted.
“It looks like it,” Sally said. “We’ll ask the elves later.”
Next, they wandered into a small sitting room tucked between larger corridors. Percy froze on the threshold. The mantel and walls were lined with photographs. Some showed his parents, younger and smiling with friends. His dad stood in several frames with four other boys—grinning, leaning into each other, caught mid-laughter. Every photo was full of light. Other pictures showed his dad with his grandparents: formal portraits that carried pride and warmth.
Percy stepped closer, throat dry. Sally lingered by the doorway, giving him space. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t. The faces weighed on him, and the feeling was bittersweet. He had so much of their history in this house and none of their voices. He walked the room, taking in the photos and the soft wear on the furniture. He could imagine his father and grandparents seated here on a quiet night, or his father and friends filling the room with noise and jokes. He could see his mom curled on the sofa, book open, shoulder against James’s.
When he finished the circuit, he stopped in front of Sally. She opened her arms without a word, and Percy stepped into them. She held him, accepting the quiet sadness, pressing a few soft kisses into his hair.
“Let’s eat some dinner and go to bed, darling,” she said after a while. “We’ve had a long day.”
Percy nodded against her shoulder.
“We can come back whenever you want,” she added. “We’ll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow and you’ll head off with the Weasleys, but we can return here any time. Okay?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Of course, starfish. I love you,” she said quietly.
“I love you too.”
They stood like that a moment longer, the house breathing around them. The fire in the sitting room snapped somewhere behind the wall, and the floorboards held steady under their weight. Percy felt the wards murmur in the back of his mind, a slow, even pulse that matched the rhythm of his mom’s breath. For the first time in a long time, the quiet did not feel like an empty space he had to fill. It felt held. It felt like the two of them belonged here and that the house knew it.
Percy lay in his dad’s old bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep even though exhaustion pressed on every inch of his body. His limbs were heavy, his eyes burned, but his mind refused to quiet. Thoughts circled like they were caught in a whirlpool—too many to focus on, too loud to ignore.
Dinner had been wonderful, better than anything Percy could remember eating at Hogwarts, though the company had been stranger than he liked. He and his mom had begged the house-elves to sit with them, but they had refused so vehemently that it almost became an argument. Dolly had burst into tears, overwhelmed at being called kind by her “new masters,” but even she had shaken her head furiously. Something about proper house-elf care, Snick had explained. It left Percy unsettled, though he tried not to show it at the table.
After dinner, Sally had hugged him for a long time, murmuring soft reassurances into his hair, then sent him up to bed alone. Snick had shown her to her own rooms. Percy had taken his time before climbing into bed, wandering around the heir’s room to look more closely at the things he hadn’t noticed earlier.
The space had clearly been cleaned out after his dad moved into the master’s chambers, but there were still fragments of his life here. A Gryffindor scarf with an older design lay tossed across a chair, its wool faded but still soft. Percy had crouched to find a matching beanie shoved under the bed, the same rough wool that smelled faintly of dust. He had pressed it against his face for a moment before tossing both into his trunk with the thought of bringing them to Hogwarts. It felt important—like a connection, even if it was only to fabric.
The photos had been harder. Frames held images of James Potter as a boy, James and Lily after Hogwarts, and even a few of his grandparents. Percy had stared until his chest ached. He wasn’t supposed to look like them—he wasn’t their biological child, no matter what anyone said—but staring at those photos, he saw the resemblance so clearly it was impossible to deny. The hair, the angles of his face, and, when he looked into Lily’s eyes, the exact shade of green he saw in the mirror.
The wizarding world hadn’t been exaggerating. The resemblance was real, and Percy didn’t know what to do with the ache it left behind.
Now he lay awake, thinking of that, thinking of Hogwarts, thinking of his friends. If they’re still my friends, he corrected bitterly. He hadn’t heard from any of them. Not Ron, not Hermione, not even Susan. The silence gnawed at him. What if things had changed? What if he was the only one who still cared?
A loud pop yanked him from his thoughts.
Percy shot upright, heart pounding. He expected Snick or Dolly checking in on him again—something they had already done twice since dinner. But the elf standing at the end of his bed wasn’t familiar.
This one was younger than Snick and Peaches but older than Dolly. His skin was smoother, his eyes wide and anxious. And unlike the Potter elves, he wasn’t dressed in neat uniforms. Instead, he wore what looked like a dirty pillowcase with ragged holes for his arms and legs.
“Er—hello,” Percy said cautiously, frowning. “Can I help you?”
The elf gasped, eyes going impossibly wider. “Harry Potter!” His voice was high and shrill. “So long has Dobby wanted to meet you, sir… such an honor it is…”
Percy blinked, startled. “I—I don’t… Th-thank you?” It came out more like a question. He pushed the blankets off and sat fully upright. “Who are you?”
“Dobby, sir. Just Dobby. Dobby the house-elf.”
“It’s nice to meet you,” Percy said automatically. His mind raced, trying to place the name. “Are you a Potter elf?” Because surely Snick would have introduced him if he was.
Dobby shook his head violently, ears flapping. “No—no, Harry Potter, sir.” His excitement dimmed into nervousness. His hands twisted together, and his body hunched in on itself.
Percy’s brows drew together. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh yes, sir,” Dobby said earnestly, his voice quivering. “Dobby has come to tell you, sir… it is difficult, sir… Dobby wonders where to begin…” His words trailed off as he wrung his fingers harder, trembling with each breath.
“Why don’t you sit down,” Percy said politely, patting the mattress beside him.
To his horror, Dobby burst into noisy tears. “S-sit down!” he wailed. “Never… never ever…”
“It’s okay!” Percy said quickly, leaning forward. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“Offend Dobby!” the elf choked, tears streaming down his face. “Dobby has never been asked to sit down by a wizard—like an equal—”
Dobby collapsed onto the bed, face pressed into the blankets near Percy’s knee, sobbing as if his heart had split. Percy froze, then awkwardly patted his back. His mind spun. Snick had told him elves grew stronger when treated with care, but this… this was something else. Did that mean there were elves who weren’t treated well at all?
At last, Dobby lifted his head, his great eyes swimming with adoration.
“You can’t have met many decent wizards,” Percy said softly, trying to cheer him.
Dobby shook his head miserably. Then, without warning, he leapt up and slammed his forehead into the bedpost.
“Bad Dobby! Bad Dobby!” he wailed.
“Don’t—what are you doing?” Percy yelped, scrambling to grab him. He pulled Dobby back, horrified. “Stop, you’re going to hurt yourself!”
“Dobby had to punish himself, sir,” the elf panted, his eyes slightly crossed. “Dobby almost spoke ill of his family, sir…”
Percy’s stomach twisted. Finally, answers. “Your family?”
“The wizard family Dobby serves, sir.”
“Who are they? Do they know you’re here?” Percy pressed.
Dobby shuddered violently. “Oh no, sir, no… Dobby will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Dobby will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir—”
Percy’s throat clenched. “Why do you have to punish yourself? Why would your family make you do that? Do they know you… shut your ears in an oven door?”
Dobby nodded solemnly. “Dobby is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Dobby get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds Dobby to do extra punishments…”
Percy recoiled. His chest burned with anger he didn’t know where to put. “That’s horrible!” he cried. “Why don’t you leave them? You could come work here, if you want—”
That only made Dobby sob harder. “Harry Potter is so kind!” he cried. “But Dobby can’t. A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Dobby free. Dobby will serve the family until he dies, sir…”
The words dropped like stones in Percy’s stomach. He had worried about his friends, about fitting in, about the letters he hadn’t received—but all of that seemed small now. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, because it was all he could offer.
Dobby sniffed and wiped his face with the corner of his pillowcase. “Dobby has heard of Harry Potter’s greatness, but he has not heard of his goodness.”
Percy shook his head. “I don’t—I didn’t do anything.”
But Dobby’s eyes glowed with reverence. “Harry Potter is humble and modest. Harry Potter speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—”
“I didn’t even—” Percy tried to cut in, but Dobby barreled over him.
“Dobby heard tell that Harry Potter met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago… that Harry Potter escaped yet again.”
“That wasn’t—” Percy gave up. The elf wasn’t going to let him explain.
“Ah, sir,” Dobby gasped, dabbing at his eyes. “Harry Potter is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Dobby has come to protect Harry Potter, to warn him, even if he must shut his ears in the oven door later. Harry Potter must not go back to Hogwarts.”
Percy froze. His heart gave a hard thud. “W-what?” he stammered. “Why?”
“Harry Potter is in danger, sir,” Dobby said, tugging at his ears nervously. “Harry Potter must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Harry Potter goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”
Percy’s hands curled into the blankets. “Why?” he asked again, his voice sharper.
“There is a plot, Harry Potter. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts this year.” Dobby trembled from head to toe. “Dobby has known it for months, sir. Harry Potter must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”
“What’s going to happen?” Percy pressed. “Who’s plotting it?”
Dobby made a choking sound and banged his head against the bedpost again.
“All right!” Percy grabbed him firmly, pulling him back. “You can’t tell me. Fine. But why are you warning me at all?”
“Dobby must protect Harry Potter, sir. He will not be safe if he goes back.”
Percy narrowed his eyes. “Dobby… will I be in danger, or will everyone at Hogwarts be in danger?”
Dobby looked up, his voice trembling. “Everyone, sir.”
Percy let out a slow breath. His decision was instant. “Then I have to go back. There’s no other option.”
“No!” Dobby wailed, tugging his ears again. Percy caught his wrists to stop him.
“Dobby, stop! I have to. My friends are in danger too! I can’t just sit here while they’re at risk.”
“Friends who don’t even write to Harry Potter?” Dobby said bitterly. His frustration was clear.
Percy frowned. “I don’t know why—wait.” His suspicion sharpened. “How do you know my friends haven’t been writing to me?”
Dobby shuffled his feet, looking guilty. “Harry Potter mustn’t be angry with Dobby. Dobby did it for the best—”
Percy’s eyes narrowed further. “Have you been stopping my letters?”
“Dobby has them here, sir.” Dobby pulled a thick wad of envelopes from inside his filthy pillowcase. Percy’s heart lurched as he recognized Hermione’s neat writing, Ron’s messy scrawl, and even Susan’s curly script.
Percy stared at the stack of envelopes, his heart thudding against his ribs. Then the anger hit him.
“You—” His voice cracked, and he surged to his feet. “You’ve been stealing my mail?” His hands clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms. “ I thought they all forgot about me! I thought—” His chest heaved. “I thought I didn’t have any friends. I thought I had done something so terrible that they didn’t want to be friends with me anymore!”
Dobby flinched, dropping the letters back onto the floor as if they burned him. His wide eyes shimmered with panic. “Harry Potter must not be angry—Dobby did it for the best—Dobby wanted to protect Harry Potter!”
“Protect me?” Percy snapped. His voice rose, sharp and shaking. “From what? From my friends caring about me? From me knowing that people actually give a damn?” His throat was tight, words spilling too fast. “Do you even know what it feels like to sit here for weeks, wondering why no one cares enough to write back? To second guess every single friendship I’ve made?”
Dobby stumbled backward until his bony shoulders hit the bedframe. “Dobby is sorry! Dobby never wanted Harry Potter to feel forgotten!” His ears drooped, and his voice dropped into a whimper. “Dobby only wanted to keep him safe…”
“Safe?” Percy barked, his anger bubbling over into raw frustration. “You made me miserable! You don’t get to decide what’s safe for me!”
The elf’s hands flew up, wringing together frantically. He looked ready to punish himself again, to slam his head against the post until he cracked his skull open.
Percy tried to breathe, tried to reel himself back in, but it was no use. His voice softened only slightly, still sharp at the edges. “Everyone says Hogwarts is the safest place in the world. Dumbledore is there, he’s the greatest wizard in the world, he would stop whatever plot you are talking about. If I don’t go, wouldn’t I be in more danger? Wouldn’t I just be giving up the only protection I’ve got?”
Dobby froze. His huge eyes went rounder still, as if Percy had just spoken a forbidden truth. He began to shake, his body trembling so hard it rattled the frame of the bed. “No… no, no… Harry Potter mustn’t say such things…” He banged his head once against the wood with a hollow thud, then again harder.
“Stop!” Percy lunged forward, grabbing the elf by the arms. “Dobby, stop it! I’m not trying to hurt you, I’m just—just—”
But Dobby wrenched free, his sobs rising to a pitch. “Harry Potter must not go back! He must not!”
Before Percy could get another word in, the elf’s fingers twitched, his head jerked up, and with a sharp pop he was gone.
The room fell silent, the stack of envelopes scattered across the floor where Dobby had dropped them.
Percy stared at the spot for a long moment, chest heaving, his anger still fizzing through him. Then his gaze dropped to the letters. His knees buckled, and he sank down, scooping them up with shaking hands. Hermione’s neat writing. Ron’s messy scrawl. Susan’s looping script. Even Neville had sent a letter or two. All of it was real, not an imagined friendship.
Relief washed through him so suddenly it stole his breath. He hadn’t been forgotten. He hadn’t been ignored. They had been writing all along.
He tore open the first letter with fumbling fingers, reading through them. They didn’t hate him. They all were asking about his summer, and telling him about theirs. Some of the more recent ones were asking if he was okay, saying his letter just sounded weird and asking why he wasn’t answering any of his questions. Apparently they had been getting his letters, Hedwig was just too good of an owl to be stopped by a house elf, but he hadn’t gotten their letters and it made him sound uninterested. They were worried.
Percy clutched the letters to his chest, his anger finally ebbing into something quieter. The ache of the past weeks wasn’t gone, but at least he knew now—his friends hadn’t abandoned him. They had been reaching out all along.
For the first time since summer began, Percy lay back down and let himself breathe. The house felt less heavy around him, as if it too understood the relief flooding through him.