Chapter Text
The very first rule of Number Four, Privet Drive, was that Harry Evans was not to be noticed unless something had gone wrong.
It wasn't a rule that had ever been written down, because the Dursleys didn't write down things that were obvious to them—and them alone. Aunt Petunia wrote down grocery lists, noted the days the butcher received fresh cuts, and kept meticulous track of what presents her perfect little angel deserved on the next best occasion: for birthdays and holidays, and good grades—though those had become increasingly rare.
Sometimes, Uncle Vernon scribbled down figures and numbers for Grunnings & Son, but that was the exception. And, well. Dudley didn't write down anything unless forced.
That was it, and Harry knew it by heart.
If he was noticed, it was because he was, in their eyes, somewhere he shouldn't be. He saw it in Aunt Petunia's face, in her thinning mouth whenever she looked at him, as though he were a muddy fingerprint on a pair of cream kid gloves among her carefully chosen accoutrements; in Uncle Vernon's restless hand drifting towards his belt, as though punishment was one of his most cherished tools, forever eager to find an excuse to be put to use whenever Harry answered a question too quickly, too slowly, or simply at all.
Harry had spent the last seventeen years mastering the art of going unnoticed.
But being unnoticed didn't mean being unused.
By six in the morning, Harry had already lit the kitchen stove, swept out the previous evening's ash, fetched milk, sliced bread, and laid out plates for a breakfast at which he was neither expected nor welcome. His hands were rough to the touch, the skin stretched across his knuckles split and nicked from hauling firewood and plunging them into scalding dishwater day after day, week after week. Not even his nails were safe—kept short not out of necessity, but because hard work wore them down faster than any file or clipper ever could.
Once, he had joked that Aunt Petunia's nails looked expensive enough to deserve their own room, unlike his own, and Uncle Vernon had taken it as mockery. The offense earned Harry two days without supper and a lengthy lecture on gratitude and the sacrifices they made to raise an ungrateful brat like him.
After that, he saved his laughter for places where nobody could hear him. Most notably, that meant the little cupboard beneath the stairs.
On the morning that would, in time, change his life forever, Dudley came downstairs in a temper.
That, in itself, was nothing unusual. Dudley came downstairs in tempers that would put an overtired toddler to shame, and today's was only slightly more impressive than usual. The source of his outrage, Harry had learned, was a waistcoat that had grown mysteriously tighter over summer, and a schoolmate who had laughed when Dudley, red-faced and enormous, had attempted to mount a pony.
Harry could picture the scene perfectly and reminded himself, not for the first time, to swallow his chuckle and keep it for later, tucked safely beneath the blankets of his narrow bed.
In an effort to distract himself, his attention moved back to the eggs.
"You," Dudley said, and it sounded almost accusatory.
Harry didn't move.
"Morning to you, too."
"Don't get clever with me."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry said, and shifted the pan off the heat before the eggs could turn into rubbery whites. His aunt preferred hers soft, his uncle hard, and Dudley liked his in whatever state gave him the greatest opportunity to complain, which was to say Harry never did them right. Ever.
Dudley shoved himself into the tiny kitchen, drawing a sharp protest from the floorboards beneath their feet. He was already dressed for the start of his final term at Smeltings, if "dressed" was the right word for a boy who looked like a date wrapped in bacon. Then again, dates were characteristically sweet—something that Dudley, naturally, wasn't. So... it was more like bacon wrapped in slightly larger bacon.
"You know that royal school?" Dudley demanded.
Harry glanced at him, because that was not what he expected. Of course he knew that royal school, but he also knew what Dudley actually wanted. "What royal school?"
"The Academy," Dudley said, as though Harry had personally insulted every school in the kingdom instead of merely handing him an excuse to explain, to feel himself as smarter, superior. "The one in the capital? The Royal Academy of Albion? The place for princes and ambassadors and fancy foreign girls with names like... Ophelia. Or Anastasia."
"That's... very specific."
"Shut up!" Dudley's already pink face darkened, almost battling Petunia's peony. "They're doing the scholarship selection soon."
Ah, the lottery.
"Good for them."
"It's stupid, is what it is." Dudley propped his hip against the table, leaning in to steal a piece of toast from the stack Harry had arranged for later. "Every year they take two commoners. Two!"
The Royal Academy of Albion sat somewhere far beyond Little Whinging, more palace than school, and was old enough to have watched kingdoms rise and fall. It was responsible for producing every diplomat, commander, royal advisor, bride, courtier, and, most importantly, for teaching each and every prince and princess to become the perfect King or Queen. He had seen it exactly once. Just a picture in a newspaper, nothing more, and he had looked at it for all of three seconds before Aunt Petunia snatched the paper away from him.
Dudley's grin grew wider, and Harry knit his brows in turn. That wasn't a nice smile. Not that Dudley had those in him, anyway, but this one was particularly... suspicious. "Piers said anyone can submit a name."
"Right."
"So I did."
Harry set down the pan.
"Did what?"
Dudley's grin widened, cheeks crowding his eyes. "Submitted a name."
There was a pause.
He said a name. Not my name.
"Whose?" Harry asked, flat.
And Dudley began to laugh, as if Harry had told him the funniest joke in the entire world. He folded nearly in half, one hand slapping onto the table in support, cutlery wobbling under the sudden movement. "Yours, obviously."
Harry couldn't do anything but stare.
"Oh, come on now," Dudley said, wiping at his eyes. "Don't look like that. It's brilliant! Just imagine you there, Evans. Learning how to curtsey, in those little white gloves they make the girls wear."
To demonstrate, he pinched the invisible fabric between thick fingers and pretended to tug on an imaginary glove.
"I put you down as Harria, actually. Just to be safe."
What landed first was the absurdity.
It arrived bright, almost blinding. Then came the anger—familiar, well-worn after years of abuse. After years of endurance, of persevering through the worst and beyond.
Dudley had always been an expert at finding ways to make Harry feel smaller. When fists grew boring, there were names, and once those turned stale, he started with jokes. It had always been the same goal: doing everything in his power to reduce him to a ridiculous parable, with him cast as the punchline.
Harry imagined a clerk somewhere in the capital reading the name Harria Evans off a submission slip, wrinkling their nose and throwing the paper away. Maybe pass it along the office, for everyone to laugh at over afternoon tea.
The scar beneath his fringe began to itch in anger, and the eggs hissed quietly in the pan.
Just to be safe, he pulled the pan farther from the stove.
"You put my name into the royal scholarship as a joke," Harry repeated, carefully.
Dudley snorted. "Don't get all precious. You won't be chosen. They probably burn half the names, anyway. Especially ugly ones like Harria."
Harry looked at him for a while longer, at the sweat gathered along his forehead, the greasy sheen coating his fingers—almost matching the shine of buttons stretched over his body. One that had never known hunger, never known cold, never asked for a second helping just to be told that he had already eaten enough.
With a sigh, he picked up the pan and brought it to the table.
"Brilliant," he muttered, and Dudley's laughter followed him into the dining room.
.* ˖.
For three days, nothing happened.
Harry had almost forgotten the whole ordeal, the thought only resurfacing during mindless tasks that left his hands occupied and mind free to wander: while sorting invoices for Grunnings & Son, or polishing candlesticks and silverware. Yet every time, without a doubt, he'd reach the same conclusion:
The Academy would never choose me.
Why would they? He was a nobody, someone with no name of his own. Someone whose clothes had belonged to Dudley before they were his. Someone whose education had been a stitched mess of discarded schoolbooks, cast-off notes, and Petunia's reluctant lessons at the kitchen table. She taught him just enough to satisfy whichever inspector came in to check; Harry could read, write, and recite dates and figures when asked, and nobody seemed particularly concerned that his knowledge rarely stretched beyond the surface, too busy playing a servant first, and being a human second.
And yet...
He had managed, somehow. And always would.
.* ˖.
By the fourth day, everyone but him had gathered in the living room to watch the scholarship drawing.
Aunt Petunia spent the entire morning pretending to have no interest in it whatsoever, which, in her language, meant she had dusted the sitting room twice. She had straightened the curtains every hour, and refluffed the cushions whenever Dudley so much as breathed in their direction. She ordered Harry to scrub the kitchen quietly, too, because "some of us respect national traditions, even if they have no interest in them."
Harry obeyed, though they both knew she was lying.
She respected everything involving the royal court, provided it remained at a comfortable distance from which she could admire the gowns and imagine Dudley moving among them with the natural importance she believed the world had failed to recognize in him. She would never have submitted his name for the Crown Scholarship, of course. The scholarship was generous and prestigious, but it was charity, and Aunt Petunia would rather swallow her pearls than accept alms on the Dursleys' behalf.
Dudley was not a boy who needed to be lifted. Dudley was, in his mother's eyes, already standing where everyone else ought to bow.
Her perfect, little prince.
And so the Dursleys watched the lottery drawing from the sitting room with solemn attention, usually reserved only for royal weddings, hearings, state banquets, and everything that was more appearance than substance.
Uncle Vernon occupied the largest armchair, a brandy glass balanced comfortably against the slope of his stomach. Aunt Petunia sat straight on the sofa, hands folded neatly in her lap, pretending to be unbothered despite having spent the entire day preparing for this exact evening, Dudley sprawled beside her, one leg bouncing with restless anticipation—not because he expected anything to come of the drawing, but because he had spent the last four days reminding Harry of this very moment.
Even Aunt Marge had come over, thick-necked and tweedy, with one of her bulldogs snorting at her feet and a cup of tea in her palm.
Harry stood in the kitchen.
He hadn't been told to stay there, exactly. Not by words, anyway, but some instructions were clear without having to be said out loud.
The kitchen door stood open, though, just enough for Harry to catch a glimpse of the edge of the sitting room rug and a corner of the television screen, where the broadcast crackled beneath a swell of orchestral music. Harry stood at the sink with his sleeves rolled up, wrists deep in grey, soapy water, trying to scrape at a stubborn patch of ketchup from one of Dudley's plates.
"Today," the announcer said, voice rich with practiced gravitas, "the Office of Royal Education and Civic Advancement continues one of Albion's most cherished traditions: the annual selection of Crown Scholars to attend the Royal Academy of Albion. As established under the Civic Advancement Acts, two students shall be chosen, one girl and one boy, from eligible public nominations across the kingdom."
The crowd cheered, and Aunt Marge huffed through a mouthful of biscuit.
"A fine tradition, though they ought to be careful about letting in just anyone. Breeding shows, no matter what people say."
"Quite right," Uncle Vernon replied.
Harry scrubbed harder.
Why does this stain look like Ripper?
The broadcast continued with a description of the Academy that made it sound less like a school and more like an exceptionally expensive camp, speaking of service, discipline, courtly education, diplomacy, magical instruction... and the ancient, oh-so-important responsibility everyone who enrolled shall never lose sight of. Aunt Petunia made a small, approving sound at that, and Harry imagined Dudley standing near the Crown and attempting not to pick his nose.
It elicited a chuckle from him, and he was thankful for the running water dampening his noises.
"The first selection," said the announcer, "for the female Crown Scholarship."
Here we go.
Something unpleasant tightened in his chest. Not hope, certainly not hope, and yet his heart threatened to jump straight out of his throat and into the sink. It was beating so violently he began to feel dizzy, the room suddenly too warm, too small, too— everything. Even his breath turned ragged, his hands began to shake, and—
"Miss Hermione Jean Granger of Hampstead!"
—it stopped.
The tension dissolved so quickly it was almost embarrassing, and the only thing that broke through his brief stupor was a polite burst of applause from the wireless.
Somewhere in the sitting room, Aunt Petunia sniffed.
"Granger," Aunt Marge repeated. "Never heard of them."
"Physician family, perhaps," Aunt Petunia said, with the tone of a woman who considered physicians acceptable only for as long as they knew their place.
Harry scratched at the last bit of ketchup until it came loose beneath his nail.
The weight that had been lifted from his shoulders didn't feel nearly as liberating as he had imagined it to be. Perhaps it was because he had only endured the anticipation for four days; perhaps it was because he was used to Dudley's taunts, the constant needling and nagging. Those petty cruelties had long since become part of the background noises of his life, having lived through far worse than a cruel joke and a few days of ridicule over an impossible-to-win lottery.
Next, the announcer said, "And now, for the male Crown Scholarship."
Paper rustled, and the announcer drew a breath.
"Harry Evans of Little Whinging."
And Harry's first thought wasn't that he had been chosen, no.
Stupidly, it was:
Dudley lied.
He didn't put me as Harria.
The realization came after. It approached him like a wave seen from afar, small and harmless at first glance, lulling him into the foolish belief that he was safe from where he stood upon the shore. But then it rose without warning, a towering wall of water rearing from the deep before crashing over him and swallowing him whole. It stole the breath from his lungs, pinning him beneath the weight of an invisible tide with nowhere to run, and nothing to cling to. Unable to flee. Unable to save himself.
Harry Evans.
His name. His actual name, carried through the room and into the kitchen where he stood with cooling dishwater clinging to his hands. For a moment, the room seemed to tilt, and the plate in his hand slipped from his grasp and onto the ground.
And still, Harry did not move.
Oh my god.
He had been chosen.
He, Harry Evans, had been chosen.
The room fell silent in a way Harry had never heard before. It wasn't angry, at least not in the way Uncle Vernon's silence tended to be, swollen and ready to burst. It wasn't disappointing, either, like Aunt Petunia whenever Harry failed to anticipate some unspoken expectation.
Harry looked up slowly and found every pair of eyes in the room turned towards him: Petunia sat pale and rigid, Vernon moved half out of his chair, Marge flushed red, and Dudley's mouth hung open so wide it should count as an all-consuming void.
For a very long moment, no one spoke.
Then came a knock.
Harry glanced towards the living room, and everyone remained exactly where they were sitting, as if cast in stone.
Another knock.
And because nobody moved, and because answering doors had always been a task assigned to him, Harry wiped his hands on his trousers and went to answer it.
Somewhere behind him, Vernon cursed.
"Don't you dare."
For the very first time in a long, long while, Harry didn't listen and opened the door.
The courier stood tall, dressed in dark navy and silver.
Not the bright colors of festival banners, nor the elaborate finery favored by court officials. His uniform was practical: a fitted military coat with neat rows of buttons running down his chest, polished riding boots, black gloves, and a heavy cloak embroidered with the Academy crest in silver thread so delicate Harry ceased to breathe. The man looked to be somewhere in his forties, white threaded through his hair and beard, softening the hard lines marking the corners of his eyes.
"Mr Vernon Dursley?" he asked, and Harry shook his head.
His thick eyebrows drew together.
"Who am I talking to, then?"
"No one," came behind Harry, and Uncle Vernon pushed him aside.
Ah, he finally managed to move.
"I am Vernon Dursley. Who are you?"
If possible, his brows knit even further.
"I was sent by The Royal Academy of Albion," he said, reaching into a pouch by his hip, "I bear correspondence from the Office of Royal Education and Civic Advancement regarding the annual Crown Scholarship."
Harry looked up at Uncle Vernon from behind, and although the angle made it difficult to make out much of his face, he could see it going from red to grey with impressive speed.
"No... this must be a mistake..."
"That is not for me to determine."
The envelope he withdrew was made of thick cream parchment, sealed with wax the color of his uniform, and the courier's gaze flickered briefly past Uncle Vernon.
"Harry Evans?" he asked.
Harry stepped out from behind his uncle.
Uncle Vernon moved first, faster than Harry would have thought possible for a man his size. He nearly snatched the letter away, if it weren't for the courier moving even faster. "Now, see here," Vernon tried. "That boy is my foundling, and whatever nonsense—"
"Harry Evans," the courier repeated in a way that would shut everyone up, even the Regent of Albion if needed. His gaze slid to Harry, clear and assessing. "Is that you?"
Harry nodded, albeit sheepishly.
"By decree of the Office of Royal Education and Civic Advancement, under the authority of the Lord Regent, the Council of Albion, and the continuing provisions of the Albion Crown Scholarship, you have been selected for immediate enrollment at the Royal Academy of Albion."
Something broke.
Usually, Harry would've moved immediately to clean up whatever had fallen, spilled, or shattered, but he remained rooted to the spot, as if drilled into place. A moment ago, he had been standing in the kitchen as a servant, and now, according to a single joke, he was to enroll as a Crown Scholar.
The distance between those two lives felt impossible, and yet... he was standing right on its threshold.
"You're joking."
The courier blinked once, twice. "No."
"I didn't submit it myself."
"That is no requirement."
"My cousin did it as a joke."
"That is unfortunate."
A pause.
"To make fun of me."
"As I said, unfortunate."
This was absurd.
Absurd.
But the courier didn't care, he simply held out the envelope.
Harry didn't move, and Uncle Vernon snapped. "Take it."
There was fear in it now, and Harry had heard him angry, disgusted, smug, disappointed, and drunk off his arse, but this, fear, was new. Quickly, he took the letter, the wax warm beneath his thumb.
.* ˖.
By noon, Aunt Petunia had read the letter six times, and hated it more with every pass. She sat at the kitchen table in her best afternoon dress, as she often did when life slipped beyond her control and she felt the need to tighten her grip on whatever remained. The parchment was pinched between her gloved fingers, as though it might stain her skin, despite being worth more than every scrap of paper in the house combined.
Uncle Vernon stood beside the mantel with his glass of brandy, and Dudley occupied the armchair by the window, sulking so badly his lower lip was trembling.
Harry kept by the door.
Not because there were no chairs, but because he didn't particularly want to share a room with any of them right now. He was there to keep an eye on his letter, that was all.
And maybe, just maybe, he was scared he wouldn't be able to get up once he sat down.
"It says we must report by the end of the week," Aunt Petunia stated.
"Yes," Harry said.
She flinched at his voice, which was satisfying enough that Harry immediately felt mean for noticing. Aunt Petunia looked back down at the letter, her expression tense and sharp, almost sour.
"This is ridiculous," Uncle Vernon said. "You're not going."
Harry looked at him.
That was, apparently, the wrong thing to do, because Uncle Vernon's face flushed, as it often did, an alarming shade of red. His arm was raised, a finger pointed directly at him. "Don't you look at me like that. You think you're going to swan off to the capital because your name got pulled? You think we'll be made fools of? People will ask questions."
"People are already asking questions. Everyone saw the carriage."
"Be quiet."
"Also, it was Dudley who put my name in."
Uncle Vernon took a step forward. "You ungrateful, little—"
Harry didn't move.
"The letter states that a refusal requires a formal hearing before the scholarship board," Harry said, and he was proud of how steady his voice sounded, because his heart was attempting to climb out of his throat. He had read that line four times before his aunt managed to snatch the parchment away. "It says that a guardian has to appear in person and explain why the selected student is not attending."
Silence curdled through the room like spoiled milk.
And Harry knew right then and there, with a cruel certainty, that they would let him go.
Not because they wanted him to go, nor because they cared for his wellbeing, or his wishes, his dreams. No, they were willing to let their loyal servant go because the alternative involved standing in a room surrounded by important people in the capital and explaining why Harry Evans, foundling since infancy, would not be allowed to accept a royal education.
They would have to explain why he owned no proper clothes, why his schooling had been so irregular, why the neighbours only ever seemed to see him hauling coal and chopping wood through the coldest months of winter.
They would have to say too much to too many eyes.
Aunt Petunia's fingers tightened around the parchment.
"You will embarrass yourself," she said quietly.
And he almost replied, I know.
He didn't, but the seed was sown. The truth lodged itself beneath his ribs, curling there like a dying thing dragged into the hollow of his chest, cold and certain in its final moments. Yes, he would embarrass himself. He knew nothing of royalty, nothing of society. For all his life, all he had known was this house and its walls.
"You don't know how to behave around people like that," she continued, clipped and careful. "You don't know manners. You don't know how to be good, you don't even know the rules. They will see who you are the moment you open your mouth."
Harry looked at the letter in her hands. The royal crest caught the light.
"What am I then?" he asked, and Aunt Petunia's mouth parted.
For one suspended second, he thought she might say something. Something old and ugly, something nice and kind. Maybe both, but likely neither.
It was the latter.
"Pack your things," she said. "And don't expect us to buy you anything new."
I would never dare to.
Once in his room, Harry realized just how little there was to pack.
Under different circumstances, he might have felt embarrassed to discover that his entire life could fit into a single bag, but he had long since passed that point of humiliation. After all, there had never been much space in the cupboard under the stairs. It was little more than a cabinet with a bed crammed into it, with no window and no space to breathe, its walls pressing in from all sides. There was barely enough space for Harry himself, let alone any real possessions.
In the end, he packed exactly five shirts, three pairs of trousers, and a jumper Aunt Petunia had shrunk so badly that Dudley would've never fit into it again, even if forced. After that came clean socks, underwear, and a small toy owl Mrs Figg had given him when he was seven and burning from a fever nobody in the house believed in until he fainted at the market.
Oh, and the letter.
It was the very first thing that belonged to him—only him.
And to his surprise, it included a list of things to get.
A list. Of things to get.
The uniforms would be provided for him, but that was about the extent of the Academy's generosity. He would still need boots, practice clothes, writing supplies, a seemingly endless collection of books, an instrument of his choice, and a dozen other necessities he had never even heard of.
The Dursleys would sooner set fire to the house than buy him anything new.
.* ˖.
By the end of the week, the courier returned with a carriage—one in royal blue, polished to a shine, with silver wheels and the Academy's crest painted proudly upon its door. Two horses stood before it, broad-chested and as black as the heart of a storm.
Half the street had suddenly found urgent reasons to be outside.
Mrs Seven was pruning a rosebush already pruned within an inch of its life. Mr Bennett lingered by a gate with a newspaper in his hand, and even Piers Polkiss had appeared, openly staring at the carriage until Dudley elbowed him hard enough to elicit a choking sound.
Harry might have laughed, if it weren't for the knot in his stomach.
The Dursleys stood together on the porch, and nobody spoke until Aunt Petunia took a step forward.
She didn't hug him, didn't kiss him goodbye, and Harry had never expected her to. Instead, she smoothed the front of her dress and looked him over—from his unruly hair to Dudley's old hand-me-down clothes—and said: "Don't tell people things that are none of their business."
Harry almost asked which things she meant: the cupboard he called his bedroom, the meals he had missed, the bruises that would finally fade. But the courier stood beside the carriage, and Uncle Vernon looked close to strangling anyone unfortunate enough to enter his field of vision. Dudley, for reasons known only to himself, was glaring holes straight through the lawn.
So Harry said, "I'll do my best."
Aunt Petunia's eyes narrowed, and Uncle Vernon gave Harry's shoulder one hard squeeze—the kind meant to look affectionate, only to reveal its true colors once one noticed how white his knuckles had gone.
"Remember who raised you."
"I will."
Uncle Vernon got back into the house first.
It was a small victory, but one Harry took with him into the carriage nonetheless.
The journey to the capital lasted most of the day, and Harry spent every minute looking out of the window. He had never travelled farther than Little Whinging market, and now the village gradually disappeared behind them, first replaced by hedgerows, then rolling fields washed gold beneath late summer.
Outside, he could see the chauffeur's silhouette seated rigid atop the carriage, guiding the horses along the road. Inside, the courier sat opposite him, absorbed in a book and silent since the moment they had departed. Harry appreciated the quiet more than he knew how to voice.
He tried his best not to look too impressed by any of it.
Then they crossed a bridge, and the capital appeared.
It rose from the river in terraces of pale stone and dark slate, climbing the hills as though the city had been carved out of marble in its entirety rather than being built from the ground up. Harry had seen crowds before, he had visited bazaars and fairs, seen towers and walls so tall they swallowed the sun.
None of them had prepared him for this.
People filled every street, moving over the pavement like a living current. They spilled across bridges, gathered beneath fluttering banners, advertised their goods in shouts and offers, and vanished into narrow alleys between leaning buildings. Somewhere in the distance, bells rang above the noise. Smoke drifted from hundreds of chimneys and spread across the rooftops, hiding an endless sky.
Harry's gaze kept climbing past bustling districts and merchant halls, past clusters of towers and its walls, the carefully tended gardens crowning the higher slopes, up to—
The palace.
It stood proudly at the city's highest point, watching over its people like a king upon his throne. Its ancient walls looked as though carved from white granite that caught the afternoon's light like bone, rising above the capital in a maze of towers and spires, in delicate bridges connecting soaring wings. The windows caught the light like shards of glass as slender pillars pierced the sky, reaching higher and higher to kiss the clouds.
For a moment, Harry forgot everything.
The people, the noise.
There was only the palace above the hills, and the steady rhythm of hooves against stone as the carriage carried him closer to a new life.
"Once we arrive at the Academy," the courier said without looking up, "you will be taken directly to the tailors for your uniform fitting."
Harry blinked, pulled abruptly from his thoughts.
"Okay."
The courier turned a page.
"After that, you will be shown to your room. By the time you are done, it should be time for the ceremony."
"Okay."
Then, at last, the courier looked up.
"Am I correct in assuming that some of the required gear is... missing?"
Harry pressed his lips together, nodding.
And for the first time, the courier smiled.
"I thought as much. You needn't concern yourself with it." He closed the book over a finger to keep his place. "The Academy issues the same list to every student, but they don't expect Crown Scholars to arrive equally provisioned. Whatever equipment is lacking will be supplied."
Harry blinked.
"Oh, thank god."
The courier reopened his book, still smiling.
"Quite. You will not be the first."
By the time they passed the royal palace and continued towards the Academy—a sprawling complex of pale stone, smaller than its counterpart but no less beautiful—Harry had reached two conclusions. First, his time at the Academy was going to be far more difficult than he had imagined, considering how hopelessly out of place he felt already. Second, he was going to be seriously motion sick if the carriage drove over one more pebble.
Fortunately for him, they arrived just as the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky awash in copper and rose, deep violet bleeding through the fading light.
The Academy stood on the far side of the city, right where the forest began. Its vast courtyard stretched before the main building, crowded with students, and at its centre stood a fountain, carved into the likeness of the crowned stag Harry had seen upon the royal seal. Water poured from its antlers in shimmering streams, cascading into the basin below.
And as the carriage rolled through the gates, Harry felt his stomach sink.
To his horror, he appeared to be the last arrival.
From the window beside him, he could see a dozen students turning to look. Not all of them, but enough for him to feel every inch of his old coat, every scuff marring his boots—hell, every speck of dust clinging stubbornly to him after a day of travel.
The courier rose, opened the carriage door, and stepped out, pausing as he waited for Harry to follow. Drawing a slow breath to steady himself, Harry stepped down after him.
For a heartbeat, the courtyard fell quiet.
Then somebody laughed.
It wasn't loud, which, somehow, made it worse.
A brief, bright sound carried from where three boys stood at its edge. All of them wore immaculate uniforms trimmed in silver, their embroidered crests on their chests catching the last rays of sunlight.
The one in the middle drew his eye immediately.
He was tall, his skin pale, and he looked as though he belonged among the Academy's marble statues more than its students. His hair was blonde, bordering on white, and his sharp features possessed the sort of beauty artists reserved for saints and their tyrants, angels and their executioners: high cheekbones, a cutting jaw. His grey eyes swept over Harry once and dismissed him before returning for the pleasure of doing it again, more thoroughly this time.
"Well, well," the boy said, and his companions snickered. "They really are committed to charity this year."
Heat crept into Harry's ears, and he looked around for the courier, only to discover that he, traitor that he was, already moved towards a woman clad in dark, academic robes near the steps. Around the courtyard, many students watched them with mild interest.
Harry knew that he wasn't one of them—and never would be. That he didn't fit in.
But he didn't expect this.
"What?" the blonde one tilted his head. "Did they not explain the difference between the servant's entrance and the student courtyard?"
It would've been wiser to stay silent, he knew that. Seventeen years with the Dursleys had taught him the value of swallowing your words, even if they burned like poison. But there was something in the boy's expression—polished boredom cast over something mean, like cruelty was yet another trait of good breeding—that made Harry's tiredness yield to anger.
"No," Harry said, "though they did warn me I'd meet an arse sooner or later."
Everyone went very quiet, even those pretending not to listen.
The boy's smile vanished, and Harry thought, dimly, that this was how people got murdered in fancy, royal schools they didn't belong in.
He crossed the distance between them.
Up close, Harry realized that the boy was taller than him, and that beside the Academy crest sat another emblem: a silver serpent coiled around a crowned M.
A noble house, then. Of course.
Boys like him were never ordinary.
"You don't know who I am," the boy said.
Harry looked up at him.
"No."
"My name is Draco Malfoy."
He said it like an announcement, as though trumpets should follow—as though Harry ought to recognize him immediately, every word dripping from his tongue like sweetened venom.
Draco Malfoy's eyes narrowed. "That is usually the point where people apologise."
"Oh, is it?" Harry said. "Must be embarrassing when they don't."
For a second, something ugly flashed across Malfoy's face, and Harry had the distinct impression that he would've ended up flat on his ass, if it weren't for the arrival of the robed woman his courier had been speaking to.
"Mr Malfoy," she said, and Malfoy stepped back immediately, inclining his head in a bow.
"Professor McGonagall."
Professor McGonagall was tall, with perfect posture. Her dark hair was pinned neatly beneath a narrow cap, her robes falling around her with almost magical precision. She belonged here, Harry thought, right as she turned to face him. And though her expression did not soften, something in her eyes did.
"Mr Evans," she said. "Welcome to the Royal Academy of Albion."
And because Harry had no idea what the proper response to that was—was it bowing, shaking her hand?—he settled on standing very straight and hoping nobody could hear the frantic pounding of his heart.
"Thank you."
McGonagall looked him over once.
"I am aware you have had a long journey, Mr Evans, but unfortunately we are pressed for time. Your belongings will be taken to the dormitories, which you will be shown in due time. For now, we must see to your uniform."
She withdrew a pocket watch and glanced at it.
"We have just over two hours before the opening ceremony. If you would follow me, I have no intention of arriving late."
Malfoy laughed, again.
"If you find yourself without occupation, Mr Malfoy, I am certain Professor Snape would be delighted to provide one."
His mouth fell shut.
Harry liked her immediately.
"Come along, Mr Evans."
She turned her back to him, moving towards the Academy's grand entrance.
"The ceremony itself is not particularly ceremonious," McGonagall said as they walked. "There will be a welcoming supper, the Headmaster will offer a few words, and that will be the end of it. Nevertheless, it is an old tradition, and one that is broadcast throughout the kingdom."
Harry nodded, only to realize a moment later that she couldn't even see him. She didn't seem to mind, though. "Classes begin on Monday and conclude on Friday. Weekends are your own, provided you remain on Academy grounds. The only exception is tomorrow, since you arrived after the scheduled assessments, which means you will spend Saturday completing them."
"Assessments?" Harry asked.
"Yes, assessments."
The click of her heels echoed against the stone floor.
"The results will determine your curriculum. There are many: academic, martial, diplomatic, magical..."
Harry nearly missed a step.
"Magical?"
Professor McGonagall came to a halt in front of the entrance. "All Academy students are instructed in controlled magic practice. Those with strong aptitude receive advanced training—those without are still expected to understand theory and have to enroll in classes to learn its basic application." She said it matter-of-factly, as though magic was equal to discussing your favorite tea. "As a matter of public safety, every citizen is expected to possess at least a foundational understanding. Untrained magic has a tendency to produce unfortunate outcomes."
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"The state requires this?"
Harry had always known magic existed. How could he not? Aunt Petunia had spent years reminding him how dangerous it was, banning even the mention of it inside her home—that the vast majority of people could barely produce so much as a smoking flame, while the sort of magic that mattered belonged almost exclusively to those born into wealth, power.
What Harry hadn't expected was for the rest of the world to take it quite so seriously.
"Yes, the state."
The entrance hall alone could have swallowed Privet Drive whole. Pale stone columns soared toward vaulted ceilings, vanishing into shadows as banners in rich hues of blue and silver hung between them. Sunlight poured through towering windows and spilled across the polished floor in shifting pools of color, turning the stone beneath his feet into stained glass.
People moved everywhere.
Students in uniform hurried through the corridors with arms full of books, moving past professors in robes that looked as elegant as the ground they walked on. Somewhere high above, birds chirped.
And there were... books, floating leisurely through an archway without anyone paying attention. Candles drifted overhead in neat lines, following invisible currents and bathing the walls in soft, warm light. A suit of armour stepped politely aside to let a group of students pass before returning to its post, and even some portraits seemed to move—watching conversations with open curiosity.
Harry felt as though he had wandered into a dream.
"Mr Evans."
He blinked.
"Sorry."
A flicker of amusement crossed her face.
"It would be considerably easier to orient you if you remained on the same floor as everyone else."
Harry hurried after her.
They walked and walked, and by the fifth turn, Harry was convinced they were going in circles. Which, thankfully, they were not, because moments later they came to a stop before a polished door bearing a simple brass plaque:
TAILOR
The room beyond was larger than every room at Privet Drive combined. It was lined with mirrors framed in gilt, reflecting rows of wardrobes and clothing racks crowded with garments in various stages of completion. Near the window hung three finished jackets, each darker and better cut than anything Harry had ever owned. Deep navy wool caught the fading light with a subtle sheen, silver thread tracing intricate patterns along the cuffs and lapels. An embroidered crest sat over each breast pocket beneath a chain of polished metal, with matching waistcoats and ties hanging neatly beside them.
Everything looked important. Expensive.
The sort of outfit that belonged to someone who knew which fork to use when served fish, which title outranked which aunt, and how to walk into a room without immediately searching for the nearest exit.
In its middle stood a small woman, barely reaching Harry's hip, dressed in mauve robes that gracefully swished around her as she moved towards them in a whirlwind of pins and measuring tape. Before Harry had the opportunity to properly introduce himself, she was already circling him like a hawk assessing its prey.
"Good afternoon, Madam Malkin," McGonagall greeted, but she didn't seem to listen, her attention already fixed entirely on Harry.
“Arms out,” she said.
Harry obeyed immediately, doing as told.
“Not like you’re being arrested, dear.”
“I’ve never been arrested.”
“With posture like that, one assumes it's only a matter of time.”
Harry caught McGonagall hiding the faintest twitch of amusement, all while Madam Malkin did not look up from his sleeve.
A moment later, she measured his chest and clicked her tongue.
Harry stiffened. “What?”
“You’re underfed.”
“No, I’m not.”
"My dear, fabric does not lie."
She looped the measuring tape around his waist, frowned, and moved a finger. Behind her, a floating quill scratched a note onto a sheet of parchment. "We carry many sizes, but some alterations are necessary. Otherwise, you'll look like someone stuffed you into an expensive sack of potatoes!"
She bent down to adjust the hem of his trousers, and it took everything not to shift away.
It should have been humiliating—and it was, but not in the way Harry had expected it to be. At the Dursleys', clothes had always been another thing used against him as an insult. Dudley's hand-me-downs came to him stretched, stained, or several sizes too large, and everything carried the same message: This is what you're worth.
Madam Malkin tutted, adjusted a seam, and reached for another pin.
Here, it was humiliating—but also safe.
She didn't ask why his ribs showed through when she instructed him to raise his arms, never commented on the shadows beneath his eyes, the worn knees of his trousers, or the crooked way his glasses sat upon his nose.
She simply did her job.
As though the problem were the clothes, not him.
When she combed his fringe aside, her fingers brushed the scar and Harry jerked back.
He shoved his hair back immediately, face hot with shame.
"I'm sorry."
Her face did not change, but he could see that she held her breath.
“Very well,” she said. “Your hair will be left as it is. I hear birds' nests are very fashionable this year."
In a few years, he would look back and laugh—but for now, he nodded.
By the time Harry stepped out of the fitting room, dressed in the Academy's colours and polished black boots, he barely recognized the boy staring back from the mirror. The jacket sat properly across his shoulders, sleeves ending at his wrist. The trousers ended where trousers were apparently meant to end, and the boots neither pinched nor slipped.
For perhaps the first time in his life, he looked as though his clothes belonged to him.
"The remainder of your uniforms will be completed shortly and sent to your room," Madam Malkin said, ushering them towards the door.
Then, before Harry could stop her, she plucked his glasses right from his face. She breathed lightly on the lenses, tightening something along the hinges with a sharp tap of her finger, and returned them a moment later.
"Much better," she declared.
The frames settled comfortably against his nose.
"Oh, thank you."
"You're welcome."
They left, making their way towards the dormitories.
"I shall expect you and your roommates in the main hall in thirty minutes," McGonagall said as they reached his corridor. "Don't be late."
Harry promised he would be on time, and she disappeared with a small nod.
It took him several minutes to muster the courage to open the door.
Like nearly everything he had seen at the Academy so far, the dormitory was nothing like Harry had expected.
From what little he knew, and from what Dudley had told him, dormitories were supposed to be full of narrow beds shoved into every nook and cranny, with barely enough room to breathe, let alone live, but this was nothing of the sort. It was a beautiful room tucked into the eastern wing, its tall windows overlooking the practice yards below. There were four beds—three of them already occupied, as seen by scattered clothes and open chests that sat at their feet—each screened by dark blue curtains, four desks, four wardrobes, and an unlit hearth at the end of the room.
It was obscene.
It was beautiful.
Three boys looked up when the door fell back into place.
One sat cross-legged on his bed with a book propped against his knees, another had claimed the seat by the window, and the third stood dangerously on a chair, attempting to force a trunk onto the top shelf of his wardrobe.
The trunk wobbled, and fell to the ground.
"Bloody—"
The boy jumped after it, and so did Harry to help him.
"Oi!"
The boy by the wardrobe grinned.
"You must be our new roommate," he said brightly. "The lottery winner?"
Harry nodded. "That's me."
"Brilliant." The boy stuck out a hand immediately. "I'm Terry Boot. That by the window is Dean."
The dark-skinned boy raised a hand in greeting.
"Thomas."
Terry rolled his eyes, immediately correcting himself with a sigh. "Sorry—that bloke is Dean Thomas."
Dean snorted.
Harry found himself smiling as he sat down on the remaining bed. He hadn't even realized how exhausted he was until this very moment, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. After hours in the carriage, simply sitting on something that wasn't wood felt wonderful.
"I'm Harry Evans."
Something hit the floor with a loud thud, and Harry whipped around to his neighbouring bed. The boy in it had very short brown hair, his book forgotten on the floor. "You an orphan?"
Harry blinked.
"Bit... personal," he replied, which the boy ignored in its entirety.
"But you are, aren't you?"
Terry groaned.
"Oh no."
Dean smiled.
"Oh yes."
The boy ran a hand through his hair, looking very sorry all of a sudden.
"Shite, sorry. That's a mad thing to ask someone five seconds after meeting them."
Harry took a deep breath, shaking his head.
"It's alright, don't worry."
"But are you?"
Harry hesitated. The answer wasn't exactly a secret, though it still tugged at his heart.
"Yeah."
The boy slapped a hand against his knee.
"Knew it!"
Terry dropped onto the edge of Seamus' bed.
"Seamus."
"What?"
"You can't just interrogate people."
"I wasn't interrogating him."
"You literally asked if he was an orphan."
"Sorry, I just never met an Evans."
Terry sighed the sigh of someone used to dealing with the likes of Seamus—or just him, really.
"Oh Merlin, Seamus, you can't just ask people if they're orphans!"
"I'm curious."
"You have no manners."
"And you are boring!"
"You... guys know that I'm still here, right?" Harry asked, folding his arms.
"Right, sorry."
A pause.
"So, why are you an or—”
Seamus never got to finish the question, a pillow hitting him square in the face. Terry had, apparently, decided that enough was enough, launching himself across the bed. No second later, they were wrestling beneath a tangle of blankets and flying cushions, laughing loudly and nearly sliding off the comforter, if it weren't for a bell breaking through the fight.
"Time for the ceremony," Dean said, getting up.
Thankfully, they seemed to know where they were going—and Harry followed.
Supper was held in a hall that looked as if someone had built a cathedral inside the Academy. The ceiling soared high overhead, painted a deep midnight blue and scattered with silver stars scattered throughout, shimmering faintly as though viewed through water. Long tables stretched from one end of the chamber to the other, laden with platters of roasted meats, fresh bread—enough food to feed all of Little Whinging for a week.
At the far end of the hall, the professors sat upon a raised dais beneath a vast tapestry bearing the crowned stag. Hundreds of candles drifted overhead, turning the polished tables and silver-trimmed uniforms below into seas of flickering, amber light.
Harry nearly walked straight into Dean.
"Careful," Dean said, catching his shoulder.
"Yeah, don't look up with your mouth open," Terry added. "Someone will notice."
Dean rolled his eyes. "Someone already has."
Harry followed his gaze.
Draco Malfoy sat at a table in the centre. Students clustered around him, their laughter rising and falling, each and every one of them glued to his lips. Not one of them looked out of place, all dressed to perfection, and yet none came close to Malfoy. You don't outshine a Malfoy, Harry figured, because the moment one enters a room, it becomes theirs.
He watched as Draco lounged back in his chair, one arm draped over the carved wood, his pale head tilted toward a dark-haired girl at his side.
All while his eyes remained fixed on Harry.
Harry looked back, and Malfoy's mouth curved upward.
It was Harry who broke eye contact first, following his roommates to the far end of the hall. A few students glanced up as he passed, smiling friendly, and he did his best to return the gesture before taking a seat between Terry and Dean, with Seamus on the other side.
"I hate that guy," Seamus said suddenly, looking over Harry's shoulder.
Harry didn't need to ask who he meant.
Still, he glanced back.
Malfoy was still looking their way, only averting his gaze once Harry caught him staring.
"He's horrible to everyone," Seamus continued, piling food onto his plate. "Especially if you're not noble enough for his standards, which means just about everyone. Just because he is the Prince. But no, if your family doesn't have a title, land, or about twenty generations of pure-blood ancestors to boast about, he'll find some reason to look down on you."
Slowly, despite himself, Harry smiled. "I called him an arse earlier."
Dean barked a laugh, and Terry groaned into his drink.
Seamus's grin grew wider.
"Oh," he said. "You'll do."
Everyone else had already filled their plates with roast chicken, potatoes, peas, and thick slices of bread still warm from the oven, passing gravy in silver boats. Harry stared at the spread before him, and the food seemed to stare back.
Nobody told him to wait.
Nobody would count what he took.
Nobody watched his hands as if expecting theft.
At first, he served himself cautiously, then a little more when his roommates became distracted by an increasingly serious discussion about the best ways to sneak out of the castle on weekends.
The food was incredible, with the chicken being hot enough to burn his tongue and the potatoes beautifully crisp. Even the bread tasted better than anything he could remember eating, warm and impossibly light. He expected that if clouds had a taste, they would taste like this. Just warmer—and with butter.
Still, Harry ate slowly, carefully, and hated himself for the miserable ache in his throat.
Halfway through the meal, an elderly man rose from the high table. Deep lines marked his face, and age had bent his shoulders, but the moment he stepped forward, everyone fell silent.
"Students," he began, his voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber, "my name is Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the Royal Academy of Albion, and I welcome you all to the beginning of a new term.
"You are here because your families, your offices, your nations, or your own demonstrated merit have placed upon you an expectation of service. Some of you will inherit titles and govern kingdoms. Some will command armies. Others will advise monarchs, negotiate treaties, settle disputes, and help shape the prosperity and security of thousands.
"Not all of you will be royal, but all of you will be responsible."
Harry glanced down at his plate.
The headmaster continued. "The Academy does not exist to polish ornaments, it exists to train those who will one day stand near power and bear the cost of doing so. You will study history, etiquette, combat, and magic—everything and more to help you move among the ranks of society with wisdom, confidence, and discipline."
The hall remained silent.
"Those of noble birth would do well to remember that blood is not an achievement," Dumbledore said, and Harry's gaze swept briefly to the table across the room. "And those who arrived here by any other path—be it through family service, scholarship, or society—you would do well to remember that merit is not an apology. Whatever road brought you here, you stand now as students of this Academy. Conduct yourselves accordingly."
He paused, then smiled through his beard.
"I look forward to another wonderful year at the Royal Academy of Albion."
A brief pause.
"And now, please finish your food. I cannot wait for dessert."
After supper, Seamus insisted on showing Harry the quickest route back to the east wing before the corridors became infested with the likes of Draco Malfoy. Dean and Terry trailed after them, engaged in a spirited debate over which pudding had tasted the best.
The Academy felt different at night. It became a maze of lamplit arches and long, echoing corridors, with hushed portraits that criticized every laugh while following them with curious eyes. Moonlight spilled through the tall windows, soaking the courtyard beyond in silver. Everything smelled faintly of wax and warm stone.
They were passing beneath a gallery of portraits when one of them spoke.
"Potter," it said.
Harry stopped so abruptly that, this time, it was Dean who bumped into him.
The portrait depicted a woman clad in formal black, a small hat resting atop carefully pinned brown hair. She held herself with rigid dignity, her expression severe enough to discourage conversation even from within the confines of a frame. An embroidered collar encircled her neck, and gold earrings flashed in the torchlight whenever she moved.
A moment ago, she had been gazing down the corridor.
Now she stared directly at Harry, eyes wide.
Harry looked at the portrait, then Terry. "They... can talk?"
"Some of them."
"Of course they do."
The old woman leaned closer within her frame. "Come here."
"No," Seamus said immediately.
The portraits' eyes snapped to him. "I was not speaking to you, boy."
Seamus bowed with exquisite false politeness. "And yet I find myself moved to answer."
Harry might've laughed if the portrait had not still been staring holes through him. There was something unpleasant in the way she looked at him, her eyes so wide they could rival the moon. Her painted gaze moved over his hair, his eyes, his mouth.
Then, her expression changed. It was small at first, just a flicker of recognition. But then came horror, and after that, anger. Her features tightened, contorted by an anger so quiet his throat went dry.
"You," she whispered, voice dark.
Harry took one step back, the scar on his head pulsing.
Dean's hand closed around his sleeve.
"Come on," he said. "Now."
They walked away as fast as they could, and Harry didn't dare ask questions until the gallery was behind them and their room within sight.
"What was that?!"
"That was Queen Walburga."
Harry waited.
"Dead queen," Terry clarified.
"Yes, I worked that part out."
"She ruled long before the Potters won the war," Terry said. "Old blood supremacist. Awful woman. Most students avoid that corridor because she insults anyone she doesn't deem as noble enough."
"She called me Potter."
"Must've confused you with the bloke who overthrew her," Seamus said with a shrug. "Portraits are strange, man. They talk to talk and say things because they're lonely. Don't take it personally."
"No," he said. "Course not."
But that night, lying in a bed too soft for comfort, surrounded by the quiet, even breathing of boys who had known this world all their lives, Harry found himself staring up at the canopy above. He couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking about the portrait, or about Draco Malfoy's laugh, or Headmaster Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall.
For the first time in his miserable life, Harry Evans had been taken somewhere he was expected to become someone.
And he had no idea how to succeed.
.* ˖.
Harry slept badly.
Which, in itself, was nothing unusual.
At the Dursleys', a bad night's sleep usually meant feeling cold, or Dudley attempting to sneak past his cupboard for a midnight snack. Here, he was warm. He had his own space, a bed that didn't creak, a blanket covering his entire body and no one to tell him how ungrateful he was for taking up space.
Yet he lay awake, scar prickling beneath his fringe.
That, unfortunately, was familiar.
The scar always ached at odd times. During strange weathers, or when Harry had a fever, or Uncle Vernon's insult went past him and directed at his parents he never met.
It was a thin, jagged mark that began at his hairline and cut across the right side of his forehead, shaped enough like lightning for Dudley to call him storm-face for nearly two years before growing bored of it. Aunt Petunia claimed he had been born with it, Uncle Vernon insisted it came from broken glass. Harry had once asked how glass could leave a mark shaped like that, and Uncle Vernon had answered by slapping the question out of him.
Harry rolled onto his side and stared at the faint square of moonlight on the floor—closing his eyes and trying, for the hundredth time, to fall asleep
.* ˖.
By morning, woken up by bells, he was exhausted enough to feel delirious.
For several disorienting seconds, he had no idea where he was. Pale dawn filtered through the curtains, painting shifting patterns across the opposite wall. Beyond the glass, the trees swayed in the morning breeze, their shadows moving with them in a silent dance understood only by Mother Nature.
Harry lay still for a moment longer.
Around him, his roommates were already awake and getting ready. None of them wore their uniforms, instead dressed in dark navy trousers and beige Academy sweaters that looked far more comfortable than the formal attire. For some reason, Terry kept the tie.
"Look, the princess awoke from her slumber," Seamus announced, lobbing a pillow in Harry's direction—one he dodged in time to avoid getting hit. He was laughing, and Harry couldn't help but crack a smile.
"Wanna come with us? We're heading to the Great Lake."
Harry shook his head. "Can't. I have my assessments today."
A collective groan rose from the room.
"Good luck," Seamus said. "I bombed mine."
Terry nodded in agreement.
"Same."
By the time Harry finished fastening his cuffs, the bell for breakfast rang, and Terry nearly dropped his bag at the sudden noise.
"Merlin's saggy left—"
Harry found himself smiling despite the knot of anxiety in his stomach.
Breakfast passed in a blur.
The Great Hall looked different in daylight. Less mysterious, perhaps, but no less impressive. Morning sunlight streamed through the towering windows, turning the floating candles into pale golden stars. Students filled the tables from end to end, their conversations blending together into a constant sea of voices.
Harry could barely taste his food.
Every other minute, his gaze darted back to the professors' table, growing more and more nervous with every glance. He wasn't built for this sort of thing, anticipation, but lucky for him, Professor McGonagall soon rose from her seat and crossed the hall in long, purposeful strides. Harry immediately sat up straighter.
"Mr Evans."
His fork nearly slipped from his fingers.
McGonagall inclined her head toward the entrance.
"Miss Granger is already waiting."
"That is the other winner, right?" Harry asked, rising from his seat. "We're doing our assessments together."
"Indeed. Miss Granger, like yourself, must complete hers today," McGonagall explained. "To avoid overwhelming our Crown Scholars, these assessments are conducted individually. The other students completed theirs in large groups over a few days, but we find a quieter environment more appropriate under your circumstances."
They stepped out of the hall and, as expected, found a girl waiting outside with three books clutched to her chest and a notebook thick enough to battle the dark curls spilling around her shoulders. She, too, wore her standard uniform, though she had opted for a skirt instead of trousers. Despite the early hour, she looked delighted and ready for the day.
"Good morning," Hermione said.
"Morning, Miss Granger. Now come along, you two."
The corridors were quieter than yesterday. Most students were still at breakfast, leaving the castle strangely peaceful. Their footsteps echoed softly across stone floors as McGonagall led them deeper into the Academy, and, just like yesterday, Harry lost track of their route almost immediately. The Academy seemed determined to operate according to principles entirely separate from geometry, logic be damned.
Their first assessment took place inside a room filled entirely with books—a room so grand, so vast, it could rival the dining hall itself. Every wall was lined with shelves that rose from floor to ceiling in towering rows, overfilled with books that had long since begun spilling onto the floor. Ladders leaned against the shelves at odd angles, while enchanted lanterns drifted lazily through the aisles.
A tiny wizard with silver hair stood waiting beside a desk near the centre of the room.
"Excellent," he said brightly. "Our Crown Scholars! Welcome, welcome. My name is Professor Flitwick."
The academic assessment lasted nearly three hours.
By the end of it, Harry wanted nothing more than to lie down on the floor and let the books consume him. There had been so many questions, most of which he could not find an answer to. History, geography, politics, trade, military strategy, magical theory, law—his head felt like exploding.
When it was finally over, both he and Hermione left their papers at Flitwick's desk before McGonagall swept them away to whatever fresh torment awaited. By midday they had completed history, diplomacy, etiquette theory, and what felt like several hundred pages of written examinations.
Hermione looked elated.
Harry was beginning to suspect she drew her strength directly from academic suffering. Like a vampire, just for schools.
"I'm tired," Harry had said somewhere between assessments three and four, and Hermione had rolled her eyes and punched him lightly in the shoulder.
"Don't be dramatic, Evans."
The final assessment awaited them in the western tower. That part of the Academy was older than most of the castle, quieter. The stone was a little darker, too, the windows narrower, and the higher they climbed, the fewer portraits watched them from the walls.
By the time they finally reached the top, Harry's legs almost folded into each other.
The final staircase opened into a circular chamber awash in afternoon sunlight. Tall windows wrapped around nearly half the room, offering a breathtaking view of the Academy grounds below. From this height, Harry could see the Great Lake glistering in the distance, its surface catching the light like scattered coins, with tiny figures drifting along winding pathways like little ants. The room itself was almost empty, with no desks or shelves—only a polished floor etched with silver lines that curved across the ground in intricate patterns.
Hermione frowned immediately.
"Professor?" she asked, looking around. "Where is the examiner?"
McGonagall closed the door behind them, the heavy click echoing through the room.
"That," she said calmly, setting a leather folder on a nearby table, "would be me."
Somewhere far below, a bell rang.
"I'm sorry?"
McGonagall looked entirely unbothered by her confusion. "The magical aptitude assessment is traditionally conducted by the First Magister."
Yeah, right.
Makes sense.
"The Academy values discipline—precision and control, the ability to accomplish a desired result with the least amount of force required." She paused briefly. "Anyone can destroy something. The challenge lies in understanding how not to."
From a cupboard by the table, she retrieved three objects and arranged them in a neat row. Then, she turned towards Hermione.
"Miss Granger," she said. "Light the feather."
After an hour, Harry decided that he would give up on magic.
Hermione had struggled with a few tasks at the beginning, but managed to complete them successfully in the end. But with Harry? Nothing moved, absolutely nothing. The feather refused to cooperate, the candle produced barely any smoke, and the potted plant's brief and tragic existence was something Harry ought to forget. Not because he killed the poor thing with a magic beam, but because he stumbled against the table and sent it crashing to the floor.
By every reasonable measure, he had just spent an hour proving himself catastrophically unsuited for magic, and yet Professor McGonagall had not looked disappointed once. If anything, she seemed to grow more attentive with every failure.
At last came the crystal.
Professor McGonagall rested a hand against the table beside it.
"This measures magical potential," she explained. "The crystal itself is considerably older than the Academy. It was once a Potter family heirloom, passed down through generations.
"When James Potter ascended to the throne, he gifted it to the Academy. He believed it would serve a greater purpose here than gathering dust in a family vault." For a brief moment, something almost fond softened her expression. "For decades, it has helped us assess magic."
This time, Harry was first.
"Just place your hand on it."
The crystal itself looked disappointingly ordinary. It wasn't glowing, there were no engraved runes, no dramatic burst of light leaking from its surface. It sat quietly within its silver stand, clear as water and roughly the size of a child's head.
"Go on," McGonagall said. "It won't bite."
Harry obeyed, and for a moment, absolutely nothing happened.
What came first was disappointment. He had spent the entire afternoon failing to move so much as a feather, and he realized with painful certainty that he possessed the magic aptitude of a damp sock.
The truth stung. In a world seemingly filled with magic, he remained ordinary. One of the few incapable of wielding it. Even here, he turned out to be exactly what the Dursleys had always told him he was:
A failure.
But then the scar on his forehead began to burn.
It didn't ache, nor prickle or throb.
No, it burned.
Harry tried to jerk away immediately, but the pain hit like a blow to the skull. His vision went white, a million lights bursting behind his eyes, yet his hand remained pressed against the crystal. Beneath his palm, something stirred awake—as though an ancient machine, dormant for centuries, had finally found its key.
A second later, the first window shattered.
Hermione gasped and stumbled backwards, and Harry spun towards the noise just in time to see fragments of glass exploding outward, glistening in rays of sunshine like scattered diamonds. Before he could process what had happened, a second window burst apart. Then a third, then a fourth.
The silver lines embedded in the floor ignited one after another, pulses of light racing through them like lightning through veins. The crystal beneath Harry's hand erupted in blinding white brilliance—in pure, unbreakable power flooding through the room, through him, so quickly Harry couldn't tell where he began and the walls ended.
Even the air seemed to scream; there was no other word for it.
The sound tore through the chamber, vibrating in his bones. Somewhere behind him, Hermione cried out his name. Harry tried to pull away, tried to tear his hand from the crystal, but it felt as though the magic had wound itself around his wrist and anchored him in place.
Panic hit him all at once.
He wasn't controlling this—he wasn't doing this.
And somehow, that made it worse.
Whatever had awakened inside the crystal didn't care what he wanted. It didn't care that he was scared.
"Professor—"
The rest of the sentence vanished beneath another explosion, a crack racing across the ceiling. Stone dust rained downward, and somewhere outside, beyond the towering walls, bells began to ring.
For the first time since Harry had met Professor McGonagall, her composure cracked, and her wand appeared so quickly he never saw her draw it. One moment her hands were empty, the next a wall of blue-white magic erupted between him and the rest of the chamber.
The effect was immediate, and the destruction ceased spreading.
But it did nothing to stop the power surging from Harry in violent waves, now slamming against invisible walls rather than the room itself. The barrier curved around him and the crystal like a translucent bubble, its shimmering shell quivering with every impact. Each pulse struck it hard enough to send ripples racing through the magic surface, and the entire structure groaned beneath the strain.
"Mr Evans," she said sharply. "Look at me."
Harry did.
"Take your hand off the crystal."
"I can't."
And for the first time since Harry had known her, something else besides her carefully taught neutrality flashed across her face.
It vanished almost immediately, but not before Harry caught it.
Alarm.
She raised her wand once more.
"Forgive me, Mr Evans."
The spell hit him hard in the chest, and the crystal shattered. Harry stumbled backwards as the light burst free, flooding every corner of the chamber in a breathtaking surge of color. Crimson and gold, imbued in sapphire and emerald—molten and luminous, they washed across every surface until the entire room seemed hewn from living light.
Someone said his name, but he was so, so far away.
Was it Hermione? McGonagall?
He tried to answer, but the sound lodged itself somewhere between his chest and throat, dying before it could ever reach his lips. Something moved, again, and the voice that reached his ear felt muffled, as though travelling through mountains of cotton and wool.
"Get the Headmaster," the voice said, and it sounded grave, serious. "Now."
A pause, and then—
"And send for the Lord Regent, too."