The sun was beginning its slow descent over Privet Drive, casting golden hues across the neatly trimmed lawns and identical, prim houses. The faint hum of lawnmowers and the occasional bark of a dog floated through the still, suburban air. The Dursleys' house, as pristine and orderly as ever, stood as a monument to their carefully cultivated normalcy. The hedges were perfectly manicured, the garden gnomes suspiciously polished, and not a single stray leaf dared to linger on their spotless walkway.
But beyond its flawless exterior, something had changed.
Inside Number 4, the uneasy truce between Harry Potter and the Dursleys had been established—an unspoken agreement, forged the day he returned from Diagon Alley. It was neither warm nor friendly, but it was sufficient.
Vernon Dursley, his walrus-like mustache twitching with thinly veiled distaste, had glowered at Harry when he first stepped through the door, still wearing his wizarding robes. But one look at the wand in his hand—and the faint crackle of power in the air when Harry's gaze narrowed slightly—had been enough to quell any desire for confrontation. Petunia, for her part, had remained stiff and pale, clutching at her tea towel with white-knuckled fingers, and Dudley had scuttled away as if Harry were a wild animal prone to lash out.
But no words were exchanged. There were no questions, no sneers, no attempts to force him back into the cupboard under the stairs. Just silence and stiff nods.
That evening, Vernon had called for a "family meeting." Harry was deliberately left out, of course, but with his enhanced magical senses, eavesdropping was effortless. From his place in the spare bedroom—formerly Dudley's second room, now his own—Harry leaned casually against the windowsill, easily catching every word spoken downstairs.
"—we'll not have any of his freakishness in this house, Petunia!" Vernon's voice was a low hiss, trying and failing to mask his frustration. "I won't have it! Not in front of Dudley."
Petunia, always pale and thin, sounded strangely resigned. "We can't do anything about it, Vernon," she murmured softly. "You saw what he did. You felt it." Her voice trembled slightly. "He could turn us into—toads or—bats with a flick of his hand. Just... leave him be. Let him do what he wants."
There was a long, tense pause. Harry could practically hear Vernon grinding his teeth.
"Fine," Vernon finally spat. "But he stays out of our way. We'll have nothing to do with him. He doesn't eat with us, doesn't talk to us, and he keeps his—his nonsense out of our sight."
Harry's lips curved into a sardonic smile. He stepped away from the window, his amusement lingering. That's more than fair.
The next morning, the terms of their unspoken deal were officially laid out. Vernon had cornered him by the stairs, puffing out his chest in an attempt at intimidation, though his eyes flickered with caution.
"We'll leave you alone. You leave us alone," he said gruffly, his eyes narrowing. "No funny business. No—magic. You keep your head down, and we'll pretend you don't exist."
Harry met his gaze levelly, feeling no need to argue or threaten. He simply inclined his head. "Agreed."
And just like that, the Dursleys ceased to be a part of his life. They avoided him altogether. Petunia and Dudley scurried away whenever he entered a room, and Vernon made a point of turning sharply on his heel to avoid crossing his path. It was almost as though Harry were a ghost haunting the house—there, but unnoticed.
It suited him perfectly.
Harry's new bedroom was Dudley's former spare room—once overflowing with broken toys, neglected exercise equipment, and long-forgotten birthday gifts. The bed was small but comfortable, and there was a cracked wooden desk in the corner by the window.
But Harry was far from content with its mediocrity.
The moment the Dursleys retreated to their nightly television routine, he locked the door with a casual flick of his fingers and set to work. Wandlessly, he expanded the room, stretching the dimensions until it was easily twice its original size. The ceiling arched higher, giving it a sense of spaciousness, and the walls shifted outward, creating room for a personal library and a study area.
With another gesture, the peeling wallpaper vanished, replaced by rich, velvety charcoal-gray walls adorned with swirling, silver runes—enchanted to absorb sound and prevent anyone from eavesdropping.
The bed was transformed into a large four-poster, draped with soft, forest-green curtains that could be drawn for privacy. The plain wooden floor shifted into smooth mahogany planks, and a plush emerald carpet spread across the room, muting his footsteps.
At the far end of the room, a sleek wooden bookcase appeared, already filled with the books he had bought from Flourish and Blotts. He added a reading chair—charmed for comfort—near the window, where he could watch the sunset as he read.
The desk, once rickety and uneven, transformed into a refined mahogany writing table, with drawers charmed to expand endlessly to hold his materials.
Finally, with a final snap of his fingers, a fireplace appeared along the far wall, the flames enchanted with a self-regulating charm to burn with a comforting warmth, but without smoke.
Harry stood back, surveying his work. His once-cramped and dingy room was now a luxurious personal sanctuary—elegant, cozy, and entirely his own. He sank into the reading chair with a satisfied sigh, stretching out his legs and closing his eyes.
Over the following days, Harry spent much of his time reading through his newly purchased books, eager to reacquaint himself with modern magical theory. He quickly discovered, much to his dismay, that the field of magic had stagnated significantly in the eight centuries he had been gone.
The theories and practices were... archaic. Most of the spells were simplistic by his standards, relying heavily on wands and incantations rather than raw intent or controlled willpower. Arithmancy, once a highly experimental and evolving field in his time, was now reduced to basic number charts and predictive patterns. The study of Runes—once a profound art of dimensional carving and ward-weaving—was now taught at a surface level, with students barely scratching the depths of their potential.
He shook his head in mild disappointment as he skimmed through The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. The Wand-Lighting Charm and Levitation Charm were considered advanced spells for first-years, which Harry found laughably simplistic.
By the third day, Harry was practicing wandless magic without a second thought—summoning books from across the room, transfiguring objects into birds and back again with a mere glance. He conjured cushions, manipulated flames with delicate precision, and animated quills to scribble notes with absentminded flicks of his hand.
When he grew bored, he amused himself by practicing subtle forms of elemental magic—making the air ripple with heat, pulling tiny droplets of water from the atmosphere, or sending faint tremors through the floorboards.
And all the while, the Dursleys remained blissfully unaware.
The days at Privet Drive fell into a quiet, monotonous rhythm—perfectly dull for the Dursleys, but surprisingly comfortable for Harry.
The so-called "family" that had once sneered and scowled at him now gave him a wide berth, unwilling to risk his magic. Petunia kept her eyes firmly averted when they crossed paths in the hall. Vernon took to pretending Harry didn't exist, grunting in irritation whenever their paths accidentally crossed. Even Dudley, once eager to taunt and shove Harry around, now refused to so much as glance in his direction. If anything, he seemed permanently nervous—jumping at the slightest sound when Harry was near, as though expecting to be hexed at any moment.
Harry, for his part, enjoyed the peaceful indifference. No shouting. No chores. No insults. He had his own space, free from interruption, and he could come and go as he pleased without a single complaint. It was almost... amusing.
But the highlight of his summer was not the newfound independence from the Dursleys—it was his regular hangouts with Hermione Granger.
Hermione's house, a charming two-story brick home with large windows and a tidy garden, was located only a few streets away. The first time Harry visited after returning from Diagon Alley, she had greeted him at the door with an excited grin, her bushy brown hair pulled into a messy ponytail and her face lighting up with warmth.
"Harry!" she had beamed, pulling him into a brief, enthusiastic hug before dragging him inside.
From then on, their hangouts became routine. It wasn't the first summer they spent together, but it was easily the most enjoyable. They spent hours lounging on the sofa, sprawled out in the sunlit sitting room with books spread out around them, though reading quickly gave way to lively conversations.
Harry found he liked Hermione's house. It was warm and lived-in, filled with little touches of personality—a worn floral couch in the corner, a shelf filled with Muggle novels, and the scent of fresh bread always wafting from the kitchen. It was comfortable and real in a way that the sterile, emotionless atmosphere of the Dursleys' house could never be.
They passed the time playing chess (Harry won more often, much to Hermione's chagrin), solving crossword puzzles, and watching Muggle television shows. Hermione's parents, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were both dentists, were incredibly welcoming. They quickly grew fond of Harry, often fussing over him with parental warmth. Mrs. Granger would bring them plates of sandwiches and cold lemonade while Mr. Granger—a tall man with kind eyes and a perpetually bemused smile—offered snacks and the occasional dry joke.
Though Harry had spent years around nobles, warriors, and kings, he found something unexpectedly refreshing in the simplicity of the Granger household. They were genuine—without agenda, without any need to impress. They simply liked having him around.
It was during one of their usual hangout sessions, just a few weeks after his trip to Diagon Alley, that Harry began to suspect something was amiss.
Hermione glanced at Harry occasionally, chewing on her lower lip. She had been oddly fidgety all day, her fingers tapping restlessly against her notebook and her gaze occasionally flickering toward him with indecision.
After several minutes of prolonged silence, Harry's eyes narrowed slightly.
"You're twitching," he remarked without looking up from the book.
Hermione froze mid-tap, startled.
"Am not," she protested, though her fingers immediately stilled.
Harry smirked. "You've been at it for the past half-hour." He finally glanced up, tilting his head slightly. "Something on your mind?"
For a moment, Hermione hesitated, clearly caught off guard. She stared at him for several seconds, her eyes conflicted—then she quickly shook her head.
"No. It's nothing," she mumbled, returning to her notebook.
Harry arched a brow, unconvinced, but let it slide. He knew her well enough by now to recognize when she wasn't ready to talk.
Instead, he returned to leafing through his book, occasionally pausing to glance out the window where sunlight filtered through the tree leaves, casting gentle, dappled patterns against the wall.
Minutes passed in companionable silence, but Hermione's distracted expression didn't escape Harry's notice. Her sketching became increasingly absent-minded, and she seemed to be gathering her thoughts, clearly working up the nerve to say something.
Finally, with a soft sigh, Hermione spoke, her voice casual but too deliberate.
"Hey... I, um... I forgot to mention," she began, her eyes fixed firmly on her notebook. "I'll be leaving for boarding school in Scotland soon."
Harry immediately glanced up, mildly surprised.
"Boarding school?" he repeated.
She nodded, avoiding his gaze. "Yeah. I got into this... special school. Scholarship program, actually. Starts on the first of September."
Harry's eyes narrowed slightly, but he made sure to keep his expression neutral.
"First of September, huh?" he repeated casually. "Scotland, you say?"
Hermione nodded quickly, still not meeting his eyes. "Yeah. I'll be away most of the year."
To anyone else, the information would have seemed innocuous—a regular, believable announcement about schooling. But Harry immediately recognized the coincidences.
First of September. Scotland. That can't be right.
His sharp mind, honed by centuries of wisdom, quickly pieced it together. He casually stretched out his magic, allowing it to brush lightly against Hermione's presence—something he had never thought to do before. To his surprise, he felt faint but unmistakable traces of magical energy lingering around her.
His gaze sharpened fractionally.
She's magical.
For the briefest of moments, Harry's heart stuttered. Somehow, despite their years of friendship, he had never considered the possibility. Hermione had always been brilliant, but he had attributed her intelligence and quick thinking to sheer talent and effort. He had never checked to see if she possessed magical potential.
The realization brought an odd warmth to his chest—a mixture of surprise, joy, and a strange sense of fate.
She'll be going to Hogwarts.
A sly grin tugged at the corner of Harry's mouth, though he quickly smothered it, opting to play along.
"Funny thing," he said lightly, closing the book and setting it aside. "I'm heading to a boarding school in Scotland too. Starts on the first of September, just like yours."
Hermione froze mid-sketch, her fingers tightening around her pencil.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze, her eyes narrowing slightly.
"Really?" she asked suspiciously.
"Yeah," Harry replied smoothly, tilting his head slightly. "Fancy that. What are the odds, huh?"
Hermione's eyes narrowed further, clearly recognizing the teasing glint in his eyes. She studied him for a moment, her sharp intellect analyzing the subtle clues.
"Harry... are you messing with me?" she asked carefully, her voice half-accusing.
Harry feigned confusion, giving her his most innocent expression.
"Messing with you?" he echoed innocently. "I'm just saying it's a weird coincidence, is all."
Hermione leaned forward slightly, her brows drawing together in suspicion.
Her eyes flickered with realization.
"Wait..." she muttered softly, her voice trailing off as she stared at him.
For a brief moment, she seemed lost in thought, her brows furrowing deeply. Harry could practically see the gears turning in her mind as she slowly connected the dots.
First of September. Scotland. Boarding school.
And then, she clicked.
Her eyes widened suddenly, her hand flying to her mouth.
"Wait a second," she gasped softly, her voice barely above a whisper. "You... you're going to Hogwarts, aren't you?"
Harry's lips curved into a mischievous smile, but he didn't confirm it just yet.
Hermione's eyes narrowed slightly, her sharp mind working quickly, and then her face drained of color.
Her lips parted slightly, her voice barely audible.
"Oh..." she whispered, her eyes locking onto his with sudden, wide-eyed clarity. "Oh my god."
Her breath caught, and she stared at him as though seeing him for the first time, her eyes flicking to the faint lightning-bolt scar partially concealed by his hair.
Her voice trembled slightly as the realization fully struck her.
"You're... you're Harry Potter," she whispered.
The words hung in the air, and for a moment, neither of them spoke.
The boy she had spent years with, the one who never talked about his parents, the one who had always brushed aside questions about his past with casual evasions—he was the Harry Potter.
The Boy Who Lived.
The child who had defeated Voldemort.
Suddenly, everything made sense. The secrecy. The lack of details about his family.
Hermione's hands slowly lowered from her face, her eyes locked onto his. She let out a soft, shaky laugh—part disbelief, part wonder.
"All this time," she breathed. "And you never told me."
Harry offered a lopsided grin, though his eyes softened slightly.
"Did it really matter?" he asked quietly.
Hermione stared at him for a moment longer, then suddenly launched herself at him, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug.
"You idiot," she mumbled into his shoulder, her voice thick with emotion. "You could have told me."
Harry smiled faintly, gently patting her back, though he remained silent.
When she finally pulled back, her eyes were shining. She gave him a watery smile before playfully swatting his arm.
"You're insufferable," she muttered.
Harry chuckled softly.
"You'll get used to it."
When Mr. and Mrs. Granger came outside and learned that Harry would be attending Hogwarts too, they were overjoyed, clapping Harry on the back and hugging Hermione excitedly.
That evening, the Granger household was filled with laughter and celebration, and Harry knew, without a doubt, that he had found something precious in their bond.
The remaining weeks of summer slipped by quickly, each day bringing Harry closer to the start of his new life at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The sunlit days were filled with easy camaraderie at Hermione's house, while the evenings were spent either practicing magic in the solitude of his enchanted bedroom or relaxing under the stars in the Grangers' backyard, talking about nothing and everything with Hermione.
As September 1st finally dawned, Harry and Hermione were brimming with excitement.
The morning was crisp and clear when Harry arrived at the Grangers' house, his trunk shrunken into a pocket-sized cube tucked safely into his jacket. Hedwig's cage, however, remained its normal size, and the snowy owl hooted softly as Harry approached the door.
Mrs. Granger greeted him with a warm smile, her apron dusted with flour from the breakfast preparations, while Mr. Granger gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder.
"Harry!" Mrs. Granger beamed. "Come in, dear. Hermione's almost ready."
As Harry stepped inside, he found Hermione bounding down the stairs, a bright grin on her face. She was wearing casual Muggle clothes—jeans and a sweater—her hair pulled into a neat ponytail. She was clearly bursting with excitement, practically vibrating with barely contained energy.
"Morning!" she greeted breathlessly, her eyes shining.
Harry smirked. "Morning. Someone's eager."
"You have no idea," she declared with a grin.
As they waited for Mr. and Mrs. Granger to finish packing a few last-minute items, Harry and Hermione chatted animatedly, making last-minute predictions about what Hogwarts would be like.
"Do you think we'll have to fight trolls for extra credit?" Harry teased, his eyes twinkling.
Hermione gave him a mock-stern look, though her lips twitched in amusement.
"Don't be ridiculous," she chided, crossing her arms. "Hogwarts is a school, not some medieval adventure camp."
Harry chuckled softly but made no comment. She had no idea.
Soon, Mr. Granger's voice called from the doorway.
"Ready, you two?"
Hermione let out a delighted squeak, grabbing Harry's arm. "Let's go!"
The drive to King's Cross Station was filled with light conversation and laughter.
Mrs. Granger, clearly emotional about her daughter leaving home, kept glancing back at Hermione through the rearview mirror, her eyes brimming with maternal affection.
"You'll write often, won't you, dear?" she asked, her voice just a touch wobbly.
Hermione rolled her eyes affectionately. "Mum, I'll be back for Christmas."
Mrs. Granger sniffed. "I know, I know... but still."
Harry watched the exchange with a faint smile, feeling a small pang of warmth at the family's dynamic. It was such a sharp contrast to his own relatives, who probably hadn't even noticed he was gone.
He turned to Mr. Granger, who was focused on the road but still glancing at them with a smile.
"Don't you worry, Mr. Granger," Harry said with a reassuring grin. "I'll make sure Hermione doesn't get into too much trouble."
Hermione shot him a mock glare, swatting his arm lightly.
"Excuse me? You'll be the one causing trouble, not me."
"Me?" Harry asked innocently. "Why, I'm the picture of responsibility."
Hermione snorted, while Mr. Granger chuckled in the front seat.
The car eventually merged into the busy London traffic, weaving toward King's Cross Station. The closer they got, the more Harry felt a subtle hum of magic in the air. Even through the metal and concrete of Muggle London, he could sense the faint presence of the hidden magical platform.
As they pulled into the station's crowded car park, Mrs. Granger turned in her seat, giving Hermione a long, searching look.
"Do you have everything, darling? Books? Robes? Wand?" she asked fretfully.
"Yes, Mum," Hermione reassured her patiently.
Harry stifled a grin as Mrs. Granger fussed over Hermione's scarf before finally sighing and smoothing her daughter's hair with motherly tenderness.
"Alright," Mrs. Granger murmured with a watery smile. "Off you go then."
The four of them entered King's Cross Station, the air thick with the scent of coffee and the clatter of luggage trolleys.
The crowd was thick with bustling commuters and tourists, all of them unaware that a hidden gateway to another world lay mere steps away.
Harry and Hermione pushed their luggage trolleys side by side, their parents walking closely behind.
As they passed by the regular platforms, Mr. Granger glanced at the large, iron numbers on the signs and frowned.
"Platform Nine... Platform Ten..." he muttered. "There's no Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, though."
Mrs. Granger looked just as perplexed, glancing between the signs.
"It's... probably down there somewhere," she said uncertainly.
Harry, having read about the platform in the note included with his Hogwarts letter, turned to Hermione with a sly grin.
"Shall we?"
Her eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion, but she nodded.
He stepped forward, gripping the handle of his trolley, and without hesitation, walked straight toward the brick wall between Platforms Nine and Ten.
Mrs. Granger let out a soft gasp, while Mr. Granger blinked in stunned confusion as Harry seemed to vanish into thin air.
Hermione, her eyes gleaming with excitement, turned to her parents and offered them an encouraging smile.
"I'll be fine," she assured them softly. "I promise."
Mrs. Granger sniffled slightly, cupping Hermione's face in her hands and pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.
"You be careful, alright? And have fun," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly.
Mr. Granger, usually calm and reserved, hugged Hermione tightly, holding her just a little longer than necessary.
"You're going to do brilliantly, pumpkin," he murmured gruffly.
Feeling a lump rise in her throat, Hermione gave her parents one last smile before turning to the wall. She gripped her trolley tightly, inhaled sharply, and with a surge of determination, she walked straight through the barrier.
As Hermione emerged onto the hidden platform, she stumbled slightly, blinking at the sight before her.
The scarlet steam engine of the Hogwarts Express gleamed under the golden sunlight, its massive iron frame casting long shadows across the platform. Plumes of white smoke billowed from its chimney, curling lazily into the bright blue sky.
The platform was bustling with students and their families—parents hugging their children goodbye, older students laughing with their friends, and younger first-years looking around wide-eyed with nervous anticipation.
Harry was waiting for her just a few feet away, leaning casually against a pillar with his hands in his pockets. He grinned when he saw her.
"Welcome to the other side," he teased lightly.
Hermione stared at the train for a moment longer, her eyes wide with awe, before breaking into a delighted smile.
"It's... beautiful," she whispered.
Her eyes flicked back to the barrier, and she caught sight of her parents through the faint shimmer of the magical field, standing on the Muggle side of the station.
Mrs. Granger had tears in her eyes, while Mr. Granger offered a reassuring smile. They both waved enthusiastically, their eyes bright with pride and emotion.
Hermione smiled back, blinking rapidly to hold back her own tears, and waved back at them.
Harry stepped up beside her, his voice low but steady.
"They'll be fine," he said softly. "You'll see them again before you know it."
She took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and nodded.
Together, they turned toward the Hogwarts Express, their footsteps falling into a comfortable rhythm as they walked toward the train, leaving their Muggle lives behind.
The summer had ended. A new chapter was about to begin.
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Anyways, let me know what you all think.
Remember spread Love, not Hate.
With that Author-Kun is signing off.