25 July 1991
“So… slowly. I’m a wizard,”
Harry said
“Yes, Harry.”
“And… you’re… my da—my father?” “Yes,” James answered with a tight smile.
“So where is… my mother?” “She’s already at Hogwarts. She’s the new Professor of Muggle Studies and is still setting up her classroom. She wanted to be here, but…” James’s voice trailed off awkwardly.
Harry kept his eyes fixed on the untouched bowl of Fortescue’s ice cream in front of him.
He had barely spoken to this man since James had appeared at the Dursleys’ door that morning to deliver the impossible news: his parents were alive, they were witches and wizards, and he had a twin brother he had never heard of.
James had been furious to learn how the Dursleys had raised him—telling him his parents were dead and that he knew nothing of the magical world.
Petunia’s vicious reply had cut his tirade short: “He would have learned the truth years ago if his parents had loved him enough to visit even once!”
Of course, it had been Petunia who originally demanded they stay away when the healers declared Harry a squib.
Still, the words had stung.
Now James watched his eldest son with visible nervousness.
Harry looked so much smaller and frailer than his twin.
Between them sat the melting bowl of ice cream the boy refused to touch.
Staring at it was preferable to looking at the father who had abandoned him.
After a long silence, Harry finally asked the question James had been dreading.
“Why?” James swallowed hard.
“It was… necessary.
Your brother, Jim, is special.
He was chosen by prophecy to defeat a powerful dark wizard.
We don’t speak his name—You-Know-Who.
Jim destroyed him that night and saved all our lives.
He even survived the Killing Curse.
Everyone calls him the Boy-Who-Lived.
He can’t walk down the street without people bowing and scraping.
We were worried you might grow jealous.
The healers were certain you were a squib—someone born to magical parents with no magic of their own.
As a squib, you would have been a target for You-Know-Who’s followers with no way to defend yourself.
So Dumbledore—he’s the Headmaster at Hogwarts and leader of the opposition—suggested we send you to live with your aunt and uncle.
That way you could grow up in the Muggle world.
We didn’t even know you were a wizard until Hogwarts sent your letter.”
“My letter. Right.” Harry’s tone was deceptively mild.
“Did you happen to notice the address?”
James blinked, caught off guard by the odd question.
“Not particularly. I already knew where you lived—Number Four, Privet Drive. Why?”
Harry ignored him.
“So what happens now? Will I be moving in with you, or am I going back to the Dursleys when I’m not at school?”
James sighed.
“Dumbledore placed strong wards around the Dursley house to keep your location secret. You’re safer there, at least until you graduate and can protect yourself. But I promise, once things settle down, we’ll have you over. We can start getting reacquainted as a family.”
Harry finally lifted his head and met his father’s eyes.
For a brief moment James flinched.
He had always thought Harry had Lily’s eyes, but these were brighter, sharper—vivid green, the exact shade of the Killing Curse.
“Harry Potter,” the boy said quietly.
“The Cupboard Under the Stairs. Four Privet Drive, Surrey. Are you really sending me back to the Dursleys so they can lock me in the boot cupboard again?”
James’s mouth opened and closed like a fish.
He had suspected mistreatment from Petunia’s shrieks of “freak,” but a cupboard?
“Harry, I’m… Merlin, I’m so sorry. We’ll speak to them. We’ll make sure they treat you better from now on.”
Harry remained silent.
Then he slid the untouched bowl of ice cream to the center of the table.
“I’m finished eating. We should go buy my school supplies now.” He stood and walked toward the exit without looking back.
At Madam Malkin’s, where James insisted on purchasing an entire new wardrobe, Harry encountered an enthusiastic red-headed boy who wouldn’t stop talking about how he had to be sorted into Gryffindor—where all his brothers had gone and where the Boy-Who-Lived was sure to end up.
The fact that he was standing right next to a smaller, quieter version of the famous Boy-Who-Lived completely escaped him.
Harry offered a noncommittal grunt and left without learning the boy’s name.
At Ollivander’s, after dozens of failed attempts, the old wandmaker finally presented Harry with a holly and phoenix feather wand.
“Curious,” Ollivander murmured.
“I’m not surprised,” Harry interrupted, eager to be done.
“It is a magic wand. That’s about as curious as it gets. Anything you recommend to go with it?” He left the shop with a polishing kit, a wrist holster, and a book on wand lore.
At Flourish and Blotts, James told Harry to buy whatever he wanted and charge it to the family account while he ran a quick errand at Gringotts.
Harry took full advantage: every book on the Hogwarts list, plus every title the shopkeeper recommended for a Muggle-raised student, and every halfway reliable book about the Boy-Who-Lived.
At Eeylops Owl Emporium, James insisted he get an owl.
“That way you can stay in touch with us next summer while you’re at the Dursleys.” Harry simply stared at him until James grew uncomfortable.
Finally, Harry chose a beautiful snowy owl and named her Hedwig.
He also arranged an owl-post account at Flourish and Blotts for future book orders.
As they left, Harry asked whether wizards could talk to their owls or any other animals.
“Generally no,” James replied.
“The only creatures wizards can speak with are snakes. It’s called Parseltongue. Only Parselmouths can do it, and it’s considered a sign of a Dark wizard. You-Know-Who was one.”
“Well,” Harry said quietly, remembering his conversation with the boa constrictor at the zoo, “that’s good to know.”
James bought him an expandable trunk and a mokeskin pouch, along with an allowance of ten galleons a week—an extravagant sum that would magicall y replenish itself.
Harry accepted it all in silence.
Back at Privet Drive, James had a long, sharp conversation with the Dursleys.
Threats were made.
The Potters had been paying them to care for Harry all these years; if they failed to treat him properly, the money would be reclaimed—along with the house, whose mortgage the Potters had covered.
Harry would move out of the cupboard and into Dudley’s second bedroom.
There would be no more chores.
Harry considered that excellent news.
He had every intention of spending his days reading.
As James was leaving, he asked Harry to step onto the front porch for a private goodbye.
“Listen, son… I can’t tell you how sorry I am about all this. We should have checked on you sooner. We shouldn’t have trusted Petunia and Vernon so completely. But I promise—we’ll get through this. We’ll be a family again.”
Harry gave him that unsettling, steady stare.
“Do you really believe that?” “You bet, kiddo.”
Harry was quiet for a moment.
Then he spoke, voice flat:
“They told me you were both dead. That you were a drunk who lived on the dole. That my mother sold herself to buy drugs for both of you. That the two of you died in a car crash while drunk and high, and I barely survived.”
James looked at the door of Number Four Privet Drive as if he could set it ablaze with his gaze.
“Those were lies, Harry. Filthy, awful lies.”
“I know. I’ve always known they were lying about you and Mum. But I never imagined there would come a day when I’d wish they’d been telling the truth.”
With that, Harry turned and walked inside, slamming the door in his father’s face.