Beside the fireplace, Ian and Harry sat facing each other.
Harry leaned slightly forward on the sofa, his hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before he placed them neatly on his knees, unsure of where else to put them.
Ian pushed the cup of hot tea served by Pudding toward him.
Steam curled gently from the rim, carrying a fresh, cooling hint of peppermint.
Harry picked up the hot tea and took a small sip.
It tasted slightly bitter at first, but left a crisp, sweet aftertaste that instantly refreshed his spirits.
Seeing this, Ian smiled, taking his own cup and blowing lightly on the surface.
“I got this from an old friend.
Not bad, is it?” Harry nodded repeatedly and took another sip.
It was obvious he genuinely liked the taste, which pleased Ian—after all, it meant they shared at least one common preference.
Taking advantage of the pleasant atmosphere, Ian decided to strike while the iron was hot.
“Harry, are you curious about why I insisted on bringing you here—or rather, whether taking you away from your aunt’s house was a bit cruel?” Harry remained silent at the question, simply lowering his head and quietly sipping his tea.
Ian’s words had struck directly at the heart of his greatest confusion.
Harry didn’t dislike Ian; in fact, he felt remarkably close to him.
They shared blood, possessed the same magical talent, and so far, Harry felt that this uncle had treated him genuinely well.
Yet it was precisely because Ian treated him too well that Harry felt a quiet thread of unease.
His upbringing had left him craving family affection while remaining deeply guarded against the world around him.
If he couldn’t get a straight answer from Ian, he likely wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight.
Ian understood this perfectly well.
He smiled once more, though this time out of quiet satisfaction at Harry’s vigilance.
“Good.
Keep that sense of caution toward everyone you meet—even those closest to you!” A flash of approval glinted in the depths of Ian’s eyes as he shifted the topic.
“We walked quite a bit today.
Are you tired?” “A little,” Harry answered honestly, though his eyes shone bright.
“But it was completely worth it.
The wand, the robes, Hedwig…
and this house.” He looked around the space, his tone laced with disbelief.
“I never imagined I’d ever live in a place like this.” “This is your home from now on,” Ian said, setting down his cup, his voice steady and calm.
“You can use any room you like—except the underground library.
The books stored down there are a bit…
special, and not quite suitable for you just yet.” “I won’t wander around places I shouldn’t,” Harry promised hastily.
Then, remembering something, he hesitated before voicing his doubt.
“That house-elf…
Pudding, why did she act like that?” Ian’s expression turned somewhat complex, a mixture of lingering emotion and somber melancholy.
After a moment’s thought, he explained, “House-elves are magical creatures.
They were defeated in an ancient war against wizards, and the ancient wizards cast mind-altering magic upon them, turning them into slaves.” When Harry heard this, his initial confusion gave way to a surge of quiet horror.
Words like “war,” “mind-altering,” and “slaves” struck his mind like heavy blows.
The bright, wonderful images he had seen in Diagon Alley earlier that day suddenly felt distorted and warped.
Harry had never imagined that the magical world, for all its beauty, could be so cruel.
Watching the dramatic shift in Harry’s expression, Ian nodded silently in approval.
This was precisely the reaction he wanted.
Ian held no prejudice against house-elves; he viewed them merely as workers.
Though their mindset was severely warped, their working capabilities were beyond question.
If using this could help Harry recognize the darker side of the world early on, Ian considered it well worth the lesson.
The original storybooks were, after all, written for young readers, painting the magical world in generally lighthearted colors.
But Ian knew better: this world wasn’t just made of black and white—it was filled with invisible shades of gray.
Did people really think going to Hogwarts meant just fooling around happily, cramming for exams at the end of the term, and walking away with a diploma?
Wrong!
Completely wrong!
Hogwarts was merely a microcosm of the wizarding world.
Did anyone honestly believe the Slytherins, raised under the influence of pure-blood families, were all sweet, innocent children?
That would be utterly naive.
Back when Ian attended school, Slytherin was known as a recruiting ground for Death Eaters.
And Gryffindor wasn’t without its issues either—a bunch of little troublemakers who spent their days breaking school rules.
Once those habits hardened into second nature, it was glaringly obvious what paths they would tread after graduation.
Of course, nothing was absolute—take Sirius Black, for instance, who had come from the pure-blood Black family and ended up running with a pack of lions.
Still, every parent wished for their child to grow up well.
Seeing Harry struggling to process the heavy truth, Ian offered a gentle word of comfort: “Harry, these are things determined by society as a whole.
All we need to do is stay true to ourselves.
Tell me, would you ever treat Pudding like a slave?” Harry shook his head instantly.
“So, keep your true heart, and work hard to grow strong!” “If you are strong enough, you can change all of this!” Ian seized the opportunity to instill his core philosophy, refusing to let Harry coast through his seven years at Hogwarts as a carefree bystander.
Harry remained silent, simply nodding along.
Ian didn’t push the matter further, standing up from his seat instead.
“Come on, let me show you to your room.
I think you’ll like it.” Harry nodded silently and rose to follow Ian.
They ascended the grand, winding ebony staircase.
Portraits hung along the walls on either side, their occupants seemingly fast asleep, their faint, rhythmic breathing the only proof they weren’t ordinary paintings.
Harry observed them with quiet curiosity, noticing one frame depicting a young girl in “exotic attire” sitting atop a star-tipped staff adorned with pure white wings.
In another frame, an old man with a kindly face looked down at Harry with gentle eyes, offering a warm nod as Harry glanced his way.
“Who are they…?” Harry offered a flustered nod in return, asking in a soft whisper.
“Just some friends,” Ian replied briefly, offering no further explanation.
At the far end of the second-floor corridor, Ian pushed open a heavy oak door.
The room was vast, its walls painted a warm, soft yellow that contrasted sharply with the cold, severe obsidian style downstairs.
A four-poster bed rested by the window, deep green drapes falling smoothly from its canopy.
A desk, a wardrobe, and a bookshelf were all neatly arranged, but the most striking feature was the magnificent arched window.
It looked directly out over the scenery of Godric’s Hollow, where the lingering glow of the setting sun painted the distant mountains in shades of molten gold and red.
Standing at the doorway, Harry almost didn’t dare step inside.
He fell in love with the room at first sight, looking at Ian in utter disbelief.
“Is this…
for me?” “Of course!” Ian clapped him gently on the shoulder with a smile.
“Go on, take a look.” Harry walked slowly into the room.
On the desk sat his newly purchased textbooks, parchment, and quills, all arranged in neat order.
On a low table by the window, Hedwig swayed her head gently inside her cage, her amber eyes fixed fondly on Harry.
He walked over to the window, resting his fingers against the cool glass as he looked out at the twinkling lights scattered across the valley below.
“You can see the whole valley from here,” Ian said, stepping up beside him.
“In the summer, the valley is covered in blue larkspurs.
In the winter, when it snows, the view is even more beautiful.” Harry pictured the scene in his mind, a helpless smile curling up the corners of his lips.
Just then, Ian pointed toward the distant square in Godric’s Hollow, where a pointed monument stood, and murmured softly, “Do you see that monument over there?” Harry looked in the direction Ian pointed.
Just as he was about to nod, he realized Ian’s eyes weren’t on him, so he answered quickly, “Yes, I see it!” “That is actually a statue—a statue of a family of three: a young couple holding their newborn baby in their arms,” Ian’s voice drifted into Harry’s ears, tinged with a quiet melancholy.
“Huh?” Realizing something, Harry held his breath.
He widened his eyes, straining his sight toward the pointed monument as if trying to glimpse the couple Ian spoke of.
However, the distance was simply too great; he could only make out the faint, blurred silhouette of the monument.
Ian’s voice was barely a whisper, as if afraid of disturbing the evening peace of the valley.
“It was built in memory of your parents, James and Lily.” “Muggles only see a pointed monument.
Only wizards who walk right up to it can see its true form.” Harry’s fingers gripped the windowsill tightly, his knuckles turning slightly white.
Harry had never seen his mother or father—he didn’t even possess a single photograph of them, and had no idea what they looked like.
Yet right now, Harry felt they were so close to him—and yet so impossibly far.
“Can…
can I go see it?” Harry turned his head, his eyes shining with a mixture of intense longing and anxious hesitation.
Ian gave a gentle nod, resting a hand lightly on Harry’s shoulder.
“I’ll take you tomorrow.
You’re tired today, so get some rest first.” “I think Lily would want nothing more than to watch over her boy on his birthday.” Ian’s words completely shattered Harry’s emotional defenses.
Unable to hold back any longer, his vision blurred into a watery haze.
Harry tried to wipe the tears away, but they spilled over uncontrollably, quickly soaking his sleeve.
Even so, Harry kept his eyes fixed stubbornly on the distant monument, as if he could never look enough.
Ian let out a soft sigh, patted the boy on the shoulder, and turned to leave the room, leaving behind a quiet farewell: “Happy birthday, Harry.” Harry hardly noticed Ian’s departure.
He simply stood before the window, quietly gazing at the monument in the distance.
And the monument stood silently in the center of the square, as if watching over him with gentle, enduring warmth.
Meanwhile, Ian stepped out of the room.
His life experiences were far richer than Harry’s; though he felt sorrow and regret over Lily’s passing, he remained calm and rational enough to face it.
The best thing he could do now was track down Voldemort and send him to join Lily—though he suspected Lily wouldn’t be particularly thrilled to see the Dark Lord.
Occupied with stray thoughts, Ian made his way down the stairs, descending into the basement until he came to a stop before a heavy door etched with intricate, complex runes.
Ian drew his wand, tapping it against the door while chanting an obscure, ancient incantation under his breath.
As his voice echoed through the passage, the intricate runes on the door began to glide like swift fish, shifting and rearranging themselves.
By the time Ian finished his incantation, the runes locked seamlessly into their new configuration.
Click!
A sharp mechanism sound unlocked the door, and it slowly swung open.
Ian tucked his wand away and stepped inside with long strides.