July had brought pleasant weather to Little Whinging, though Mrs Dursley of Number Four, Privet Drive, had something more interesting than sunshine on her mind.
Standing beside her garden fence, she stretched her long neck to peer into the neighbouring property.
After several fruitless minutes, she finally stepped away, looking distinctly disappointed.
Ever since she had heard that the house had been sold, inspecting it had become part of her daily routine.
Her neighbours’ private affairs supplied a considerable portion of the conversation at the Dursleys’ dinner table, and a new arrival promised fresh material.
Better still, she had heard that the buyer was something of a recluse.
“An eccentric, honestly.
How eccentric could he possibly be?”
Mrs Dursley sniffed, smoothed her hair, and turned toward her front door.
“Watch where you’re going!”
She nearly collided with a boy coming through the doorway with a bucket of dirty water.
A few droplets splashed onto her clothes, and she brushed at them in disgust.
“I don’t know what use you are if you can’t even manage something this simple,” she snapped before disappearing inside.
“You were the one who walked into me,” Harry muttered after her.
He carried the heavy metal bucket toward the fence, rolled up his oversized sleeves, and carefully poured the water around the roots of the flowering shrubs.
He made certain none splashed onto the paving stones; the last thing he needed was another excuse for Aunt Petunia to shout at him.
Hermes arrived outside his new house with a walking stick in hand just as the thin boy behind the neighbouring fence straightened up.
Harry’s clothes were far too large for him.
From where Hermes stood, he could see the sharp outline of the boy’s collarbones through the sagging neckline of his shirt.
Perhaps sensing the attention, Harry looked up.
The stranger wore a beautifully tailored light-grey suit, its ivory buttons neatly fastened.
His trousers fell in crisp lines over polished Oxford shoes, and the gemstone set into the head of his walking stick looked even more impressive than the one on Uncle Vernon’s prized cane.
What caught Harry’s attention most, however, was the strikingly handsome face framed by flowing blond hair.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
Harry pressed his lips together after speaking, shifting his hands awkwardly as he wondered what to do with them.
“Good afternoon.”
Hermes acknowledged him with a slight nod but offered nothing more.
He continued toward the house, unlocked the front door, and stepped inside.
Leaving his walking stick beside the entrance, he surveyed the living room.
Dust sheets covered the furniture, and the air had the stale quality of a house that had stood empty for some time.
He considered the room for a moment, then frowned.
“Calcifer.”
“We aren’t even going to live in this bit,” a disgruntled voice replied.
A small flame emerged from the inner pocket of his jacket and stretched upward, peering past his collar.
“Besides, why can’t you clean it yourself?”
“One Galleon.”
“Your humble servant is delighted to assist.”
Calcifer’s change of attitude was immediate.
His flames swelled, scattering sparks onto the wooden floor, where they spread in bright trails through the room and into the rest of the house.
Despite their heat, they left the furnishings untouched.
Wherever the fire passed, accumulated dust vanished, leaving polished wood and clean surfaces behind.
Before long, the flames streamed back toward Hermes and gathered on his shoulder.
Calcifer resumed his smaller shape, gave a satisfied burp, and held out a tiny hand made of fire.
“Thank you for your business.”
Hermes glanced at him with mild distaste and suppressed the urge to drop him into a bucket of water.
Instead, he flicked a gleaming Galleon into the air.
Calcifer’s eyes lit up.
He expanded just enough to catch the spinning coin in his mouth, swallowed it whole, and settled back onto Hermes’s shoulder.
“Was that Harry Potter outside?”
“Yes.”
Hermes tapped a finger against the shoe cabinet beside him.
“Time to move in, Calcifer.”
The little flame opened his mouth wide, reached inside, and rummaged around before producing a pristine stick of chalk.
“Here.”
Hermes took it and crossed to the centre of the living room.
Crouching down, he began drawing an intricate magical array across the floor.
Chalk scratched softly against the boards as precise lines took shape beneath his hand, their edges glimmering with faint flecks of silver.
Under ordinary circumstances, moving the castle’s connection would have required nothing more than regular chalk.
Calcifer was the castle’s heart, and the actual magic would be his work.
Here, however, Hermes preferred to take precautions.
An undertaking of this scale in a Muggle neighbourhood could draw precisely the sort of attention he wanted to avoid.
The Ministry of Magic was troublesome enough, and Privet Drive had the added distinction of being a place in which Dumbledore took a particular interest.
For this move, Hermes had prepared special chalk intended to contain and conceal the working’s magical presence.
“He’s not quite what I expected,” Calcifer said.
Still perched on Hermes’s shoulder, he had apparently not finished thinking about the boy outside.
“For someone everyone calls a saviour, he’s awfully small and thin.”
Calcifer had spent the past eighteen years beside Hermes, including his years at Durmstrang Institute.
Throughout that time, he had heard plenty about the famous Boy Who Lived.
The child by the garden fence had hardly resembled the figure those stories suggested.
“He’s still just a child,” Hermes replied.
A child dependent on relatives who plainly resented having him under their roof.
His hand paused briefly over the unfinished array.
“In the end, it was his mother’s love that saved him.”
He sighed and completed the final stroke, joining the silver-flecked lines into a seamless pattern.
“All right.
Your turn.”
Hermes handed back the chalk, which Calcifer put away for safekeeping.
Once the flame was ready, Hermes gathered him into his hands and stepped into the centre of the array.
A low hum filled the room as magic flowed through the markings beneath his feet.
Silver light raced along the lines, and Calcifer suddenly surged upward in a crackling column of fire.
Deep violet-red flames brushed the ceiling without leaving so much as a scorch mark.
The rising current ruffled Hermes’s carefully arranged hair and stirred the hem of his suit jacket while the house around him began to change.
A deep rumble rolled beneath the floorboards, followed by a steady vibration that spread through the walls.
“Hold on!”
Calcifer’s face took shape amid the towering flames, his expression bright with excitement.
Pots and pans rattled in the kitchen.
Somewhere behind the plaster came the muted clatter of gears engaging, followed by a series of heavy clicks.
The walls shifted and rearranged themselves like enormous building blocks.
Floorboards groaned, sliding into new configurations as the familiar dimensions of the room gave way to something altogether different.
A vast fireplace took shape first.
Furniture followed, along with ornaments and the other familiar belongings that made the castle their home.
Within moments, the dusty little house’s interior had been replaced by the castle’s spacious main room.
A clear chime sounded behind Hermes.
The coloured dial beside the front door’s handle turned of its own accord and came to rest on blue.
Its remaining sections—green, red, and black—waited motionless beside it.
Hermes carried Calcifer to the fireplace and set him among the glowing embers.
Then he crossed the room and opened a window.
Privet Drive lay beyond it, looking exactly as it had before.
Satisfied, Hermes brushed the last traces of chalk from his hands.
“Welcome to our new home, Calcifer.”
“This is much better.”
Calcifer settled comfortably over the coals, his flames swaying as he gave a contented little murmur.