Autumn for the Two. The First Moment of Eternity

Visiting Diagon Alley was a whirlwind of emotions for both boys – ranging from fear to uncontainable excitement. The street wound like a snake between squat little shops, their windows packed with an astonishing array of goods. Harry spotted cauldrons of every shape and size, magical books, enchanted creatures, flying brooms, potion ingredients, and a massive bank run by actual goblins. Harry thought this might just be the most extraordinary place on earth. To top it all off, the street was bustling with witches and wizards dressed in colourful robes and pointy hats! He tried not to gape, but it was impossible; everything here was remarkable, magical, and new. For the first time, he truly grasped what ‘the wizarding world’ meant, and he liked it. A lot. Professor McGonagall led Tom and Harry into a bookshop where both boys roamed the aisles, trying to read as many titles on the spines of the books as they could. They bought their school textbooks according to the list, along with a couple of books for independent study. In the apothecary, Harry examined jars of newt eyes, frog legs, and other revolting substances with a mix of fascination and disgust. The names on the labels weren’t much help either – what on earth were things like ‘Common Boomslang Skin,’ ‘Acromantula Venom,’ ‘Bubotuber Pus,’ or ‘Mandrake Root’? After collecting the required first-year ingredients, Harry also picked up a hefty guide titled Every Potion Ingredient from A to Z, intending to read it in his free time. Outside the shop with the sign reading Cauldrons of All Sizes – Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver – Self-Stirring – Collapsible, Harry hesitated for a moment before stepping into the dimly lit room filled to the brim with cauldrons. There were also flasks, stirrers, burners, and other tools. Professor McGonagall assured him that Hogwarts would have plenty of equipment, and her words stopped Harry from buying all these fascinating things. Next on the list was robe-fitting. Madam Malkin, a short, plump witch, warmly greeted her young customers and invited them to step onto small stools. She bustled around them, adjusting the robes to fit their figures and height. After taking measurements, she disappeared into another room, leaving the eleven-year-olds in the fitting area. It was only then that Harry and Tom noticed another boy present. He was pale, with a thin face, blond hair, and an expression of profound boredom. For a while, he watched them with little interest before deciding to strike up a conversation. ‘Hullo, Hogwarts too?’ he drawled lazily, as though the mere act of speaking was a chore. ‘Yes,’ Harry replied, glancing at Archer. His friend was staring at the blond boy with keen curiosity, and Harry could understand why. It was their first time meeting another young wizard. ‘My father’s next door buying my books and mother’s up the street looking at wands,’ the boy continued, his voice flat and cold, with a hint of disinterest. He reminded Harry of Dudley for some reason. ‘Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don’t see why first-years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully father into getting me one and I’ll smuggle it in somehow.’ The resemblance to Dudley grew stronger by the second. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed that Archer’s curious look had turned appraising, which he didn’t like at all. ‘Have you got your own brooms?’ the boy asked, looking at Harry first, then at Tom. ‘No,’ simply said Harry. Tom chose to remain silent. ‘You don’t play Quidditch at all?’ the boy’s pale eyebrows shot up in disbelief. ‘No,’ Harry said again, wondering what on earth Quidditch could be and why Archer was staying so quiet. ‘I do,’ the blond boy said smugly. ‘Father says it’s a crime if I’m not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you’ll be in yet?’ he asked, directing the question solely to Harry now that it was clear Tom wasn’t joining in. ‘No,’ said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute and trying to recall what McGonagall had mentioned about Houses. ‘Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I’ll be in Slytherin, all our family have been,’ he said, clearly very proud of this fact. ‘Imagine being in Hufflepuff,’ he lowered his voice dramatically, making a horrified face. ‘I think I’d leave, wouldn’t you?’ ‘Mmm,’ said Harry, wishing he could say something a bit more interesting or at least nudge Tom into speaking, but his friend was standing too far away. The boy glanced around. ‘Where are your parents?’ he asked Harry suddenly. ‘They’re dead,’ said Harry shortly. He didn’t feel much like going into the matter with this boy. ‘Oh, sorry,’ said the other, not sounding sorry at all. ‘But they were our kind, weren’t they?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I really don’t think they should let the other sort in, do you? They’re just not the same, they don’t know anything about us, and they act like idiots. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think only children from the old wizarding families should be allowed. What’s your surname, anyway?’ [1] Harry was at a loss, overwhelmed and bewildered by this statement. Why shouldn’t Muggle-borns be allowed into Hogwarts? Was it so terrible that neither he nor Tom knew anything about magic? Was it their fault they had never heard of Hogwarts? Could it be that everyone thought the same as this boy? Tom’s voice, lazy and bored, much like their interlocutor’s, pulled Harry out of his spiralling panic. He looked at his friend in surprise. ‘I don’t think it’s polite,’ Tom declared loftily, his gaze cold as he looked at the blond boy, ‘to ask about someone’s background and surname when you haven’t introduced yourself.’ The boy’s grey eyes, cool and appraising, fixed on Archer, scrutinising him. ‘Just as it’s impolite to interrupt a conversation,’ the boy remarked. ‘I wouldn’t be wrong in assuming you were speaking to both of us,’ Tom said with a slight, calculated smile, ‘which means I couldn’t have interrupted a conversation I was already part of.’ The blond boy faltered for a moment, clearly caught off guard. ‘You seem rather full of yourself,’ he said at last. ‘Enough to notice how poorly you’ve been brought up,’ Tom replied in a way that made Harry think only he could catch the all sarcasm, venom, and anger he put in his words. “Oh,” Harry realised, “so he wasn’t just silent – he was sizing him up, figuring out how to deal with him.” The grey-eyed boy opened his mouth, no doubt ready to deliver a cutting retort, but at that moment Madam Malkin returned with an armful of new robes. The brewing conflict ended there. The blond boy received his fitted robe, shot the pair a hostile glance, and quickly left the shop. Harry and Tom paid for their purchases and moved to the main hall, where Professor McGonagall was waiting for them. ‘You know,’ Tom said thoughtfully as they stepped back onto the cobbled street, heading towards the wand shop, ‘I thought wizards wouldn’t be like Muggles, but it turns out most of them are just as smug and boorish.’ ‘Well, maybe a bit more smug,’ Harry grinned, ‘since they can do magic.’ ‘True,’ Archer shrugged, ‘so can we.’ ‘Does that bother you?’ Harry asked, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Not exactly … I just thought we were special, and now it turns out there’s a whole crowd of people just like us. It makes us … ordinary,’ Tom said with a grimace. Harry chuckled. ‘Well, you’re definitely not ordinary,’ he declared with confidence. ‘The way you put that blond git in his place –’ Harry grinned widely, ‘I thought he was going to burst with self-importance.’ ‘Yeah,’ Tom murmured, clearly uninterested in continuing the conversation. Harry gave him a puzzled look, unsure of what had caused this apathy, while Tom kept his darker thoughts to himself. That boy’s words had struck a nerve. All his life, Tom had believed his abilities made him unique, that he was special. He had thought the people around him were pitiful and weak, inferior to him, ordinary. But today, stepping into this dazzling magical world, seeing a sea of wizards and witches, and speaking with someone his own age, he realised that his cherished sense of uniqueness had faded, dissolved. Here, he wasn’t just like everyone else. He suddenly realised he was worse. What had that blond boy said? The other sort? Fools who knew nothing of the magical world, who had no right to be at Hogwarts, who had no right to magic? Mediocrities. A shiver ran down Tom’s spine as he grasped his standing in this world. An orphan, unaware of his heritage, raised among Muggles. Worse than ordinary. Despised. Pitiful. These thoughts brewed anger, almost hatred, within him, and he wanted to direct it at everyone and everything. At the pitiful Muggles who are the reason he won’t be able to live normally now. At the smug members of ancient magical families who would scorn him for what he was. At his parents, whom he had never known, who had left him like this, who had doomed him to disgrace. At Harry, who had done nothing yet but would undoubtedly turn away from him once he realised Tom wasn’t worthy of his friendship. After all, he was Muggle-born. Could Potter, whose parents were wizards, remain friends with him? There would be a sea of other children their age who were much more interesting and powerful. Better. Tom hated it when anyone was better than him. And he was beginning to hate the magical world, which would inevitably destroy his friendship with Harry. The only thought that stopped Tom from turning around, dragging Harry with him, and fleeing far from the wizards back to the Muggle world, where they could cling to their illusion of uniqueness, was the memory of the promise they had made to each other. They had sworn never to betray or abandon one another. Tom wondered if that meant Harry would always be his friend. He wanted so desperately to believe that. Archer relaxed slightly. Only one problem remained – his position in society. He couldn’t let some eleven-year-olds outshine him just because he had been raised among Muggles, nor could he let smug fools look down on him because of his background. And that problem, when he thought about it, was easily solved. Tom quickened his pace, catching up to his friend, who was timidly asking Minerva McGonagall about Quidditch, Slytherin, and Hufflepuff. Determination bloomed within him. He would become whoever he wanted to be, and Harry would never turn away from him. They would be great, powerful, and the best. They would be feared, and the first to tremble before him would be those who flaunted their superiority and lineage. Oh yes, he would make those arrogant parasites realise he’s someone to be reckoned with. They would learn to fear and respect him. And if he had to adopt the airs of that blond boy to achieve it – well, Tom could wear that mask. After all, people always believe the lies they tell themselves most of all.

***

The boys spent over an hour in the next shop while Mr Ollivander, a grey-haired, peculiar old man, selected wands for them. Harry was the first in line, and the wandmaker remained silent for some time, studying the boy with such intensity that Harry shifted nervously from foot to foot, wondering what he had done to deserve such scrutiny. ‘Er … sir?’ he asked cautiously when the silence stretched on. ‘Ah yes,’ the old man seemed to snap out of a trance. ‘Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon, Harry Potter,’ he stated confidently, continuing to examine the thin boy standing before him. ‘You have your mother’s eyes.’ ‘Really?’ Harry perked up. ‘Did you know her?’ Mr Ollivander smiled gently. ‘Oh yes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.’ The old wizard stepped closer, his silvery eyes, fixed on the boy, resembled a serpent’s, and Harry hoped he would at least blink to dispel the resemblance. ‘Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it – it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.’ Harry listened, spellbound, to the shopkeeper. It was the first time someone had spoken of his parents without using words like ‘drunkard’, ‘layabout’, ‘lunatic’, or ‘junkie’, and it was a pleasant change, even if he didn’t entirely understand the old wizard’s words. ‘And that’s where …’ Mr Ollivander reached out, touching Harry’s lightning-shaped scar with a long finger. The boy tensed warily, keeping a keen eye on the shopkeeper. Tom, who had been lingering near the entrance, captivated by the wizard’s smooth speech, stepped forward, uncertain how to act – what if the man meant Harry harm? And, of course, McGonagall just had to stay outside. ‘I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it,’ he said softly. ‘Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands … Well, if I’d known what that wand was going out into the world to do …’ He shook his head and, to Harry’s relief, stepped back towards the counter. Tom leaned against the wall again, exchanging an amused glance with Potter. ‘Now then, Mr Potter,’ the old man’s voice took on a brisk, businesslike tone. ‘Let me see.’ He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. ‘Which is your wand arm?’ ‘Er … my right?’ Harry guessed. ‘Excellent,’ with that, the wandmaker set about measuring him from every angle, muttering to himself all the while – something that sounded like ‘… powerful magical cores … unicorn hair … heartstrings … you’ll never achieve …’ Harry suddenly realised that the tape measure, which was measuring his height, arm length, legs, and even each individual finger, was doing this on its own, while Mr Ollivander himself wandered along the tall shelves, pulling down slender, rectangular boxes. Within minutes, a towering stack of boxes had accumulated on the table in front of Harry. At last, Ollivander was ready to begin. ‘Take the wand in your hand and give it a wave,’ he instructed. Harry eyed the massive pile of choices with mild scepticism, unsure where to start. Sighing quietly, he opened the nearest box and did as he was told. Nothing happened. He placed the wand back on the table. ‘Next,’ the old man directed, and Harry obediently continued trying. Thirty minutes later, after what felt like every possible wand had been tested and rejected, Mr Ollivander offered him an encouraging smile. ‘Don’t you worry, we’ll find you an excellent wand …’ he suddenly fell silent, and his expression shifted imperceptibly. ‘Curious …’ he murmured almost inaudibly. ‘Why not – unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.’ He darted to the far shelves and returned with a dusty box, offering it to Harry. The boy took the wand and immediately felt an unexpected warmth in his fingers. He lifted it, gave it a small wave, and a cascade of red and gold sparks burst into the air, illuminating the dimly lit shop. Harry inhaled and forgot to exhale. “Wow.” Tom, his eyes gleaming with anticipation, glanced between his friend and the wand, eager for his own turn. ‘Oh, bravo! Magnificent …’ Ollivander remarked with a smile. ‘And how curious … how very curious …’ he busied himself wrapping Harry’s wand, all the while still muttering. ‘Very curious … curious …’ ‘Sorry,’ Harry finally blurted out, unable to contain himself. ‘But what’s so curious?’ Mr Ollivander regarded him with a thoughtful gaze. ‘I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather – just one other,’ the old man paused meaningfully, as though this remark ought to convey something of great importance to the boy. ‘It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother –’ the old man stepped closer, peering intently into the boy’s face, ‘– why, its brother gave you that scar.’ Harry swallowed. Someone had tried to curse him with a wand? Kill him? He shivered involuntarily. Of course, he had almost forgotten that his parents had been attacked, but … how had he survived if that scar was the result of someone’s curse? He glanced at his friend, who was watching Ollivander with a dark sort of perplexity. ‘Yes,’ the shopkeeper drawled, handing Harry the package containing his purchase. ‘Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember … I think we must expect great things from you, Mr Potter … After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great.’ Harry felt uneasy. Firstly, he had no idea who He Who Must Not Be Named was. Secondly, he was no longer certain he liked Mr Ollivander. And thirdly, he couldn’t stop wondering what this coincidence truly meant. Following Harry, Tom approached Ollivander, casting the shopkeeper a wary glance before reluctantly introducing himself. ‘Archer? Hm …’ the old man mused. ‘And what were your parents’ names?’ ‘I don’t know, sir. I grew up in foster care,’ Tom answered tersely, irritated by the questioning. ‘I once knew an Archer … or was it Archent?’ Ollivander muttered. ‘Haven’t heard anything about them in a hundred years. They say they were all wiped out in the First War, although …’ Tom shook his head. Could his parents have been wizards? He had received his surname at the orphanage and wasn’t entirely sure whether it belonged to his parents or had simply been invented by the staff to fill out forms, so he refrained from commenting. After all, why not imagine that he was indeed from the extinct Archer (or Archent?) family, some long-lost grandson or great-grandson? At the very least, it was an amusing thought. Meanwhile, the shopkeeper, still muttering to himself, repeated the process of measuring Tom’s hands, legs, shoulders, and other limbs, just as he had done with Harry. Then, deep in thought, he disappeared among the shelves, leaving the dark-eyed boy standing in the middle of the shop, burning with impatience. Finally, a mountain of wand boxes was stacked before Archer, and, just like his friend before him, he set about choosing. An hour later, to Tom’s astonishment, they still hadn’t found a suitable wand for him. ‘But … hm … how curious,’ Ollivander muttered, handing the boy wand after wand. ‘No? Not this one either? How strange … what about this one … no, definitely not, try this one … hm …’ Tom would never admit it to anyone, but he was starting to panic. Was there truly no wand in this blasted shop for him? Would something so trivial prevent him from becoming a wizard? At last, the supply of wands ceased, and the shopkeeper stared intently at the boy. ‘Very curious,’ he clucked his tongue. ‘Not a single wand responded to your touch as it should have … could it be …’ he frowned. ‘Yes, yes, for one who does not exist, for one who has come twice … yes, yes …’ Still muttering, Ollivander disappeared through a narrow door leading, presumably, to a storeroom. A dreadful crash sounded, followed by creaking and hushed curses, and finally, the shopkeeper returned to the room holding a wooden box bound with a black ribbon. ‘Try this one,’ he quietly suggested, offering Tom the case and stepping back two paces. Archer shot the shopkeeper a suspicious look, opened the lid, and drew out a long wand made of dark wood, immediately feeling a slight tingling sensation as his fingers closed around its slender handle. The boy took a deep breath and waved the wand; the room was instantly flooded with a blinding light, causing everyone present to squint. ‘Wow,’ Archer breathed, lowering the wand. The rush of emotion made his head spin. ‘Hm …’ Ollivander tilted his head curiously. ‘Well now, I never thought this one would find an owner … how … unexpected …’ Tom couldn’t help himself. ‘What’s so special about it?’ ‘Thirteen and a half inches. Chestnut and nundu [2] claw … a very … powerful wand, flexible … hm … a curious choice, most curious.’ Tom had no idea what a nundu was, nor did he understand Ollivander’s odd behaviour, but at this point, he didn’t care. In his hands, he held a wand – HIS wand – one that fit in his grip as though it were an extension of his own arm, as though it had been made just for him. Archer wanted to cast a spell immediately, but unfortunately, he had no idea how. Harry, observing from the side, was unsettled by the shopkeeper’s behaviour. Ollivander seemed completely unhinged, constantly glancing around as though expecting enemies to leap at him from the shadows. He eyed the wand in Tom’s hand almost fearfully, with great tension and apprehension. And Harry was intensely curious – what exactly had the old man given his friend? What if the wand was dangerous? What if Tom got hurt? Yet, Archer himself was clearly overjoyed. ‘It’s amazing, Harry! Did you feel it too when you touched yours?! It’s as if it was made for me, and if I had to order a wand, I doubt I would have chosen anything different! It’s perfect!’ Ollivander grew even more nervous. ‘Well then, I believe it’s time for you young gentlemen to go,’ he said rather abruptly. ‘I have many other matters to attend to, my apologies!’ Shrugging, the boys paid for their purchases and stepped out onto the sunlit street. ‘So, what do you think of him?’ Tom chuckled, twirling his new wand in his fingers. ‘Complete nutcase, innit?’ Harry had no time to respond, as Minerva McGonagall was already hurrying towards them. ‘Are you ready?’ she asked, glancing over the boys. From Archer’s wide grin, it was clear he was pleased with his purchase. Harry, however … Harry looked strangely wary. ‘Is everything all right, Mr Potter?’ she inquired. ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Harry nodded. ‘All right … very well,’ Minerva sighed. What else could one say to a child who kept his thoughts to himself?

***

On the way back, Tom suddenly seemed to remember something. After quietly asking the Transfiguration professor about it, he dashed off in an unknown direction, quickly disappearing into the crowd. Harry watched his friend go with a puzzled expression, then turned to McGonagall questioningly. Strangely enough, the witch only smiled slightly. ‘We’ll wait here,’ Minerva said, sitting down on a nearby bench. She glanced at Harry, who stood motionless beside her. ‘Take a seat, Mr Potter,’ she added, shifting slightly to make room. The boy quickly sat down next to her. ‘Did Tom … say where he was going?’ he asked cautiously. ‘Your friend will be back soon,’ the witch replied cryptically. After a brief pause, she asked, ‘Did you like Diagon Alley?’ All of Harry’s nervousness vanished in an instant. His green eyes lit up with excitement. ‘Oh, it’s absolutely brilliant, ma’am! There’s so much here! I’ve never seen anything like it before!’ he hesitated. ‘I mean, I never even knew any of this could actually exist!’ ‘Believe me, the wizarding world holds many wonders, and you’ll discover them in time,’ the Deputy Headmistress said. But then her expression darkened slightly. ‘However, Mr Potter, I need you to understand that alongside good wizards, there are also those who … well, who might wish you harm.’ The boy tilted his head in surprise. ‘Evil wizards?’ he asked. ‘Like in fairy tales?’ ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit darker than a fairy tale, Mr Potter,’ the woman sighed. ‘I don’t wish to burden you with this, but … there are things you need to know about yourself and … about your parents’ fate.’ Harry frowned but remained silent, waiting for her to continue. ‘Around thirty years ago, a very powerful wizard emerged in the wizarding world,’ Minerva began after a brief pause. ‘He was talented, immensely powerful, ruthless, and merciless. Many witches and wizards died fighting against him … including your parents.’ ‘What … what was his name?’ Harry blurted out, liking this story less and less. ‘His name is not spoken aloud, Mr Potter, but most call him He Who Must Not Be Named.’ Harry grimaced. “So he’s the one who gave me this scar,” he thought grimly. Minerva took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. ‘Voldemort,’ she said quickly. ‘What?’ ‘His name.’ ‘Oh,’ Harry murmured, trying to understand what was so terrifying about this name. ‘He was a Dark wizard and extremely dangerous, Mr Potter. Wizards fear his name as much as they fear his deeds. He Who Must Not Be Named committed countless atrocities, and even now … well … we shudder at the memory of him.’ ‘Ma’am, I’m sorry, but … how … how is all of this connected to me?’ Harry rubbed his forehead. ‘Mr Ollivander also said something strange, and I didn’t quite understand …’ ‘You see, Harry,’ the boy noticed that the professor called him by his first name when the conversation became too personal, ‘that night on Halloween, He came to your house – to kill you.’ ‘Me?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘But … why?’ ‘He believed you were a threat to him.’ ‘I was only a year old!’ Harry protested. ‘How could such a terrible wizard be afraid of a baby?!’ ‘A good question. You may want to ask someone who knows the answer,’ Minerva pressed her lips into a thin line, and Harry gathered that she was quite displeased – either with something or someone. ‘So … he tried to kill me?’ Harry prompted, hoping she would finish the story. ‘Yes … but … somehow … in an impossible way, the curse that was meant to kill you rebounded and struck the Dark wizard himself. The scar on your forehead is the mark of that powerful curse.’ She glanced at his forehead, as though trying to glimpse the scar hidden beneath his fringe. ‘So … He died?’ Harry shivered slightly. Suddenly, everything fell into place – Ollivander’s words, his parents’ deaths, and this scar. But the truth happened to be far too terrifying for an eleven-year-old child. Someone had tried to kill him when he was just a baby. His parents had died protecting him. And the most feared wizard in the world had been vanquished by his own curse rebounding off … Harry? He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the overwhelming thoughts. ‘He vanished, and many believe he’ll never return,’ McGonagall answered evasively. ‘And you, Professor?’ ‘It’s hard to say, Mr Potter. I won’t presume to make such judgments. But I am certain of one thing – you may still be in danger, whether from him or his followers. There are those in this world who wish you harm. You are famous, Mr Potter. Many admire you, many fear you, but some … some will try to hurt you. That is why I ask you to be very careful.’ ‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am. I’ll be very careful,’ he promised, feeling slightly dizzy. He was famous. But why, for heaven’s sake? For somehow reflecting a curse and accidentally destroying a Dark wizard? For becoming an orphan? For losing his parents? Had he done anything remarkable? He didn’t even remember what had happened, so why did people treat him like some kind of hero? ‘I didn’t do anything,’ Harry muttered, more to himself than anyone else. ‘For starters, you are the first wizard in history to survive the Killing Curse. That alone makes you stand out. And the disappearance of He Who Must Not Be Named only amplified your fame.’ ‘But I don’t even remember what happened,’ Harry noted, realising that Professor McGonagall deliberately avoided using the word ‘death’ when referring to Voldemort. “She knows he isn’t dead,” he thought at once. ‘No one expects you to remember,’ Minerva said gently. ‘And I would advise you to always stay true to yourself, no matter what you may face in the future. You are incredibly famous … and that will not change.’ ‘First, I was a freak. Now, I’m some kind of superhero. How marvellous,’ Harry concluded apathetically. ‘I wonder … can I just be NORMAL?’ His unpleasant thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Lifting his head, Harry saw Tom striding towards them, a wide grin on his face. But what truly made Harry freeze in disbelief was what his friend was carrying – a cage, inside which sat a large, snowy-white owl, staring at him with unblinking amber eyes. ‘Happy Birthday!’ Tom announced brightly, and in an instant, Harry forgot all about his unsettling conversation with the professor. ‘An owl?’ he breathed. ‘You’re giving me … a real owl?’ ‘No, it’s a stuffed one,’ Tom quipped. ‘Of course, she’s real, you dolt.’ ‘Oh … but … I … Good God, she must have been terribly expensive! Tom, this is … this is …’ ‘Stop stammering and just say it – do you like my gift or not?’ his friend scowled. ‘Are you kidding?’ Harry rasped. ‘This is the best gift in the world! Thank you!’ ‘Good, then,’ Tom muttered, slightly flustered as he handed over the cage. ‘Now take this thing already, it’s bloody heavy!’ Laughing, Harry took the cage and placed it on his lap, staring at the snowy owl as if she were the eighth wonder of the world. ‘This is the best birthday of my life,’ he sighed happily.

***

The boys spent the rest of the summer endlessly discussing their upcoming journey to school and making grand plans. The Dursleys behaved unusually quietly and did not utter a word when the boy returned home accompanied by a snowy owl. Uncle Vernon outright preferred not to look in Harry’s direction, as if the boy terrified him to no end. Aunt Petunia also reduced her conversations to monosyllabic ‘yes,’ ‘no,’ and the vague ‘food is on the table.’ This suited Harry just fine, though he was curious about what had so suddenly changed his relatives. After all, even after meeting McGonagall, his aunt and uncle had behaved somewhat aggressively and warily. But now … he was completely free of yelling, punishments, and, thank God, housework. Any housework at all. Once, when Harry, out of habit, went to wash the dishes, his aunt nervously shooed him away from the sink, muttering that she could handle it just fine on her own. After that, she spent the entire day glancing anxiously out the window. It was almost paradise on earth. When it got too hot outside or when it rained, Harry shut himself in his room and read his new textbooks non-stop, trying to guess what awaited him in a wizarding school. Sometimes he would visit Tom’s house, and then the boys, surrounded by books, would sit in Archer’s room for hours, discussing the paragraphs they had read or amusing spells, imagining how they would use them. ‘Honestly, I’m going to burst – “The Boy Who Lived,”’ Tom tossed aside his History of Magic textbook and giggled. ‘Who even came up with such a ridiculous nickname? They could have gone with “The Chosen One” or “The Hero”! But this? Ha-ha. Their imagination is really lacking. “He Who Must Not Be Named,” “The Boy Who Lived” – what’s next?’ Harry gave a weak smile. ‘Friend Who Burst From Laughter?’ he suggested. Tom cleared his throat, wiping the grin from his face. ‘Funny.’ ‘What?’ ‘I’d never have thought that anyone could blow an event like that out of proportion from what is, at its core, a horrible story. No wonder you were so downcast when you found out,’ Archer cautiously looked into Potter’s eyes. ‘Seems like life must be incredibly dull for them if the death of some Dark Lord is a national holiday.’ ‘Well, judging by the books, he terrified everyone,’ Harry shrugged, ‘and then I happened to be there …’ ‘It’s a good thing you survived,’ Tom said very seriously. ‘You think so?’ ‘Of course! Otherwise, we wouldn’t have met,’ he smirked. ‘The only downside is that you’re famous,’ he added. ‘Tell me about it,’ Harry muttered, lowering his gaze. For some reason, the thought of being famous made him deeply uncomfortable. ‘Because now I’ll have to catch up to you,’ Tom finished his thought and grinned at his friend’s puzzled expression. ‘What, did you think you’d be the only one basking in the glory?’ he laughed. ‘I bet my wand that I’ll surpass you by our fifth year!’ ‘What are you even talking about?’ Harry frowned. ‘Idiot!’ Archer sighed. ‘I mean that you’ll have to work hard to stay as famous as you are, because I’ll outshine you in everything.’ Harry caught himself smiling like a complete fool. Only Archer could turn everything upside down so that the situation took on an entirely different light. ‘Well, give it a try,’ Potter drawled with fake indifference, ‘though I doubt you’ll be able to compete with me …’ ‘… the famous Boy Who Lived!’ they finished together and burst into laughter, turning the grim story into a harmless joke. After they finished laughing, Harry was surprised to find that the oppressive weight in his chest had vanished without a trace. ‘In three days, we’re going to Hogwarts,’ Tom said dreamily, sprawling out on the floor of his room with his hands behind his head. ‘I bet my wand it’s going to be a lot of fun!’