Early August, London.
The Grangers rolled up the Hampstead road after their long trip, backpacks slung over shoulders, blinking a little dazedly at the flower beds lining the street. Compared to sweltering Paris, London felt damp and chilly; the gardens and yards burst with thick, emerald greenery.
Little Bastian stuck close to Hermione's side, matching her steps, wide eyes full of kid-wonder as she took in everything.
"This is your home now."
"My home."
Bastian's small face stayed blank, voice soft as she echoed.
"Every time we get back from a trip, we do a big clean. Perfect chance to fix up that empty room at the end of the upstairs hall—see it? That's your bedroom from now on."
"My bedroom."
"No slacking later, okay? You've gotta help. If moving stuff's too heavy, wipe the tables, sort junk with me—got it?"
Hermione's tone was light, mood sky-high.
Bastian nodded hard. "Got it! I've done this before. I can carry stuff."
A pang of pity hit Hermione—she almost told Bastian to skip chores. Then she shook her head. Cleaning her own room was chores. Slaving for a cult was something else entirely.
They stepped into the house, away for nearly a month.
The three of them got busy. They'd covered furniture and locked up tight before leaving, so the deep-clean wasn't brutal—open windows, flush the yellow water from the pipes, one good wipe-down top to bottom.
Heavy lifting fell to the only adult man. Mrs. Granger tackled another chunk. The two underage helpers just passed things, wiped chairs and tables.
Bastian was quick and thorough, even jumping in to help Hermione when she could.
Seeing Hermione go quiet and complicated, Bastian patted her arm like a pro. "It's okay. Everyone's good at different stuff. I did this a lot before, so I'm fast. You're not great at it—but you're amazing at books and knowing things I don't."
Hermione pressed her lips together, said nothing.
"Bastian, half a bucket of water, please!" Mrs. Granger called from downstairs.
"Coming!"
"…"
Hermione watched Bastian haul the bucket away. That used to be her job.
Passing Mr. Granger, the middle-aged dentist suddenly spun, roared playfully—face smudged with cleaning dust—and clawed the air to scare her.
Bastian stared a few seconds, then copied him—claws out, low, impressive growl. He jumped.
Mrs. Granger glanced over, smile soft as butter.
Two full adults, one half-grown helper—four shadows weaving in and out. In the bustle, Bastian slipped right into the family, like she'd always belonged.
They knocked around all day, grabbed a quick bite out that night.
First night back in London, Bastian still had to bunk with Hermione. New-family-member stuff wasn't bought yet. Sheets and pillows were on hand, but no spare bed frame or mattress—shopping tomorrow.
Hermione unpacked, sorted, folded clothes into the wardrobe. Paris souvenirs—wood carvings, postcards—went on the desk, mentally tagged for gifts. Then she settled at the window desk and started writing.
Bastian snuggled deep in the warm, soft bed like a squirrel in a tree hollow, head tilted toward Hermione.
"Whatcha doing?"
"Writing letters to friends."
"Letters…"
"Yup. Been gone a month. Gotta catch up, set a date to meet in Diagon Alley before term, shop the supply list together."
Head down, quill scratching.
Harry was stuck at the Dursleys all summer—she had no idea how he was holding up. Bastian's past sat right beside her; she worried Harry was suffering too.
End of July in Paris, glued to Bastian, she'd nearly forgotten Harry's birthday. Managed a rushed international letter and gift—hoped they arrived on time.
Little guilt now. Back in London—time to check in.
---
Dear Harry,
I hope you got my birthday letter. I know it was rushed, but the wishes were real.
I'm back from France. So much happened I don't know where to start. I ran into Professor Lewent in Paris—situation was dire, I swear I almost cried seeing him. Also, I have a little sister now. The next few weeks are all about her paperwork and school stuff. Mum's booked interviews—we're all in it.
France has a Ministry and Aurors too. I got tangled in a case. Barely saw the cool local magic, but I learned how their Ministry runs and dug into wizard family history. Already wrote it into my History of Magic essay. Hope Professor Binns doesn't dock points—it's two scrolls over the limit.
If all goes well, this letter's via Daily Prophet delivery. I subscribed to their international service for Paris; now it's just London. Extra fee for owl post.
Seen the Prophet? The Weasleys went to Egypt—jealous! Ancient Egyptian wizarding world is legendary.
Supply list came—with a Hogsmeade weekend permission slip! We can spend weekends there next term—can't wait! I'll hit Diagon Alley last weekend of August. You? Reply if you can. If not, see you on the Hogwarts Express.
Your friend, Hermione
---
Harry couldn't help laughing. Classic Hermione. Part of him hoped Binns would fail her.
He set the fresh letter down, met the owl postman's mildly annoyed glare.
Fair. The envelope said Privet Drive; Harry was holed up on the Leaky Cauldron's second floor. Poor owl detoured.
Harry scratched the owl's feathers. Hedwig was out, so he split some dried white rat as apology.
Owl accepted payment, mood improved—nuzzled his palm, tilted head: reply needed?
Harry shook his head. Watched it soar off the sill, vanish into Diagon Alley's morning light. Sky brightening—he could hear Muggle cars below, vendors and footsteps in the Alley.
Why he'd ditched Privet Drive and crashed at the Leaky? That started a few days ago.
This summer sucked like the rest. Dudley home, sneering. Uncle Vernon backing him. Aunt Petunia silent. Bearable—just survive till Hogwarts.
Then Aunt Marge—Vernon's sister, country hag, no blood relation but demanded "Auntie." Every visit left scars.
Age five: tried cracking his shin with her cane.
Seven: Christmas "gift"—dog biscuits, dared him to eat them in public.
Ten: let her bulldogs chase him up a tree till midnight.
Plenty more. Harry had zero doubt this visit would be vicious. But second-year summer—he needed that Hogsmeade form signed. He'd swallow it.
He kept cool. No fights.
Until two nights ago at dinner. The dog-breeding shrew insulted his parents. Rage snapped. He accidentally inflated her like a balloon, left her bobbing against the ceiling—same helpless panic he'd felt stuck in that tree.
Aftermath? Not great. Broke the Statute of Secrecy, underage magic ban—wand confiscation, expulsion, homeless.
Except… it didn't go that way.
Knight Bus to the Leaky Cauldron. Ran into Minister Cornelius Fudge—shady guy, no wand taken, no expulsion. Just: "Settle in, don't wander."
---
Harry shook off the memory, tidied scattered books and letters. Spotted the blank permission slip, paused, tucked it inside his History of Magic textbook.
Sun climbed, sky shifting from iron to vivid purple-red. Morning light slanted through the window, warming the room—dying embers in the grate, suitcase in the wardrobe, polished oak furniture, comfy bed.
Leaky Cauldron rooms were nice—clean, cozy, nothing like the dingy bar downstairs.
Harry made the bed, headed down for breakfast.
He loved the pub. Endless butterbeer, free Shadow-Mirror sports, wild Quidditch matches, bar tales from travelers. Met cool guests.
Diagon Alley life? Pure magic.
Cobblestone street packed with the world's best shops. Chatted gadgets with café regulars—Lunarscopes, Firebolts. Debated Sirius Black's escape. Dodged shady types fresh from Knockturn Alley.
Florin Fortescue—ice-cream genius, history buff—helped with essays, tossed in free sundaes every half hour.
Only problem: everything tempted him. Firebolts gleamed. Galleons glittered. Glass star charts sparkled.
He kept reminding himself: five more years at Hogwarts. Vault inheritance wouldn't last forever. Spend now, beg the Dursleys for books later?
He'd sell his soul to the devil first.
Thinking this, Harry stopped at Flourish and Blotts, ticking off the supply list.
Intermediate Transfiguration
Standard Spells, Level 3
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection, Level 3
Electives covered—Hagrid sent The Monster Book of Monsters for his birthday. Muggle Studies books issued at school. Just Divination left: Unfogging the Future.
Arms full of heavy tomes, Harry hurried back to the Leaky. Climbing stairs, he spotted Tom behind the bar—usually lazy this early—chatting with a young customer.
With Black on the loose, Aurors patrolled heavy, grilling strangers. Morning trade was dead. Tom usually left the bar to staff till evening.
Now butterbeer foam floated in a glass. The young professor sipped, nostalgic. Tom beamed—finally someone ignoring the grime.
"Boggin and Wright up to new tricks?" asked the just-back-from-abroad Melvin. "Heard they're smuggling Shadow-Mirrors overseas through Knockturn. Other Ministries haven't approved them yet—don't let 'em get banned."
"Like India's flying carpets, right?"
Tom chuckled. "Indian wizards tried exporting carpets here. Played dirty, got blacklisted by pure-blood families—banned goods."
Melvin nodded, took a swig. "Tell 'em to watch it."
"No worries. Shadow-Mirrors are old news. Everyone's on Black now."
Tom, rare eager customer, leaned in. "How'd Black escape Azkaban, eh? Azkaban. You wrote that paper ripping their system—treating prisoners like livestock."
"They're not livestock. Dementors are the livestock. Prisoners? Just feed."
Tom's eyes widened, then he whispered, "You've been to Azkaban. No wand—how'd he slip the dementor lockdown?"
"How doesn't matter. Why he escaped—that's the question…"
Melvin turned, spotting the sneaking student. "Harry."