Morning at the Leaky Cauldron, corner table by the wall.
The young elective professor sat across from the soon-to-be third-year. Merlin had ordered butterbeer and fish and chips, but he ignored the fish, just dipping fries in ketchup and eating them slow and steady. The bar owner stood alone behind the counter, giving them a side-eye.
They'd been talking for half an hour—mostly Harry doing the talking. Merlin hadn't said much.
"Ever since I can remember, that's how it's been," Harry said, voice low. "They never let me forget I'm not really part of the family. I'm the relative who got dumped on them. Extra baggage."
He sounded down, a quiet ache in his words. Since leaving Privet Drive, he'd been through panic, nowhere to go, lost. He still didn't know how he'd ended up on the Knight Bus that night.
A thirteen-year-old kid, not fully grown up, thrown into all that chaos—his heart couldn't settle. The Leaky Cauldron was okay, but only now, talking to a professor he trusted completely, did he finally relax.
"I don't know what the Dursleys are really like," Merlin said calmly, dipping a fry. "And it's not my place to judge someone else's family."
He took a sip of butterbeer. "My opinion doesn't matter. You're the one in the relationship. Only your thoughts can shape its future."
Harry bit into a fry hard. "My thoughts? I never want to go back to Privet Drive for holidays. Ever. If I could, I'd just live here."
"Don't rush to conclusions," Merlin said, taking his time. "First, answer a few questions."
"What questions?"
"Are you a Dursley?"
"I…" Harry started to say no, but it didn't come out clean. "I'm their nephew. Aunt Petunia's my mom's sister."
"So you're just Petunia Dursley's relative."
Merlin nodded, sipping again. "What does your Aunt Petunia do for work?"
Harry blinked, confused. "Why's that matter? She doesn't work. She's a stay-at-home mom. Does housework all day."
"So I'm guessing she's got no income. Fully dependent on her husband."
"Yeah."
"So out of the three Dursleys, Vernon and Dudley aren't blood-related to you. They've got no obligation to raise you. The only relative is Petunia—a homemaker with no money. She might want to, but can't really support you."
Harry listened, and something solid inside him cracked—his hatred for Dudley, his anger at Vernon, his resentment toward Petunia, his frustration with the whole family.
"I don't know what Vernon or Dudley think," Merlin went on. "But Petunia's probably stuck in the middle. She raised you instead of sending you to an orphanage or church. Probably talked her husband into it. What do you think?"
"Uh… yeah," Harry mumbled.
Merlin held a fry, expression calm. "In the adult world, a stay-at-home mom with no income doesn't have much say. If she sides with an outsider, she becomes one. What's she supposed to do? She's gotta back the Dursleys to keep her husband and son from kicking you out."
"But they…" Harry started, but his fire was fading.
"They did treat you badly."
Merlin didn't say "they raised you, be grateful, forgive." Childhood pain is real. Even if it's over, even if the person doesn't hold a grudge, telling someone to "just get over it" is annoying.
The Dursleys didn't raise him well. Fact.
Childhood hurt cuts deep.
Finishing the last fry, Merlin looked at the runaway kid. "The world's complicated. Relationships aren't one-dimensional. You've gotta learn to see people from different angles, figure out how to handle them, keep things running smoothly until you're independent."
Harry hesitated, silent, unsure what to say.
Merlin wiped his hands with a napkin, wrapping up the session. "I just got back to London. Haven't booked a hotel. How's the Leaky Cauldron for staying? Might just crash here."
"It's… pretty good."
Harry's brain was still spinning.
"Clean? No rats crawling on your pillow at night?"
"No, rooms are clean," Harry said, shifting gears. "They clean every day. It's right by Diagon Alley—shop owners are nice…"
After a few days here, he was actually grateful to Minister Fudge. Not as bad as he thought. At least Fudge let him settle in.
"Fudge isn't as awful as I figured. Didn't fine me for using magic, let me stay here. Everything's good, just… he's so rigid. Wouldn't sign the Hogsmeade permission slip. 'Rules are rules,' he said…"
Harry frowned. "He's the Minister of Magic. Approving a third-year's weekend trip—how's that breaking rules?"
"He's not worried about rules," Merlin said. "Fudge wants you safe and out of sight. No contact with strangers. Scared Black'll find you."
Harry blinked. "Oh. That explains why he let me off."
Then he frowned again. "Why's everyone so sure Black's after me? Stan and Ern on the Knight Bus, Mr. Florean at the ice cream parlor… they all look at me weird when Black's mentioned. Is he that obsessed with me? Just because of Voldemort—his master?"
Merlin paused, choosing words. "Like I said—don't think one-dimensionally. Look at it from multiple angles."
Harry noticed Merlin's eyes shift, something complicated in them. Not like the other wizards. "You saying Black won't come after me?"
"No. He will find you."
"Not for Voldemort?"
"Hold on, Harry. Let me figure out how to explain."
Merlin wasn't ready to spill everything—he was waiting for the show. But he wouldn't lie. "It starts with your parents' year at Hogwarts."
"There was this famous Gryffindor group: Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, Remus Lupin, and your dad, James Potter. Best friends. Did everything together—messing around in class, showing off in the halls. That friendship lasted past graduation."
Harry's mouth fell open.
"That was during the Death Eater rise. They hunted anyone against Voldemort. Your parents escaped them three times. Then you were born. Too little for constant running. Needed a safe place. That's where the Fidelius Charm came in."
Harry wished Hermione were here—she'd explain it instantly.
Instead, he just stared. "What's the Fidelius Charm?"
"A protection spell. Hides a secret in a Secret-Keeper's soul. No one can find it unless the Secret-Keeper tells. Used for safe houses, important people."
Merlin looked into Harry's green eyes. "The story was—your parents chose Sirius Black as Secret-Keeper. The rest… you know."
Harry sat frozen.
Yeah. He knew. Voldemort found them. Parents dead. Left him—the Boy Who Lived.
"Black betrayed them," Harry whispered, lost. Panicked, he grabbed the butterbeer and took a swig.
No wonder people looked at him like that. No wonder everyone thought Black would come for him. This was the man who caused his parents' deaths. His blood enemy.
A hot surge rose from his stomach. The butterbeer burned—fizzy, alcoholic, throat to heart. He forgot he was in a pub. Fear, anger, hate—blood pounding. He wanted to kill Sirius Black himself.
Knock… knock…
Merlin tapped the table. The sound snapped Harry out of it.
"Remember what I said?"
"Don't think one way. Look at it from all sides," Harry repeated, dazed.
"Good."
Merlin watched him. Eyes a little glassy—too much info too fast. Brain overloaded. But otherwise okay.
He'd let Harry cool off. Merlin stood, headed to the bar to pay Tom and book a room. Also ask about Azkaban.
Tom hadn't refilled the butterbeer. Just asked after Harry. Hearing the old story, he sighed, shook his head, moved on.
Merlin sipped. "Black escaped Azkaban. What's the Ministry doing? Aurors? Dementors?"
"Aurors and Dementors patrolling. Posted notices, wanted posters."
"Where are the Dementors searching?"
Tom eyed him. "Why you asking?"
Professor. Probably legit. "Mostly around the North Sea. Planning another sweep of Knockturn and Diagon, but Dementors are hated. Last sweep was recent—Wizengamot shot it down."
"North Sea… far from London."
"Not for wizards."
"Not for Dementors either. No Floo. No Apparition."
"Why you care?"
"Nothing…"
Merlin shook his head, casual. He cared because he wanted to catch one—for research.
Bastian's growing weird powers needed Dementor treatment. The basilisk gift was similar. He'd thought of it in Azkaban, but Dementors were on payroll, and Tonks was there. No chance.
Plus, no safe way to contain one yet.
Needed a solid plan. Professional input.
Merlin sipped, thoughtful.
Chatted with Tom. Time passed. Finished the butterbeer. Nearly noon.
The pub filled up. Tom got busy—serving, kitchen help from family. Merlin got the latest news, filed it away.
Harry sat in the corner, still dazed.
Old witches—seventy-plus—sipped sherry. Someone smoked a long pipe, blue smoke stinging. A few noticed his scar, glanced over. Thanks to Black's escape, no one approached.
Merlin's advice echoed. Harry couldn't see the point. He just wanted revenge. Kill Sirius Black.
But he knew he couldn't take a dark wizard. That scared him.
Thoughts tangled like Acromantula webs. No way out.
He stood, walked to the bar. "Professor… what should I do? Any advice?"
"Advice…"
Merlin thought. "Write your aunt and uncle. Tell them where you are. Don't forget the Hogsmeade permission slip."
Harry blinked. That's not what he meant. He hadn't thought about the Dursleys once in the last half hour. Words shifted:
"Will they sign it?"
"Who knows."