Chapter Text
The early summer of 1998 had draped London in a gentle, warm haze. The war was over, the countless funerals were done, and the accolades had been politely accepted, then shelved. Inside the walls of the cool Grimmauld Place, time felt like it had, for a precious few weeks, no meaning. All Harry wanted was time to breathe and let the world turn without him for a while. Maybe get some good sleep for once too, that would be brilliant.
Today was one such blessedly quiet day. Harry had slept in, then had a lengthy wank in the shower. To be precise, it was June 5th, which Harry refused to give any special meaning to, absolutely not ruminating on if a certain blond boy—man—was doing okay after the rushed hearings and sentencing, if his mum was alright, having lost her husband to Azkaban and her fortunes to the Ministry.
Harry had baked a sour apple crumble cake on a whim. He was two-thirds through eating it on his own when the doorbell of Grimmauld Place rang, confusing him at first since he'd never heard it do that before, but then Kreacher all but fell over himself rushing to answer it with a ‘Kreacher welcomes an esteemed guest to the most ancient and noble House of Black, oh forgive me my tardiness, forgive me!’
"Good day to you too, Kreacher." Harry heard a scarily familiar voice from the hallway. "As is custom, I brought a gift."
"Kreacher will prepare the accommodating tea at once, Mistress McGonagall."—Wait, what?!
"Good morning, Mr Potter."
Harry was suddenly acutely aware that he was still wearing his pyjama bottoms and a handed down, worn down Chudley Cannons jersey. The urge to quickly change into his school uniform was making his skin itch.
"Er, hi?" Harry said. "I mean, good morning, Professor McGonagall," he quickly added, shuffling his feet that weren't wearing matching socks. "What brings you here? Did something happen?"
McGonagall gave Harry a sympathetic smile. "May I take a seat?"
"Oh, yes, sure." Harry hurried to pull a hoodie off the armchair, and while he was at it, he collected his jeans, two jumpers and five socks off the sofa and sent them up the stairs into a hamper.
"I have thought it best to come personally to extend Hogwarts’ invitation to you, given how previous attempts to reach you by post went."
"But that was because—nevermind, thank you," he managed, perching on the edge of the sofa, unsure what to do with his sticky hands.
"Your second try at a final year and your NEWTs, if you choose to attend, will be rather unique," McGonagall continued, her tone brisk but not unkind. "House segregation for the eighth-year students is being abolished entirely. The dormitory arrangements are still being finalised, but you will most likely not be returning to Gryffindor Tower."
"Right," Harry said, for lack of a better response, the same moment Kreacher popped into existence bearing a tea set he'd never seen before and biscuits arranged on a tiered stand.
It had only been a month since he saw Hogwarts under siege, and they were already re-recruiting students?
"Furthermore," she added, fixing him with a keen look, "given the rather... accelerated life experience you and your classmates have endured, the school is permitting significant adjustments to your chosen NEWT subjects, no questions asked. The deadline for changes will be the 31st of July."
That gave him proper pause. The idea of dropping Potions was incredibly appealing. "I'll have a think about that," he said, meaning it.
"Of course." McGonagall nodded. "Might I have an immediate answer regarding your return, however?"
"Absolutely," Harry said without hesitation. "I'll be there." Because Hermione would be there, which meant Ron would be there, too. And he needed his NEWTs to apply for Auror training, he didn't want the spot handed to him.
"Excellent, then we’ll see each other on the 3rd of September for the opening ceremony." McGonagall rose, her mission clearly accomplished. She pulled a parchment from her sleeve. "You’ll find all necessary details for supplies and equipment on this. Please double-check the list of requirements so nothing will be amiss."
"Will I need a familiar?" Harry blurted out the question before he could stop himself.
"As all students do, yes," McGonagall replied, smoothing her robes.
"Do the old rules still apply?"
She pressed her lips into a thin line and peered at him with exasperated suspicion over the rims of her spectacles. "What mischief are you planning, Mr Potter?"
"None," Harry held up his hands placatingly. "But, er, can I bring a snake?"
"A snake?" Her eyebrows shot up.
"His name is Ashton," Harry explained, gesturing towards the large glass doors leading outside into the back yard. "He was already living in the garden when I officially moved in a month ago. He really wants to see Hogwarts."
"Is it, pardon, is he venomous?"
"No, he's a harmless grass snake."
McGonagall’s gaze sharpened. "I take it you haven’t lost the ability to speak Parseltongue?"
Harry shrugged, aiming to look innocent. He hadn't told anyone yet, but, oh boy, had he talked a lot with Ashton.
She hummed, a low, intrigued sound, but didn’t further comment on it. "Very well. Ashton will be welcome. Do take into account that the larger school owls naturally prey upon snakes, and that he himself will be forbidden from preying on other students' toads or rats."
"He’ll be on his best behaviour," Harry promised, a grin tugging at his mouth. Ashton would be ecstatic!
"And will you?" Another pointed glance over her glasses pinned him in place.
"Wouldn’t dream of causing any trouble," Harry said, with what he hoped was a convincing earnestness, holding up his hands.
After seeing her out, Harry wandered back to his cake that still sat on the kitchen table, now unfortunately cold. His head was buzzing. He'd just… go back to school? The school that was under siege four weeks ago? Did they really finish fixing everything up already?
No more houses. That meant no more common room to avoid certain people in; they’d all just be... there, even if he dropped the Slytherin-dominated Potions. It was a weird notion. But would the Slytherins be back? Would, would Malfoy be back? Shit, he should have asked McGonagall, but she was gone already!
Harry had to make plans. A haircut, for one, would honestly be necessary. He couldn’t go back looking like this. He should go get his robe fitted, too, he'd outgrown it a bit, it sat too snug around the shoulders now. Then there was the shopping list on McGonagall's parchment, too. Oh, and Ashton would need a terrarium—how would he transport that? Would Ashton be allowed on the Express? Well, there hadn't been any security checks before.
He still had time, almost three months even, to figure everything out. What he had to do immediately was tell his serpentine friend the good news!
Harry grabbed the cake and his fork and made for the garden doors. Stepping out into the overgrown patch behind the townhouse, he squinted against the summer sun. "Ashton, are you there?"
A rustle came from the long grass near the old stone wall. A sleek, greenish head poked up, beady black eyes fixing on him. "'Ello, Harry. My goodness, is that the cake you were raving about all morning? Looks wonderful, but you know I'm on a strict frog-and-rodent diet. Thank you for the offer, though."
Harry looked down at his cake. The thought of sharing it had never crossed his mind.
The grass snake slithered over, his whole body vibrating with inquisitive energy. "So? You look like you have good news. Spill."
"Right," Harry said, a grin spreading across his face. "I'm going back. To Hogwarts."
Ashton’s head shot up, his coils tightening in excitement. "Is that true? The actual Hogwarts? The one with the giant squid in the lake and the moving staircases and the secret passages you’re always talking about?"
"Yes, that one."
The snake began weaving a delighted figure of eight on the warm flagstones. "You're having me on! That's brilliant, that is! Good heavens, the rodent population in a place that old must be superb, completely organic, free of plastics. Proper five-star dining!"
Harry laughed. "Thought you might like it. So, do you want to come? Have a bit of an adventure?"
"Want to come?" Ashton echoed, sounding utterly affronted. "I’ve been keeping this garden mouse free for three summers, I’ve earned a proper holiday! I’m going to be a tourist snake! Can we see the Whomping Willow? And the Forbidden Forest?"
"I’ll get you a proper travel terrarium, if you'd like, and a big one for the dorm," Harry promised, his mind already ticking over the details.
"Make it a good one!" Ashton insisted, his excitement clearly in overdrive. "With a view! I want to see the Scottish countryside rolling by. And you have to point out all the landmarks on the way. This is the best news I’ve had since I heard you talk, and, mate, that was something else already!"
Harry settled back against the sun-warmed brick wall of the house, letting the quiet June atmosphere wrap around them. Ashton had draped himself over a low-hanging branch of a struggling lilac bush, looking supremely pleased.
"I'll get to meet your friends!" Ashton declared from his perch, swaying slightly. "The ginger one who sounds hilarious and the clever one who fixed your glasses."
"They won't be able to understand you, though," Harry reminded him, the old, familiar pang of his oddity twinging in his chest. He could already picture Ron's wary jump or Hermione's politely concerned expression. "But I can be your interpreter."
"Even better!" Ashton said, completely undaunted. "Makes me sound important. I'll have a personal translator, very distinguished."
Harry had to laugh at the image. "I'll introduce you to everyone. Hagrid will love you, surely. He's got a real soft spot for all creatures."
Ashton gave an approving little wiggle. "He sounds like a fine fellow. But you have to show me that Malfoy bloke, too, the one from all the stories. No way he's as pretty as you describe him."
Harry, who had been watching a small cloud drift across the bright blue sky, snapped his gaze back to the snake. "He, wait, what? Pretty?"
"Yes," Ashton said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Whenever you talk about him, it's all 'pointy face' and 'silver eyes' and 'pale hair' and 'blushes the colour of musk mallow flowers', making him sound like some Tolkien elf. Awfully dramatic, but pretty."
He'd been told all snakes knew Tolkien, but Ashton wouldn't go into detail, acting quite offended at the notion that Harry was questioning his knowledge. He had yet to admit he had never read the books.
Harry felt his ears grow hot. "I was describing him for identification purposes," he muttered, feeling a bit flustered. "So you'd recognise a potential threat."
"Right, right," Ashton replied, his tone dripping with serpentine scepticism. "A 'threat' with lovely starlight hair. Understood. Well, this tourist wants to see the sights, and apparently he's one of them. Consider it a cultural excursion."
Shaking his head, Harry decided to let the matter drop. The sun was too nice, and the prospect of the future, for once, felt strangely light.
— = —
As June wore on, Harry all but lazed about his home, ordering takeaway almost every day and trying a bit of everything, unless Kreacher bullied Harry into letting him cook at least once a week. Harry was not allowed to clean the kitchen afterwards.
By the end of the month he finally began to feel bored and, during a stroll through Muggle London's high streets, picked up a cookbook. Kreacher wasn't approving, but he preferred cleaning alongside Harry to not cleaning at all.
It was nice to be able to cook whatever he wanted, even if his exotic picks turned out bad and weird-looking on his first try. He could do whatever he wanted, until school started again. At least as long as he didn't step into Diagon Alley and get instantly crowded.
For whatever reason, it took until the first of July for every other eighth-year student to receive their invitation by traditional owl delivery.
And then all hell broke loose.
Ron’s was surprisingly cheerful, but that may have been caused by the lovely weather the following Sunday that allowed for a giant barbecue in the Burrow's garden. Hermione’s reaction was, predictably, a detailed pre-written missive she handed out to them about revised NEWT prerequisites and a gently probing question about his ‘post-war academic mindset.’
Seamus had moved in with Dean at his parents' place, and they had invited him for a summer get together when his parents had left to go and attend a wedding on the other side of the country. Both were looking forward to getting back, but worried about not being allowed to room together. Harry told them they'd be fine, since he'd be fine if he couldn't room with Ron anymore, too. They had shaken their heads at him, refilled his firewhiskey, whispered amongst each other, and bloody giggled.
Luna’s letter arrived with a faint, silvery glitter that smelled of mint, her looping handwriting describing how the ‘Hog's Ward Brownies’ were nearly finished with the Ravenclaw dormitories and that she was eager to return with proper thanks. Harry planned on asking for clarification later, but only because Ashton seemed to be familiar with Brownies and wanted to know more.
Neville’s response when he was asked by their friends was short and quiet—‘I’ll be there’—but when Harry later owled him about terrarium recommendations and bioactive planting, a passionate three-page treatise on suitable mosses and drainage layers came back within a day. How he'd react at seeing a snake in there later on, Harry wasn't sure, but hoped for the best.
The sudden, cacophonous return of his friends into his life left Harry feeling pleasantly winded and exhilarated at the same time. He spent a long afternoon at the Burrow, squeezed into the kitchen amid the wonderful chaos, letting Mrs Weasley’s fussing and Ron’s enthusiastic Quaffle-tossing plans wash over him. It was a stark, welcome contrast to the quiet of Grimmauld Place. The silence had felt good, and needed, but now he was feeling properly alive.
"Hey, uhm," he ventured during a lull in the chatter, "does anyone know if I can get a custom wand in time?"
Several heads turned towards him. "You know mine was snapped," he added, "and we buried the Elder Wand with Dumbledore."
"Well, why not reach out to old Ollivander for an appointment?" Ron suggested around a mouthful of biscuit.
"Er, how about someone else?" Harry shifted in his seat. "He can’t be the only wandmaker."
"But he’s the best," Ron insisted.
"Says who?" Harry countered.
George laughed from the corner. "He has a point."
"Who’s the second best and doesn’t do lobbying?" Harry pressed.
"That would be Benedict Lyneman," Bill offered, looking up from his book. "He’s got a shop in Oaksdale, a smaller wizarding town up north, but he’s notoriously private."
"Excuse me, but why not Ollivander?" Hermione asked, bewildered.
"I don’t want another surprise prophecy," Harry muttered, avoiding everyone’s gaze.
George laughed again. "Want me to tag along? I’ve met him before. Bit eccentric, but sharp. True artist."
"Do you already have something in mind?" Molly inquired, her motherly curiosity clearly piqued.
"Er, no," Harry admitted. He knew what he didn’t want, and would work from there.
"You might want to ask Hermione to research wand-lore with you," Ron said, gesturing at his girlfriend who nodded eagerly.
"I don’t think he should," Ginny interjected. She had kept her distance since their breakup, but her gaze was steady on him from across the table. "Do it on your own. Make one that comes from your heart and no one else’s."
She was right.
So Harry risked a dust lung as he wandered into Grimmauld Place’s library and researched on his own. First, he crossed out any and all ‘prophecy’ and ‘bound for greatness’ woods, next all that thrived on travelling. He was bound to Hogwarts, then further education, for years. Anything that allowed Dark magic went next. He hesitated at woods prone for Healing, but crossed them out as well. Given the things he had seen, he knew he’d not make a good Healer. One kid being admitted into his care showing signs of physical abuse and he might hex the parents without thinking.
Willow sounded great until he stumbled over ‘emotional intelligence’, cringed, but admitted that he was lacking. Aspen had potential—it was great in the hands of duellists—but he was not a revolutionary nor intent on more fighting. Walnut, too, sounded like a good fit at first; it was adaptable and paired well with versatile owners, but didn’t suit instinct-driven wizards. Fir was a good match, resilient and attaching itself well to survivors of adversity. But Harry was done surviving; he wanted to live now.
His choice, after days of ruminating, staring himself down in the mirror, and reflecting by talking to Ashton and even the far more openly critical Kreacher, fell on Cedar.
He had the moral steadiness for it, right? It tolerated feelings and instinctive casting, responded well to non-verbal spells, and worked best for those who valued loyalty and confidence without arrogance. It also, most importantly, would not permit magic born from cruelty or domination to be cast through it. What occurred in that bathroom—Draco cut open and lying in a puddle of his own blood because Harry hadn’t known the brutality of the spell—would never happen again.
Cedar wood would represent who he had become so far and wanted to be. Steadfast, loyal, and trusting his instincts.
Now, for the core. He sipped the tea that Kreacher had left for him and opened the chapter on the topic.
Well, he was able to settle on one far more quickly than on a wood. He was irrevocably drawn to the same over and over, and it did make sense.
Armed with a scrap of parchment noting his requests, Harry Floo-called George to arrange the introduction.
Lyneman’s workshop, when they arrived, was a cramped cave of whirring lathes and shimmering wood shavings that smelled of resin and ozone. The wandmaker himself, a stout man with hair like smoke, listened in silence as Harry haltingly explained his needs. He asked no probing questions, simply studied Harry’s face as one might examine a peculiar knot in a piece of timber.
"Cedar," Lyneman finally echoed, his voice raspy, nodding contemplatively. "A guardian’s wood. It chooses witches and wizards who possess a latent, stubborn strength. Not for flamboyant heroes, but for those who stand their ground." He turned to a rack of pale, aromatic blanks. "The trick will be finding the core that agrees with you."
He proposed several rare materials, his hands moving with a quiet reverence as he laid out lengthy vials containing dragon heartstring and bundles of thunderbird feather. Harry, however, had already known what he wanted. "I was thinking of a Thestral hair core," he said, resolute.
Lyneman’s assessing gaze sharpened. "A bold choice, young man. It demands a specific understanding. Pardon my bluntness, but that you have witnessed death is not what I question, but do you truly understand its nature?"
"I don't remember watching my parents die," Harry began, his throat tightening, "but I remember my godfather. Too many friends." He paused, the next words heavy on his tongue, "And myself."
From the corner, where he’d been quietly examining a wall of exotic woods, George looked over, his expression one of surprised understanding. He didn't speak, but gave Harry’s shoulder a firm, gentle pat.
Lyneman merely nodded and averted his now skittish eyes. "The hair is meant for precise magic, not explosive power. It resonates with instinct, with will rather than words, and Cedar will temper it, if necessary. This will be the wand of a survivor moving on, Mr Potter, not a soldier. Take note." He selected a cedar blank, and the process began.
Harry watched, a quiet sense of rightness settling over him as the wand began to take shape.