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HRA# CHAPTER 107
🕑 Added 2025-04-23 18:17:17 +0000 UTCHarry spotted Ron’s mother instantly, unmistakable with a red-haired girl bouncing excitedly at her side. The moment the girl saw Harry and Ron emerge, she let out a thrilled squeal.
Neville was whisked away by a stern-looking elderly woman—his grandmother. Her serious demeanor didn’t stop her from solemnly thanking Harry, Ron, and Hermione for looking after Neville at school. She even extended an invitation for them to visit her home sometime, an offer delivered with a gravitas that left an impression.
As Ron put it, facing Neville’s grandmother felt like meeting an even older Professor McGonagall.
Harry thanked Mrs. Weasley for the Christmas sweater, admitting it was surprisingly comfortable. She smiled warmly, promising to knit him a blue one next year—if he didn’t mind, of course.
The parents of his friends were all easy to get along with, which made sense. A troubled home environment would hardly produce the kind of character Harry admired in Ron, Hermione, or Neville.
Take Draco Malfoy, for instance. Harry didn’t believe Draco was born evil. The boy was simply a product of his parents and upbringing—something inevitable, shaped by circumstance.
That’s where differences between people arose: a mix of origin, environment, and personal experiences.
Harry himself was no exception. The Kain family and the Tauren tribes had left an indelible mark on him, woven into his very being. It was a part of him he could never—and would never—cast aside.
After seeing off Neville and Ron, Harry and Hermione found themselves alone as they reached the outer edge of the platform. That’s when Harry spotted his target: Uncle Vernon. He looked a bit thinner since their last meeting, still dressed in his usual white shirt and suit trousers, waving impatiently for Harry to hurry up.
“That’s your uncle?” Hermione whispered, glancing at Vernon. “I read some old issues of The Daily Prophet. They said, well…”
Hermione hesitated, clearly uncomfortable. The Prophet’s coverage of Harry’s Muggle relatives before the school year hadn’t been kind.
“It’s all in the past,” Harry said, shaking his head. “They’ve had their own struggles. Things are much better between us now. No need to worry.”
“Hurry up, boy! We need to get back early!” Vernon’s voice boomed, loud enough to carry across the distance.
“Alright, he does seem in a rush,” Hermione said with a wry smile. “Oh, there’s my parents—both of them! I thought they’d be too busy to come together.”
Following Hermione’s gaze, Harry saw a man and woman approaching quickly, their features bearing a striking resemblance to Hermione.
“Well, no wonder you took so long!” Vernon said as he reached Harry, eyeing Hermione with a strange chuckle. “I knew something was off when your owl-post schedule didn’t match.”
“Don’t start, Uncle,” Harry said, noticing Hermione’s sudden blush. “We were just saying goodbye to friends. This is Hermione, my friend.”
In Britain, whether Muggle or wizard, people seemed to mature a bit too quickly for their own good.
“Fine, fine, whatever you say,” Vernon said with a shrug, clearly not taking Harry’s explanation seriously.
“Hermione?” At that moment, Hermione’s parents arrived.
“Dad! Mum!” Hermione’s face lit up. She rushed into her mother’s arms, then turned back. “This is Harry Potter! And this is his uncle.”
At Hermione’s introduction, the Grangers’ expressions shifted from joy at seeing their daughter to something akin to awe.
“Thank you, thank you, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Granger said, gripping Harry’s hand firmly and shaking it vigorously. “We can’t thank you enough. We’ve wanted to meet you ever since we learned you saved Hermione’s life.”
“My wife and I never imagined she’d face danger because of magic,” he continued. “We thought that school was safe—”
“Hogwarts is safe, Dad!” Hermione interjected, sensing the conversation veering toward her not returning to school. “Last year was just an accident! Besides, young witches and wizards who don’t learn to control their magic are the ones in real danger. That’s far less safe!”
“Alright, alright,” Mr. Granger said, shaking his head. “Your mother and I don’t know as much about magic as you do.” He turned to Vernon, extending a hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Harry’s uncle. It must take someone exceptional to raise a young man as admirable as Mr. Potter. He saved our Hermione, and that means the world to us.”
“…You never mentioned any of this, boy,” Vernon muttered, shooting Harry a glare before shaking Mr. Granger’s hand. “Vernon Dursley. So, you’re—er, I mean, with the magic… you too?”
“Wendell Granger,” Mr. Granger replied warmly. “This is my wife, Monica. As for magic, no, we can’t cast spells. In wizard terms, we’re—what’s the word? Muggles? We run a dental practice and work as dentists.”
“That’s more like it,” Vernon said, visibly relaxing. His smile even seemed genuine. “Dentists, eh? That’s a proper job. None of this wizard nonsense.”
Mr. Granger exchanged a glance with his wife. He recalled Hermione’s letters mentioning that Harry’s uncle wasn’t fond of wizards—or Harry, for that matter. Still, they kept the conversation polite, exchanging pleasantries before leading Hermione away. As they left, Hermione waved enthusiastically, reminding Harry to write.
“That’s the way,” Vernon said with satisfaction as he and Harry climbed into the car. He didn’t start the engine right away. “You should meet more people like the Grangers. Useful folk. Good for your future. Dentists, ha!”
In Britain, dentistry was a prestigious profession—lucrative, respected, and socially connected. Nobody crossed a skilled doctor, especially not one who ran their own practice like the Grangers.
“If you’ve got a toothache, I could brew you a potion for it, Uncle,” Harry teased. “No need for drilling or a week of bland vegetarian meals.”
Harry’s jab hit its mark. Vernon’s face twisted, torn between his disdain for “weird wizard stuff” and his very real fear of dental pain.
“Fine, you win,” Vernon sighed after a long pause. “Where’s this potion?”
“I can brew it when we get home,” Harry said with a shrug. “It’s simple, doesn’t even require casting spells. The Ministry probably won’t care.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Vernon demanded, eyes wide.
“The Ministry bans underage wizards from using magic during holidays,” Harry explained briefly. “Speaking of which, Uncle, can we make a stop before heading home? There’s somewhere I need to go.”
“There’s a rule like that?” Vernon grumbled. “Fine, boy. Since you’re getting me that potion, where to?”
“The Leaky Cauldron.”
When they arrived at the pub where Hagrid had once taken him, Vernon flatly refused to step inside, no matter how much Harry assured him it was safe. Waiting outside a wizarding pub was already pushing Vernon’s limits—it was like sitting on a powder keg, as far as he was concerned.
With no other choice, Harry entered the Leaky Cauldron alone. He quickly signaled Tom, the barman, to keep quiet, ordered a butterbeer, and slipped into the darkest, most secluded corner.
He had something to test: the rule that students couldn’t cast magic outside school during the holidays.
The summer was long, and Harry’s time was precious. He couldn’t bear the thought of two months without studying this world’s magic. It would be a waste of his potential.
Before leaving Hogwarts, Harry had scoured the library for information on the subject. He found that the Ministry used the Trace to monitor underage wizards’ magic use. The records were sparse—likely to prevent clever students from finding loopholes. All he uncovered was a single line about the Trace and a thick tome listing punishments for underage magic, including expulsions from Hogwarts. The intent was clear: deterrence.
But Harry wasn’t deterred. With his current magical knowledge and intuition, he had his own theories.
Ever since signing his name on that Ministry notice at school, Harry had felt something intangible settle over him. It wasn’t just a piece of parchment. When students signed, something transferred from the paper to them—likely the Trace, a magical tracking mechanism.
What puzzled Harry was the punishment record. The thick book detailed every infraction: who, when, where, why, and how they were punished. Yet, no matter how many pages he turned, he never found a single case involving Hogsmeade, Godric’s Hollow, or Transylvanian villages—places either populated entirely by wizards or mixed with Muggles.
The pattern was glaringly obvious, almost laughably so.
Harry couldn’t know the family backgrounds of every punished student, but he noticed a trend: the offenders were either young wizards living in Muggle neighborhoods or scattered in Muggle cities. In other words, their parents were likely non-magical, or they lived far from adult wizards.
Harry didn’t believe for a second that wizarding families’ children were so obedient as to never cast a spell during the holidays. Even Ron’s offhand comment about Fred and George hinted at the truth. The twins had likely figured this out but kept it from their younger brother.
This was why Harry hadn’t asked Vernon to drive straight to Privet Drive. Instead, he’d come to the Leaky Cauldron, a place teeming with wizards, to test his theory.
After a moment’s thought, Harry tapped his glass with a finger. Instantly, the glass sprouted two legs and began dancing in the unnoticed corner. It completed a full routine, even taking a bow before reverting to its original shape. Harry watched closely. Nothing happened—no anomaly, no consequence.
No Aurors burst through the door. No Ministry officials appeared. Not even an owl swooped in.
Step one: success.
Next, Harry drew his wand and discreetly cast a simple Levitation Charm. The butterbeer glass floated upward. He waited.
Nothing. Everything remained perfectly normal.
Harry was ready to draw his conclusion.
The Trace could detect magic use within a certain area but couldn’t pinpoint who cast the spell. It was designed primarily to monitor Muggle-born or Muggle-raised wizards.
It made sense. Hogwarts’ countless protective enchantments could handle mischievous students, but the outside world wasn’t so fortified. If Muggle-raised wizards cast spells freely at home, they could cause accidents—or worse, their non-magical parents couldn’t control them.
Wizarding families, on the other hand, had parents who were wizards themselves, capable of managing their children and knowing the boundaries of acceptable magic.
Once wizards came of age, the Trace no longer applied, freeing them to cast spells outside school. But by then, another system kept them in check: Wizarding Law.
All in all, Harry approved of the Ministry’s approach, even if he saw through its tactics. Unfortunately, he fell into the first category: a wizard living in a Muggle neighborhood, where any magic would be instantly detected.
Privet Drive wasn’t a wizarding hub, and Harry was certain no other wizarding families lived nearby. If there were, his magic-averse aunt and uncle would’ve sniffed them out long ago.
Downing the last of his butterbeer, Harry resolved to tackle the first item on his holiday to-do list: ensuring he could study magic freely over the summer.
That meant reclaiming the Potter family home.
But first, back to Privet Drive.
Dumbledore, who’d been avoiding Harry for some time, had pulled him aside before the holidays. Despite the risk of being roped into manual labor, he’d stressed that Harry needed to spend at least a few days each year with his blood relatives to maintain the protective charm Lily had placed on him. This would hold until he came of age.
As Harry climbed back into the car, Vernon was visibly impatient.
“Off meeting your fan club again?” Vernon said, starting the engine with a scowl. “I’ll admit, you’ve got some fame among those… freaks. But don’t think that means you can lord it over us. Not a chance.”
Vernon hadn’t forgotten the scene at King’s Cross, where strangers kept waving at Harry, calling out “See you, Harry!” or “Happy holidays, Potter!” Some clueless Muggles even asked if Harry was a rising film star, which had thoroughly irritated Vernon. To him, it was all too conspicuous.
It made him feel like a freak.
Vernon’s tone wasn’t exactly warm, but it wasn’t hostile either. The car rumbled toward Privet Drive, and Harry pulled a piece of parchment from his bag, scribbling quickly.
“…What’s that?” Vernon asked, glancing back briefly.
“A letter,” Harry replied softly. He opened Hedwig’s cage and took her out.
“Can you find her?” Harry asked, looking into Hedwig’s eyes. “Rita Skeeter.”
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T/N: If you find any typos or incorrect names, please leave a comment. Thanks, and enjoy reading!
Comments
Samuel S.
“No need for drilling or a week of bland vegetarian meals.” ... Harry IS an Angel!
