The dawn broke gently over the Scottish Highlands, lighting up McGonagall’s cottage with golden hues. Inside, a seven-year-old Harry Potter, stood on a wooden step stool beside a well-worn countertop. His small hands were busy whisking eggs in a ceramic bowl, the scent of freshly baked bread filling the cozy kitchen. The rhythmic chirping of birds from the nearby trees, just outside the windows, provided a peaceful background.
“Magic would make this quicker … wouldn’t it?” Harry asked eagerly, his green eyes alight with curiosity. He glanced at Professor McGonagall, who was meticulously slicing vegetables with a kitchen knife.
“Magic isn’t always the solution, Harry,” she replied with a slight smile, her Scottish brogue gentle yet firm. “Besides, the fact remains that you are still too young to practice magic … and some things are best done the Muggle way. It teaches patience and precision. Both are qualities you’ll need as a wizard.”
Harry frowned, setting the whisk down for a moment. “But what’s the point of being a wizard if I can’t use magic all the time?”
McGonagall stopped her work and turned to him, placing her hand gently on his shoulder. “Magic is a gift, Harry, not a shortcut. A true wizard knows when to use it and when not to. Magic shouldn’t be used it as a crutch. Do you think I’d be a good teacher if I only taught how to use magic but completely ignored teaching when to use it?”
Harry tilted his head, thinking. “No, I guess not.”
“Exactly. Now, finish whisking those eggs while I heat the pan,” she said, her tone softening. She pointed back to the whisk. “And don’t forget, clean as you go.”
Harry dutifully picked up the whisk again, determined to do his best.
When breakfast was ready, the table was set with a neatly folded cloth, steaming plates of eggs and toast, and a small pot of tea. Harry’s mismatched socks peeked out beneath his chair as he swung his legs, eagerly digging into his meal.
“This is delicious,” he said between bites.
“It is, we really did a good job,” she replied with a fond look. “And remember, after breakfast, the dishes that we didn’t get to while cooking need to be cleaned, they won’t just clean themselves.”
Harry’s groan made her chuckle, but he still took his plate to the sink when he was done, carefully rinsing it under the tap.
As they tidied up, their conversation turned to books. “Can I read more about magical creatures today?” Harry asked. “I finished that book about dragons last night.”
“You may, but I expect you to try something new this time,” McGonagall said, placing a clean plate on the drying rack. “Perhaps something on history or potions. A well-rounded education is the key to a sharp mind.”
Harry nodded, his love for learning evident. McGonagall’s own passion for knowledge had rubbed off on him, and he often spent hours poring over the books she brought home from Hogwarts.
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During the school year, while McGonagall was away teaching during the day, Harry spent his afternoons with Miss Abercrombie, a retired witch who lived in a charming stone house on the edge of the village. The house smelled perpetually of lavender and freshly baked scones, and the shelves were crammed with jars of peculiar ingredients and stacks of enchanted trinkets.
“Now, Harry,” Miss Abercrombie began one sunny afternoon, handing him a small potted plant with shimmering silver leaves, “this is a Moonvine. It’s sensitive to touch, so be gentle when you water it.”
Harry carefully poured a stream of water from a brass watering can, his tongue poking out in concentration. The plant shivered slightly, its leaves glinting like stars.
“Well done,” Miss Abercrombie said, clapping her hands. “You’ve got a natural touch. Perhaps you’ll be a fine Herbologist one day.”
Harry beamed. He loved these afternoons, filled with magical curiosities and stories from Miss Abercrombie’s younger days. She had a knack for making lessons feel like adventures, weaving tales of daring witches and wizards into her explanations of magical theory.
“Did you really ride a dragon once?” Harry asked, his eyes wide as he munched on a jam-filled biscuit.
“Only briefly,” she said with a wink. “And let me tell you, it’s a miracle I’m alive. Dragons are terribly temperamental. Now, let’s see how much you remember about wand movements for basic charms.”
She handed him a practice wand made of smooth birch wood. Though it couldn’t produce real magic, it helped Harry memorize the motions and incantations. He took to the lessons eagerly, his small hands mimicking the graceful swirls and flicks.
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No matter how busy her day at Hogwarts had been, McGonagall always returned home to spend her evenings with Harry. She would often arrive tired but smiling, her green robes dusted with chalk or parchment tucked under her arm.
“How was your day?” she asked one evening, setting her things down and pouring herself a cup of tea.
“I learned about Moonvines and practiced my wand movements,” Harry said proudly. “Miss Abercrombie says I’m getting better.”
“Good,” McGonagall replied, nodding. “Consistency is key. Now, what would you like to do tonight?”
“Can we talk about potions again?” Harry asked, his excitement palpable. “I want to know why dragon’s blood is so special.”
McGonagall chuckled softly. “A curious mind is a wonderful thing. Very well, we’ll talk about potions.” She retrieved a small book from a nearby shelf and settled into her favorite chair by the fire. Harry sat cross-legged on the rug, his eyes fixed on her as she began to read.
Their evenings were often like this—quiet, intimate moments filled with shared knowledge and warmth. Sometimes, McGonagall would grade essays from her students while Harry curled up with a book of his own. Other times, they would play a game of wizard chess or simply talk about their day.
As the fire crackled softly, Harry leaned his head against McGonagall’s knee. “I wish you didn’t have to go to Hogwarts every day,” he murmured.
McGonagall placed a gentle hand on his hair. “It’s my duty, Harry, just as yours will be to learn and grow. But no matter how busy I am, I’ll always be there for you.”
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Weekends and holidays often brought a sense of excitement to Harry’s young life, as those were the days McGonagall would take him beyond the cozy confines of their cottage. With a flick of her wand, they would Apparate to magical destinations around Scotland—places that felt as though they had leaped straight out of the stories he loved so much.
Their journeys usually started in Hogsmeade. As the only entirely magical village in Britain, it held an endless fascination for Harry. Cobblestone streets wound through rows of charming shops with brightly painted signs swinging gently in the breeze. The air smelled of fresh-baked pastries from Honeydukes. The first time they had gone, Harry’s eyes sparkled as he took it all in, his small hand tightly clutching McGonagall’s.
On one such visit, McGonagall led Harry to a cozy corner of the Three Broomsticks. “Sit here, Harry,” she said, ordering two steaming mugs of butterbeer. “Rosmerta makes the best butterbeer in all of Britain.”
Harry sipped his drink, the warmth spreading through his chest like a hug. “It’s brilliant!” he exclaimed, licking the foam from his upper lip.
“It’s a treat,” McGonagall replied with a rare smile. “So don’t get too used to it. But yes it certainly is enjoyable.”
After their stop, they strolled down High Street, past shops selling enchanted quills, shimmering robes, and peculiar magical trinkets. Harry was mesmerized by Zonko’s Joke Shop, where shelves were crammed with exploding candies and joke wands that squeaked when waved.
But it wasn’t just the bustling village that captured Harry’s heart. On quieter days, McGonagall took him into the Highlands, where the mist rolled over sprawling moors and enchanted woodlands. The landscape seemed alive, with the rustle of leaves carrying whispers of magic. Once, while exploring a glen, they came across a small group of glowing wisps that danced in the air. Harry reached out, but the wisps darted away, giggling softly.
“These are Will-o’-the-Wisps,” McGonagall explained. “They’re harmless but mischievous. Follow them too far, and you might find yourself lost.”
Harry stared in awe as they vanished into the fog, leaving a trail of light. Every trip into the Highlands felt like a new adventure, filled with wonder and discovery.
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It was on one of these trips that Harry met Eilidh MacPherson and Finn MacDougall, two magical children from a nearby village. Their families had long been friends of McGonagall, and she thought it would be good for Harry to have playmates his age.
Eilidh was a fiery girl with a thick braid of red hair and an unstoppable energy. From the moment they met, she declared herself Harry’s guide to the magical world. “Come on, Harry!” she exclaimed, pulling him by the arm. “There’s so much to see. I’m going to show you everything!”
Eilidh loved to explore, often leading Harry on adventures through the woods or creating elaborate games where they pretended to be famous wizards and witches. She was especially fond of talking about Hogwarts. “I’m going to be sorted into Gryffindor,” she declared one day. “Like Professor McGonagall and my Mam! And eventually I’ll be Head Girl, and everyone will know my name.”
Harry laughed at her confidence, but he couldn’t help being swept up in her enthusiasm. “Do you think I’ll go to Gryffindor too?” he asked.
“Of course you will,” Eilidh replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re brave, aren’t you?”
Harry didn’t feel particularly brave, but Eilidh’s belief in him made him smile.
Finn MacDougall, on the other hand, was the opposite of Eilidh. Quiet but mischievous, he had a knack for finding magical creatures and convincing Harry to help him care for them. One day, Finn led Harry deep into the woods, carrying a bag of snacks.
“What are we doing?” Harry asked, following cautiously.
Finn grinned. “There’s a thestral near here. I’ve been leaving it food.”
“What’s a thestral?” Harry asked, confused.
“You can only see them if you’ve seen someone die,” Finn explained matter-of-factly. “I … found this out last year when my grandfather passed. They’re not scary, though—they’re really gentle.”
Harry felt a pang of sadness at the thought of why Finn could see the creature when he couldn’t. “I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“It’s all right,” Finn replied with a shrug.
They had walked through the forest for hours until Finn stopped them, pointing into the clearing and saying there was a gathering of them ahead.
At first, Harry didn’t believe him. He squinted at the spot Finn pointed to but saw nothing. “There’s nothing there,” he said.
Finn sighed. “Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it’s not real. My dad says that unfortunately almost everyone ends up being able to see them someday. But for now, let’s make sure they’re fed.”
Together, they left a pile of apples and meat scraps in the clearing. As they walked back, Harry couldn’t help but admire Finn’s quiet wisdom. His love for magical creatures was infectious, and Harry soon found himself joining Finn on more of these small excursions.
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One of Harry’s favorite visitors was Rubeus Hagrid. The half-giant would often ride his giant flying motorbike to their cottage on weekends, bringing gifts of strange magical creatures (half of which McGonagall wouldn’t let Harry keep for various safety concerns) or baskets of baked goods.
“’Ello, Harry!” Hagrid boomed one morning, his massive hand ruffling Harry’s hair. “Brought yeh summat special today.”
He handed Harry a small wooden box. Inside was a tiny puffskein, its soft, round body vibrating with contented hums. Harry’s eyes lit up as he gently stroked the creature. “Thank you, Hagrid!”
“Thought yeh might like a companion,” Hagrid said with a grin. “They’re dead easy to take care of, long as yeh don’t overfeed ’em.”
Hagrid’s visits were always full of laughter and wonder. He told Harry stories about magical creatures he’d encountered and shared tales about Harry’s parents. “Yer dad was a great flier, Harry. Best Chaser I’ve ever seen. And yer mum, she had a way with charms that’d make yeh think magic was dancin’.”
Hearing about his parents made Harry feel closer to them, even though he couldn’t remember them himself. “Do you think they’d be proud of me?” he asked one day, his voice barely above a whisper.
Hagrid’s eyes glistened as he nodded. “’Course they would. They’d be proud as can be.”
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By the time Harry turned eight, he began to sense something strange about the way people looked at him. It started subtly—longer glances, hushed murmurs behind his back, and awkward pauses in conversations. At first, Harry thought it was his imagination, but the pattern became unmistakable.
Whenever he accompanied McGonagall to Hogsmeade or other magical communities, adults would glance at him, their gazes flickering to his forehead before quickly looking away. Some whispered into cupped hands, their voices just low enough for Harry to catch fragments:
“Is that him?”
“... the scar … poor lad …”
“... doesn’t even know, does he?”
The murmurs felt like invisible strings pulling at Harry’s attention, leaving him feeling exposed and uneasy. He found himself wishing McGonagall wouldn’t take him into town at all, but her firm insistence on independence meant Harry often accompanied her on errands.
One afternoon, while sitting on a bench outside Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop waiting for McGonagall, Harry noticed two witches on the opposite side of the street. They were whispering and casting quick glances his way, their expressions a mix of curiosity and pity.
When McGonagall returned, Harry didn’t mention it, but his young mind raced with questions.
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It wasn’t long before Harry turned to Eilidh and Finn for answers. On a brisk spring morning, the three of them were gathered in a grassy field near the edge of the forest. Eilidh was sketching a rough map of the forest in the dirt with a stick, marking areas of interest, while Finn busied himself trying to coax a doxy out of a hollow tree.
“Do people ever … stare at you?” Harry blurted out, interrupting their chatter.
Eilidh frowned, looking up from her map. “What do you mean?”
Harry hesitated, kicking at a tuft of grass. “I don’t know. People in Hogsmeade—they look at me like I’ve got something stuck to my face. And they whisper, too. I don’t get it.”
Finn, who had managed to catch the doxy in an empty jar, glanced over. “Adults are weird,” he said simply, shrugging. “Maybe they’re just nosy.”
“Or maybe it’s your scar,” Eilidh said thoughtfully, tapping her chin with the stick. “It is pretty unusual, you know. I’ve never seen one like it.”
Harry instinctively raised a hand to his forehead, tracing the lightning-bolt-shaped mark. “It’s just a scar,” he muttered.
“Maybe,” Eilidh said, her tone speculative. “But what if it’s something more? Like … I don’t know, a magical symbol or something?” Her eyes sparkled with the thrill of a potential mystery.
Finn rolled his eyes. “Not everything’s a big mystery, Eilidh. It’s probably just a normal scar. My uncle’s got one on his chin from falling off a broom, and everyone stares at him.”
Eilidh laughed and looked towards Finn, “My parents say there are other reasons people stare at your uncle.”
Harry laughed along with the others, wanted to believe Finn, but the whispers he’d heard in Hogsmeade told a different story.
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The unease reached a breaking point during an errand with Miss Abercrombie in Hogsmeade. The older witch had taken Harry to Gladrags Wizardwear to pick up some new robes. As they entered the shop, the chime of the bell above the door drew the attention of the shopkeeper, a wiry man with a keen eye.
“Ah, welcome! What can I—” The man’s words trailed off as his gaze landed on Harry. His expression froze, his eyes widening slightly as they drifted to Harry’s forehead.
Harry shifted uncomfortably, feeling the man’s stare linger far too long.
“The Boy Who Lived,” the shopkeeper murmured, almost reverently.
Harry blinked, utterly confused. “What?”
The man seemed to snap out of his trance, quickly clearing his throat. “Er—never mind. Just talking to myself,” he said, though his tone was anything but casual.
The rest of the visit passed uneventfully, but Harry’s mind was spinning. As they left the shop, he turned to Miss Abercrombie. “Why did he call me that?” he asked. “The Boy Who Lived.”
Miss Abercrombie hesitated, her normally cheerful demeanor faltering. “Oh, well … some people talk nonsense, Harry. Don’t pay it any mind.”
“But he looked at my scar,” Harry pressed. “Does it have something to do with that?”
Miss Abercrombie’s cheeks flushed, and she glanced away. “That’s a question for Professor McGonagall, dear. She’s better suited to explain things and has made a point of letting me know that is a discussion for her to have with you.”
Harry’s frustration bubbled to the surface, more confused than ever. Why wouldn’t anyone give him a straight answer?
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That evening, Harry sat quietly at the kitchen table, watching McGonagall as she graded a stack of essays. The quill in her hand scratched against the parchment, the only sound in the room apart from the occasional crackle of the fire.
“Aunty Minerva?” Harry asked hesitantly, breaking the silence.
“Yes, Harry?” she replied without looking up.
“Why do people treat me differently?”
McGonagall paused, her quill hovering mid-air. She set it down carefully and looked at him over her square spectacles. “What do you mean?”
“In Hogsmeade and most other magical places we visit, people stare at me and whisper,” Harry said, his voice growing more insistent. “And today, a shopkeeper called me ‘The Boy Who Lived.’ What does it mean? Why do they say that?”
For a moment, McGonagall said nothing. She folded her hands on the table, her sharp features softening. When she finally spoke, her voice was measured and calm. “Harry, this is not an easy question to answer. But … I suppose this chat was going to happen at some point.”
Harry leaned forward, his heart pounding.
“You are known in the wizarding world because of what happened to your parents,” McGonagall began. “They loved you very much, Harry. More than anything in the world. But when you were very young they were … taken from you.”
Harry’s chest tightened. He had always known his parents were gone, but hearing it spoken aloud was a fresh pain. “Taken by who?” he asked quietly.
“A very dangerous wizard,” McGonagall said, her voice tinged with sadness. “His name was Voldemort.”
Harry shivered at the name, though he didn’t understand why. It felt heavy, dark, like a shadow creeping into the room.
“Voldemort was … an evil wizard,” McGonagall continued. “He hurt many people, Harry. Your parents stood up to him, and in doing so, sealed their fate. However, on the night they died, something extraordinary happened—something no one fully understands. Voldemort tried to kill you, but he failed. His spell rebounded, and he disappeared. That’s why people call you ‘The Boy Who Lived.’”
Harry’s mind raced to process the information. “So … that’s why I have this scar?” he asked, touching his forehead.
McGonagall nodded. “Yes. It’s a mark of what happened that night. And retains the signature of dark magic.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?” Harry asked, his voice trembling.
McGonagall reached across the table, placing a comforting hand over his. “Because I wanted you to have a normal childhood for as long as possible. You’ve already endured so much, Harry. I didn’t want you to carry the weight of this until you were ready.”
Harry’s gaze dropped to the table. He felt a strange mix of emotions—confusion, sadness, and a flicker of something he couldn’t quite name.
“I know it’s getting late. But do you have any other questions?” McGonagall asked gently.
Harry looked up, meeting her eyes. “Did my parents … would they have been proud of me?”
A rare smile softened McGonagall’s face. “Harry, they would have been incredibly proud. You are brave, kind, intelligent and curious—all the qualities they valued most.”
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The house was quiet, the only sounds the occasional pop and crackle of the fireplace in the sitting room. McGonagall sat at her desk, her usual sharp composure softened by the weight of her thoughts. The earlier conversation with Harry had left her feeling both relieved and deeply conflicted. She had told him some of the truth—enough to answer his immediate questions—but it had only scratched the surface of the greater story.
How much should an eight-year-old know about the war, about Voldemort, about what had happened to his parents? Harry’s childhood had already been shaped by loss and responsibility, and McGonagall was determined to shield him from unnecessary burdens for as long as she could. Yet, she knew the whispers in Hogsmeade and beyond would only grow louder. Harry was growing older, more curious, and more perceptive with each passing day. Sooner or later, the full truth would find him—whether she was ready or not.
Her gaze fell on the letter she had started to write to Dumbledore earlier in the evening. The neatly penned words blurred together as her thoughts raced.
"Albus," she had written, "I feel I must consult you on how much to tell Harry about his parents and the events surrounding their deaths. He is asking questions now, and while I have provided some answers, I am torn between protecting him and preparing him. Your guidance would, as always, be greatly appreciated."
McGonagall sighed, setting her quill down and shaking her head.
As much as she respected Dumbledore’s wisdom, she felt this decision had to be hers. Harry was her responsibility now, and she had grown to love him as though he were her own child. She couldn’t defer this matter to anyone else.
Quietly, she folded the parchment and tucked it away, deciding not to send it. Instead, she resolved to follow her instincts. She would answer Harry’s questions truthfully but carefully, giving him only what he was ready to handle.
The next morning, McGonagall rose early, as she always did, and prepared for her day at Hogwarts. She moved through the cottage with her usual efficiency, but as she passed by the small study, she paused.
Harry was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a stack of books spread out around him. The titles caught her eye: A History of Magic, The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, and Notable Wizarding Families of the 20th Century.
Harry was utterly engrossed, his brow furrowed in concentration as he flipped through the pages. He didn’t seem to notice her standing in the doorway until she cleared her throat.
“You’re up early,” she said, her tone soft.
Harry looked up, startled but smiling. “I wanted to learn more about the Wizarding War,” he said simply.
McGonagall felt a pang in her chest. His curiosity was natural—admirable, even—but it was clear he was searching for more than just facts. He was searching for a connection to his parents.
She knelt beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Harry, you’re welcome to read as much as you like,” she said gently. “But if you have questions—about the war, about your parents—you can always ask me.”
Harry nodded, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Thanks, Aunty Minerva.”
McGonagall smiled softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from his forehead. “I’ll see you after school today.”
That evening, after returning from Hogwarts, McGonagall found Harry waiting for her in the sitting room. The fire was already lit, casting a warm glow over the room. A pot of tea and a plate of biscuits sat on the low table, a thoughtful gesture Harry must have prepared while she was away.
She sank into her favorite armchair with a weary sigh, grateful for the simple comfort of home. Harry sat on the floor by the fire, leaning against the arm of her chair.
“Did you have a good day at school?” Harry asked, tilting his head back to look at her.
“It was productive,” she replied, pouring herself a cup of tea. “And how was your day?”
Harry hesitated, then said, “I’ve been thinking a lot … about my parents.”
McGonagall set her teacup down, her attention fully on him. “What about them, Harry?”
“Can you tell me about them? What they were like?”
A warm smile spread across McGonagall’s face. “Your mother, Lily, was one of the kindest and most brilliant witches I ever had the pleasure of teaching. She had a gift for charms and a heart full of compassion. Your father, James, was mischievous but fiercely loyal to those he cared about. He was exceptionally skilled at Transfiguration, though I suspect he spent more time using it to play pranks than anything else.”
Harry chuckled, his eyes bright with curiosity. “Were they good people?”
“Among the best,” McGonagall admitted with a fond smile. “They were incredibly brave and selfless. They stood up for what was right, even when it wasn’t easy.”
The warmth of the memory lingered between them, but Harry’s expression grew more serious. “What happened to them?” he asked quietly.
McGonagall hesitated. “Are you sure you want to know, Harry? It’s a difficult story to hear.”
He nodded, his green eyes steady. “I’m ready.”
She took a deep breath, gathering her thoughts. “You’ve heard about the Wizarding War, haven’t you?”
Harry nodded.
“Well, your parents were part of a group of witches and wizards who opposed Voldemort’s ideas. He believed in the supremacy of pure-blood wizards and sought to dominate the magical world, destroying anyone who stood in his way—whether they were Muggle-born, like your mother, or simply disagreed with him.”
Harry’s hands clenched into fists. “That’s awful.”
“It was,” McGonagall said softly. “But your parents were extraordinary. They were part of the Order of the Phoenix, a group dedicated to fighting Voldemort and his followers. They defied him many times, ruining his plans and saving countless lives. They were brave, talented, and determined to make the world a better place.”
Her voice faltered slightly as she continued. “But their courage came at a cost. Voldemort saw them as a threat, and he set out to destroy them. They eventually went into hiding, but … he found them.”
Harry’s breath hitched. “And then he …”
“He tried to kill them,” McGonagall said, her voice heavy with emotion. “And he succeeded. But when he turned his wand on you, something happened that no one could have predicted. The Killing Curse rebounded. Voldemort was defeated, and you, just a baby, survived with nothing but that scar.”
Harry’s eyes filled with tears, and McGonagall’s heart broke for him. She reached out, pulling him into a comforting embrace.
“You’ve carried the weight of that night your whole life, Harry,” she said softly. “But you must remember this: your parents loved you more than anything. They gave their lives to protect you.”
Harry pulled back, wiping his eyes. “Thank you for telling me,” he said quietly.
“You’re welcome, Harry,” McGonagall replied. “And if you ever have more questions, I’ll be here.”
Harry nodded, then stood. “I think I’d like to go to my room now.”
“Of course,” she said, watching him go.
As Harry climbed the stairs, he paused for a moment, glancing back at her. “I’ll make them proud,” he said firmly.
McGonagall’s chest swelled with pride and sadness as she watched him disappear into his room. In that moment, she realized just how extraordinary the boy truly was—not because of the scar on his forehead or the stories whispered about him, but because of his heart.
Kind Regards,
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If you like this content do not hesitate to smash that like button and subscribe. Haha but seriously if you do enjoy the story - do favorite it, other than messaging me or leaving a comment it’s the only way I know if you are enjoying the stories and chapters.
Story Note 1 – Yay the opening chapter to a What If! Story where McGonagall ends up taking in Harry rather than leaving him to the Dursleys. This will be a character study, slow progression that will end up going through all years until he defeats Voldemort, some years will be glossed over whereas others will be looked more into depth. Some of canon will remain mostly intact whereas other areas will change significantly. If you have anything you do want to see do not hesitate to let me know!
Story Note 2 – The first big change to the story although it was subtle and will be looked into later. As McGonagall became the guardian she was more proactive about preventing fanciful stories about Harry from being written as such the younger generation would have less familiarity with him and the older crowd will be more reverent of him because of the lack of information. This will have significant repercussions on the storyline as it progresses.
Story Note 3 – Just a small introduction to Harry’s world introducing some characters who very well might pop up here and there. For those of you who are looking forward to canon characters, do not worry they will start popping up within the next chapter.
Thanks to those of you out to those of you who enjoy my stories, I promise to keep updating the stories as long as you enjoy them, and a special thanks to those of you who have taken the time to leave feedback or reach out to me directly.
Disclaimer – It has come to my attention recently that I unfortunately do not own Harry Potter. Who knew.