Party's over, for now.
Back from Diagon Alley, the Dursleys threw a straight-up rager that night. Lynn got the invite too. Vernon cracked open a bottle of champagne he'd been babying since Y2K. Petunia went full Gordon Ramsay—roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, the works. Plus a pile of wizard snacks and gag gifts that had the adults giggling like kids on Christmas.
Vernon popped a Weasleys' Pepper Imp. PFFFFT. Ears shooting steam like a choo-choo train, mouth whistling "toot-toot!" He wheezed laughing and shoved one at Dudley.
"Do it, boy!"
Dudley chomped. PFFFFT. Instant steam engine. Vernon lost his damn mind.
House was bumping—music cranked to drown out the magical chaos so the neighbors wouldn't call the cops. Eventually, though, the playlist died and the sugar crash hit.
"Best night of my life!" Harriet yelled, skipping ahead of Lynn as they stepped outside. She'd volunteered to "walk him home" but really just wanted fresh air. The Dursleys had sealed the windows like Fort Knox to hide the wizard fireworks.
"Same. And thanks for the gift, Harriet."
Lynn had his hands jammed in his pockets, wind whipping his ponytail like a battle flag.
Harriet spun around, walking backwards. "Why the long hair, dude?"
"Too lazy to cut it. Barbers cost money, and I'm not about that life. Tie it up, call it a day."
"Doesn't it suck to wash?" She scrunched her nose. "Girl hair's a pain. Gets tangled when I sleep."
"Eh. My setup's high-tech. One-tap dryer after the bath. Done."
She stopped dead. "Hold up—you live in a tent. Tents don't have baths."
"Why the hell not?"
"Bullshit. Prove it."
"Bet."
Lynn didn't care about showing off the four-dimensional pocket tent. Tell anyone it's future tech, they'll just call it "magic junk." Truth's wasted on skeptics.
Only hitch? Late-night, guy and girl alone…
Nah. Lynn's seen everything. A year of X-ray vision superpowers? Bodies are just meat sacks in different sizes. Yawn.
Couple minutes' walk to an empty house. Glance at Harriet—blink—she's inside. He teleported right after. Moving living things besides himself takes extra juice, but whatever.
Tent hits the floor. They crawl in. Harriet's eyes go saucer-wide at the expandable interior. Diagon Alley didn't kill her wonder; this thing's next-level. She poked and prodded like a kid in a Tesla showroom.
Then he flipped it to bath mode. Steamy onsen pool, rainfall shower, the full spa package. Harriet's jaw dropped.
"Can I…?"
"Knock yourself out. Toss clothes in the washer—auto-wash, auto-dry. Soap dispenser's got every scent under the sun. Water temp self-regulates. Go wild."
"This tent's bougie as hell!"
"I thought you were roughing it—sleeping under bridges, eating cold beans. Meanwhile you're living better than me at the Dursleys."
Before Lynn could offer to step out, Harriet was already stripping and cannonballing into the mist. Girl hadn't fully clocked she's a girl yet—or didn't care. Lynn just kicked off his socks, parked on the pool edge, feet in the water, and cracked open a dog-eared book Olivander had slipped him: Magical Flora, Vol. 1.
Wandmaking 101. Gotta know every damn plant, core, wood grain inside-out. No recipes—pure alchemy. Harder than Potions.
Harriet finished rinsing, slid into the shallow hot spring (had to squat to get shoulders under), and scooted next to him. Peeked at the cover.
"Not a school book."
"Olivander hooked me up. I grilled him on wandlore while buying mine. He dug the enthusiasm—gave me a stack. I'll apprentice with him over breaks. It's dope."
"You're such a nerd. In a cool way."
"Just a hobby. I like tinkering."
He closed the book, looked down at her. "You're a chick now. Don't go barging into the boys' bathroom—or worse, the dorm showers. You'll give someone a heart attack."
"I forget sometimes…" She rubbed her neck. "But you're different. You're the only one who knows."
"True. Still—get comfy in your skin. Few years from now, 'I used to be Harry' won't fly as an excuse. People talk."
"Your secret's safe. Even if I blabbed, who'd believe me?"
She sighed. "Being a girl's got downsides. Petunia warned me about… that time of the month. Could hit this year. Or next."
"Hot water bottle. Brown sugar tea. Works wonders."
"Why do you know everything?"
"Books, dude. Books."
Harriet nodded. Guy did live in a library. "Speaking of—you name the owls yet?"
Afternoon trip with Hagrid to Eeylops. Harriet snagged a snowy white beauty on sight. Gifted Lynn a sleek black eagle-owl.
"Hedwig and Sigurd."
"Love 'em. Hedwig feels… right." She smiled. "Mean anything?"
"Hedwig's Old German—'protector in battle.' Sigurd's Old Norse—'victory's guardian.'"
"How many damn books have you read, Lynn?"
"On the road? Boredom's a helluva motivator. No SSN, no birth cert—orphanage burned the paperwork. I'm a ghost. Gotta stack skills to eat."
"That's rough."
Harriet stood, water streaming. "Time to bounce. Legs are jelly. But damn, this spring's heaven."
"Stand there—auto-dryer'll handle hair and body. Clothes are clean."
Warm air blasted. Hair dancing like a shampoo commercial. Fresh threads on. Lynn walked her out.
"Breakfast tomorrow at mine. Don't flake!"
She waved, skipping into the night.
Privet Drive was dead quiet, stars sharp. Perfect sleep weather. Some crashed the second their head hit the pillow.
Others? Tossed and turned till dawn.
Only two owls—small, silent—cut through the dark, wings slicing moonlight. Night hunters on the prowl.