Floo Powder is a very interesting means of travel. It was invented in the thirteenth century by Ignatia Wildsmith, and it has since become one of the most commonly used ways for witches and wizards to get around.
The method is simple: grab a handful of Floo Powder, stand in front of a fireplace connected to the Floo Network, toss the powder into the fire, say where you want to go, then step into the sudden burst of emerald magical flames—and you'll be transported to the corresponding destination.
Most Ministry officials use Floo Powder to commute. One scoop costs two silver Sickles. Luckily, commuting expenses can be reimbursed, or else a penniless Mr. Weasley might have to take out a loan just to go to work.
In the last week of summer holiday, Harry was staying at the Weasleys' home, a cozy little house known as the Burrow.
In the original story, that holiday was miserable—unlucky to the extreme. The moment he got back, all his belongings—every odd bit and piece, like spellbooks, wand, robes, summer homework, and so on—were locked away by Vernon in the cupboard under the stairs, forbidden. Even his owl was shut in its cage, cutting him off from writing to friends.
And that wasn't the worst of it. The truly absurd part was that a house-elf named Dobby showed up out of nowhere, caused a string of trouble, and in the end the Dursleys outright imprisoned Harry, intending to keep him locked in his bedroom forever.
You could say that once Harry returned to the Muggle world, he went from that bright, celebrated "Chosen One" to something like a drowned rat.
In the end, the Weasley twins and his best friend Ron rescued him in a flying car, and that was how Harry came to stay at the Burrow.
And it was at the Burrow that Harry met his fated girl, Ginny Weasley—who also happened to be the final boss of Harry Potter book two. Fate had a sense of humor.
When Skyl and the others ran into the Weasleys in Diagon Alley, Harry had already been "missing" for a while. He'd slipped up while using Floo Powder and said Knockturn Alley instead of Diagon Alley—a black-market corner of the wizarding world where dangerous, shady people often wandered.
But Hermione and Ron weren't worried about him at all. After all, he was an apprentice of the High Tower now; running away from danger was convenient. Open a door and slip out—no way a few Dark wizards were going to catch him.
Sure enough, it wasn't long before the boy showed up on his own. Diagon Alley and Knockturn Alley connected to each other. Mrs. Weasley was searching like mad, while Harry strolled in from the mouth of the alley as if he'd taken a leisurely walk.
Mrs. Weasley, tugging her daughter along, sprinted over and practically lifted little Harry into her hands, inspecting him from head to toe like an antique collector checking a fine piece of porcelain—because if it had so much as a chip or a crack, she'd probably have fainted on the spot from heartbreak.
The Weasley kids couldn't help pouting at how much their mother fussed over someone else's child. Ron even muttered, "Well, there we go. I knew it—I'm adopted. Harry's Mum's real youngest son."
The twin brothers smiled and teased him.
"Ohh, little Ronnie's upset—"
"—Don't worry, you're definitely Mum's, because—"
"—If you look that obviously silly, our family would never pick you up off the street."
The three brothers broke into giggles and roughhousing.
Harry wasn't just uninjured—he looked positively radiant, not a speck of dust on him. Any experienced wizard could tell at a glance: he'd used the [Scourgify] charm on himself.
By magical law, underage wizards aren't allowed to cast spells outside school. To monitor illegal magic, the Ministry places the Trace on underage students. If the Trace detects magical activity nearby, it triggers an alert, and then a Ministry owl delivers a warning letter.
But to the outlaws of The Tower of Tomes, the Trace was a complete joke. The Tower of Tomes' mark directly blocks it. After Skyl analyzed the Trace on himself, he even scrambled its function in reverse.
When he cast spells outside school, the Trace not only didn't report him—it helped conceal his location. If the Ministry checked the records, they'd see that throughout the previous school year, Skyl was "in Hogwarts every day." In reality, he was basically the king of truants; the number of days he actually stayed obediently at school could be counted on two hands.
Harry's Trace had been scrambled as well, so this summer he'd been casting spells to his heart's content.
"Harry, dear, where have you been?" Mrs. Weasley straightened the boy's collar.
"I ended up somewhere interesting," Harry said. He spotted Skyl and greeted him. "Hello, Mr. Skyl."
"Sounds like you ran into something fun?"
"Yes. I got transported into Borgin and Burkes, and I ran into the Malfoys there—father and son. They were trying to sell off Dark Artefacts from their home."
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley both gasped. "Malfoy! That sly old dog—he's afraid of leaving evidence, and things have been tense lately. Harry, they didn't do anything to you, did they?"
"I hid. No one saw me," Harry said calmly—like he'd just come back from buying groceries, not wandered through a place crawling with dangerous people. His strength still wasn't enough to impress anyone, but his composure was far too steady for a child.
"As long as you're all right," the adults comforted him. The children, meanwhile, crowded around Harry, peppering him with questions—they wanted details, and they wanted to hear what Borgin and Burkes looked like inside.
The twins said, "That place has loads of Dark Artefacts. Weren't you curious?" They waggled their eyebrows, their expressions loaded with mischief.
Harry looked righteous. "I'm not interested in the Dark Arts."
Skyl almost couldn't hold it together. He could sense the details inside the Practical Wizard Combat Guide; in just this one summer, Harry's Dark Arts had improved by leaps and bounds, with nearly twenty new entries of nasty curses added. Hopefully the targets of his practice hadn't been the Dursleys.
There were still half an hour until Lockhart's new-book signing began. Everyone agreed to meet at 12:30 outside Flourish and Blotts. Mr. Weasley was fascinated by the Muggle world and kept asking Mr. and Mrs. Granger questions without end.
The trio clustered around Skyl. He found a café, sat down, and ordered several ice creams. Skyl's own was yogurt-flavored, sprinkled with chopped nuts and rainbow sugar sprinkles. When he was little, he'd craved ice cream badly, but his family couldn't bear the expense—he only got one on holidays. Skyl would eat it slowly for a long time. Sometimes his mother would sit across from him and watch him, smiling with narrowed eyes, her gaze bright and glimmering.
It took Skyl thirteen years to understand that look: his mother craved the taste too. But just watching him eat was enough to make her happy.
After he grew up, Skyl was generous with children—partly because he wanted to make up for what he'd missed in his own childhood.
Hermione and Ron held glass cups piled with scoops of ice cream and chattered nonstop, talking big about their summer holidays. Their families were happy and whole, their vacation days plain but dotted with small surprises. Harry and Skyl listened quietly.
When the two of them finally paused, Harry hesitated. Seeing that Skyl had no intention of speaking first, Harry took the initiative and talked about his own summer.
"I talked to my aunt and uncle."
Children rarely want to talk to adults, because they know their opinions won't be taken seriously.
Harry being willing to open up had startled Vernon and Petunia.
From King's Cross Station, getting into the car his uncle had come to pick him up in, Harry had actively thanked them for raising him all these years. Even though, as guardians, the Dursleys were awful—biased, stingy, and often abusive—deceiving a child who knew nothing, claiming his parents died in a car crash, forbidding him from touching magic.
Even so, Harry still said thank you, and apologized for how "thoughtless" he'd been in the past. He didn't say it as a meek little slave swallowing humiliation—he said it as a boy who had grown into a young man.
In the original story, all the way until the seventh book, when the Dark Lord returned and the Dursleys were forced to flee, they still never truly reconciled with the grown-up Harry. Apart from Dudley showing him a final trace of kindness, the Dursleys' disgust toward their nephew never changed.
Harry held his chocolate ice cream and watched it melt. In a calm voice, he said to his silent companions, "I think they always believed I was ungrateful. A monster. Maybe I really am a monster—but I choose to forgive them."
"Harry. You didn't do anything wrong. You don't have to apologize," Ron said, looking miserable. Hermione bit her lip and lightly gripped Harry's wrist.
"No." Harry's tone brightened. "Those words were incredibly useful."
"They don't make me do chores anymore. They even act like I don't exist. I can go wherever I want, do whatever I want—like I'm a stranger." As he spoke, he shivered without meaning to. The loneliness that rose up in him made him force a thin smile. "I think that's fine. Really."
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