Three months after the Boy Who Lived had been left on his Aunt and Uncle's doorstep in Surrey, Minerva McGonagall is less than impressed with the way he's being treated, so she takes matters into her own hands and bring's Harry to his Great Aunt Rosemary's house.
Here, Harry will grow up - still under the protection of his mother's charm - in a loving home, as he and Rosemary try to navigate their grief together.
The question was unnecessary, really, because with her dark red hair and smattering of freckles, the woman standing in front of Minerva McGonagall now could hardly be anyone else. Of course, her eyes were blue rather than green, and the familiar almond shapes were framed by spectacles and crow's feet. Her hair, too, was at times streaked with grey, for this woman was nearly thirty years older than Lily Evans would ever be."
“There’s a good boy!” Harry had finally swallowed the last mouthful of his breakfast. “Let’s get you dressed, and then we’ll get going, won’t we?”
Rosemary put on a pair of heavy, sturdy boots and tied a tiny pair, hardly bigger than the palm of her hand, for Harry. She shrugged on her winter coat and fastened a deep red, cape-like thing that Minerva had brought for him around his neck. Rosemary would have preferred a more sensible jacket for Harry, but apparently, wizards wore cloaks. “Don’t you look like Little Red Riding Hood,” she told Harry. Though, of course, there would be no visits to grandmother’s house.
There was an owl, perched precariously on its left leg, sitting on her windowsill, repeatedly knocking its right foot against her kitchen window. An owl. On her windowsill. The only Owl Rosemary had previously encountered was in Winnie-the-Pooh, and if she’d ever thought she’d see one in the real world – which she most definitely hadn’t – she’d have expected to meet it in the forest. Or perhaps in a barn.
"Harry doesn’t yet have full access to the Potter vaults, but there is a trust fund set up specifically for Harry’s education and upkeep, which I’m sure the goblins can set up for you.”
“A trust fund,” Rosemary began, tickling the little boy in her arms, “who would have thought you were a toff, eh, Harry?” Minerva was about to continue when Rosemary spoke up once more, “Sorry, did you say goblins?”
“I did. They run Gringotts.”
“But that’s absurd!”