"Um… I think Privet Drive is… near London," Harry said hesitantly, his voice uncertain. Deep down, he feared they'd figure out he wasn't actually a wizard.
Everyone in this house was strange. They lived in the middle of an eerie, mist-shrouded forest. The whole place reminded him of old fairytales—and in those stories, witches and warlocks usually weren't the good guys.
But even as Harry pondered all this, Granny Yaga gently set a plate in front of him. She ladled some rich beef stew into a bowl, placed a few slices of garlic bread on the side, and even added several freshly baked cookies.
"Thank you," Harry muttered again, guilt bubbling up inside him for thinking poorly of her earlier.
Viktor, seated across from him, furrowed his thick black brows in confusion.
"London? That's one of the Muggle cities, isn't it?"
"I told you," Granny Yaga sighed, setting down another dish. "The boy said his cousin hits him with his fists. What kind of wizard uses such crude methods?"
"Tch. That complicates things," Viktor muttered, shaking his head. "I've never even been to that area. How do you get there again? I heard wizards say… something about underground roads?"
"Subway," Granny Yaga corrected.
"Right. Subway," Viktor echoed, clearly unimpressed.
"Well, I haven't ridden one. Might as well bring him to the Ministry of Magic and ask. Honestly, what are the magic schools thinking? A magical child this old, still living outside a wizarding settlement?"
As he spoke, Viktor flicked his fingers. A soup spoon floated gently off the table and hovered in the air before dipping itself into the pot. It served each of them in turn.
Harry could only stare.
"…You've got the wrong idea," Harry mumbled. "I don't have magic."
"Impossible," Viktor replied flatly, without even looking up. He didn't explain why.
Instead, he gestured again. All the floating utensils gracefully returned to their places. Then he picked up his own plate.
"…Let's eat."
They were seated around a square table, each taking one side. Harry was between Viktor on his left and Granny Yaga on his right. A beautifully glazed ceramic plate sat before him, set neatly on a checkered cloth.
Questions exploded in Harry's mind like fireworks—he didn't even know where to begin. But Viktor didn't look like he planned to answer anything. So Harry gave up and started eating.
The moment he tasted the beef oatmeal stew, his appetite roared awake. The shredded meat was unbelievably tender, the broth perfectly seasoned. He'd never eaten anything so delicious in his life.
Back at the Dursleys', getting a full slice of bacon for breakfast was a luxury.
And he'd never slept in a bed as soft as the one he woke up in earlier.
As he ate, Harry felt as if he were still dreaming. Everything here was just too perfect. But his thoughts kept drifting back to one thing—magic.
Could he really learn magic too?
Could he make a house grow chicken legs?
He glanced at Viktor, who was now commanding slices of bread to float toward him with effortless flicks of his fingers. Then he looked at Granny Yaga, old and strange and yet oddly grandmotherly.
He didn't look like either of them.
As his gaze wandered, something caught his eye on a nearby bookshelf.
It was a doll.
A strange little doll with braided hair, sitting neatly on the wooden shelf alongside rows of thick books. Its eyes were made of tiny, stitched buttons, and it wore a meticulously crafted dress. Yet for some reason, the sight of it sent a shiver down Harry's spine—like a sudden prickling at the back of his neck.
Then he realized something even stranger:
The doll's hair was made of real human hair.
Brown. A little frayed at the ends.
No wig would ever look like that.
…No. He couldn't just sit there staring. That would be rude.
Trying to push away his unease, Harry forced himself to look down at his plate again and picked up his fork.
But just as he was about to take another bite—he felt something tap his ankle.
Startled, Harry looked down…
The doll was gone from the bookshelf.
It was now at his feet—staring up at him with its button eyes.
!!
He could see the threads holding those buttons in place—so close they might as well have been blinking. The doll looked old, its white dress slightly yellowed at the edges, yet it was perfectly clean.
And in that moment, Harry had the awful, unshakable feeling that he was staring at a real person.
That somehow made it even more terrifying.
A doll shouldn't be able to move like that.
Then—out of nowhere—a sharp, high-pitched whisper slithered into his ear. A girl's voice. Soft and eerie. It sang a haunting little rhyme:
"Tiny Jerry, oh so small,Even mice could swallow him, hat and all."
Then came a sharp, twisted giggle.
"Aaah!"
Harry jerked back in his chair, his whole body flinching in shock. His foot snapped away from the doll. The table rattled from the sudden movement, drawing the adults' attention.
"What's wrong?" Granny Yaga looked up, concern on her wrinkled face.
That's when Harry noticed what she was eating.
It wasn't what was on his plate.
It was a thick, red stew—glossy, gelatinous, and filled with bones. When she spoke, Harry could see the chunks of meat and gristle in her teeth, painting her lips a gory shade.
Crunch. Crunch.
Each bite came with a dreadful cracking of bone.
Harry's stomach turned. His fingers clenched tightly.
…What was she eating?
Raw meat? Something worse?
Memories of fairytales flooded his mind—man-eating witches, child-devouring werewolves, sirens that lured people to drown…
Was she a real witch?Had he stumbled into a witch's lair?Was he about to be eaten?!
But Granny Yaga didn't change her demeanor. She blinked slowly, then followed Harry's gaze to the floor.
"Oh! Vasilisa's doll," she said, chuckling. "Look at me, I nearly forgot."
She pushed back her chair with effort and bent to pick up the doll with surprising tenderness.
"Don't worry, dear. That's another child's doll—she's not dangerous. Sometimes she even grants small wishes. She can take you up to the attic, or help you switch places in the house."
"She likes children. And because of Vasilisa's late mother, she's always singing old nursery rhymes and following kids around."
"Just don't spend too much time with her, and you'll be fine."
Harry stared.
Granny Yaga made no effort to explain what too much time meant. She simply returned the doll to the shelf and continued cheerfully:
"You know, Vasilisa was a lot like you."
"She ran away from home too—her stepmother and stepsister were always cruel to her. She came here and asked me to help deal with them. I gave them a proper scare, and after that, Vasilisa stayed with me and studied magic for many years."
"Oh… oh."
Harry stared dumbly, still shaken by the doll, the rhyme, and the stew.
But Vasilisa's story…
It was a lot like his.
Though he hated Dudley and his relatives, he'd never thought of getting revenge. After all, they had raised him—even if they were awful at it.
But one line stood out to him more than anything.
"…Can I learn magic too?" he asked, unable to stop himself.
Viktor answered before Granny Yaga could.
"Of course."
"You're just about the right age. You'll be going to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry soon. That's where you'll get formal training."
"In fact, they should be sending your acceptance letter any day now. A teacher might even come to explain things."