Harry Potter's Real Dad

There was another picture of her hugging a tall, dark clothed man who was leaning down next to her, her arms tight around his neck. The ma was also smiling, and Harry knew it was the father Iris was talking about. Before he could pick up the frame and get a good look at the man, he saw one more picture frame on the desk and his heart nearly stopped.

It was a picture of himself.

Harry picked up the picture and stared. It really didn't look like him at all. In the picture, he was sitting out by the garden, a small smile on his face as he looked up at what had to be a camera. What Harry found odd was the lack of tools around him—he always had his tools with him when he went out to the garden. And he his cheeks looked fuller than they actually were, and his hair was cleaner. His face also looked clean as well, which was a rare circumstance. And his clothes looked brighter rather than the dull appearance the usually had.

"This isn't me," Harry said, "it's just some look alike."

"It is, too, you," Iris said. "Look at the scar."

Harry looked back at the frame and his eyes widened at his trademark scar.

"And there's more where that came from," Iris said, closing a drawer and dropping several pictures on the desk.

Harry was shocked. There were many pictures of him at different stages of his life. First, as a young baby. He picked that one up: it was the first time he had ever seen his mother. She had red hair just like Iris, but green eyes like his. She was staring down admirably at the little curly haired baby in her arms. Another picture was still him as a baby, but both parents were present. He looked a lot like his father, how could this girl claim that anyone else could be his father?

And there were so many more pictures. Words were scribed on the back: Harry's first steps, his first food, his first swing set, his first Halloween and Christmas, his first birthday, and then those photos stopped. There were no more words on the back. The rest were just pictures with no backstory.

A young toddler Harry sitting near a Christmas tree looking up in awe. Harry frowned, he was never allowed to go near or touch the tree, but when everyone was asleep, he had always snuck out of his cupboard to get a good look.

Another picture saw him picking flowers in the garden as a three-year old. Harry vaguely remembered that. It was Mother's Day, and Dudley and Uncle Vernon had brought flowers for Aunt Petunia. Little Harry had wanted to do the same, but it only resulted in Aunt Petunia screaming at him for murdering her beautiful garden and he had been tossed in his cupboard and locked in for the rest of the night.

There was another one where Harry was off to school. He was smiling next to Dudley. That picture had more truth to it, as it was more for show in Aunt Petunia's case. She made sure to take several more of just Dudley in front of the school.

And the pictures continued up until the most recent one in the frame on the desk. Harry was more confused and slightly frightened.

"Who took all of these?"

"My dad's boss," Iris said. "Dad just wanted to know how you were doing. He wanted to watch you grow up. It was going fine before when Lily and James would bring you over to visit. They made him your second godfather you know."

"Lily and James?"

"Your parents."

"No one ever told me there names before." Harry picked up a picture that had his parents and him as a baby in it.

"Really? That's strange. Dad says he misses not being able to have those visits anymore, but he said its all for the best that you're with your relatives. I never agreed, but I'm not allowed to tell anyone that you're my brother, so . . ."

"But how can I be your brother when I look just like my dad."

"You look like James because of some spell I think. Adoption spell or whatever."

"A spell?"

"Yeah. You know . . . magic."

"Now, I know you're lying." Harry pointed an accusatory finger at Iris. "Magic isn't real! Your dad isn't my dad!"

"Yes, he is and magic is too real." Iris held out the stick she had been carrying and pointed it at him. "I can prove it."

"That's just a stick!"

"Oh yeah?" Iris flicked it and Harry couldn't help but flinch at the movement.

Bubbles erupted from the end of the stick and danced all around him, glowing different colors before they popped.

"See, magic."

Harry watched the bubbles as they continued popping, their colors flashing around him. He blinked and frowned at the stick.

"This is a wand," Iris said proudly. "It's what a witch or wizard uses to make magic. Has anything strange ever happened around you before? You know, like things moving on their own or your hair changing color?"

Harry knew several instances where strange, freakish things had occurred around him. But he wouldn't call those things magic. That was just him being a freak.

"Not really," he said.

"Come on, there's gotta be something."

"Well, I made all my hair grow back when Aunt Petunia shaved it all off one time."

"Aha. See? You have magic. And you probably do it a lot more than you think. Kids make a lot of accidental magic. We don't mean to, but we can't help it either. Our core is still growing and releases itself sometimes."

"Even with a wand?" Harry asked, pointing at the stick in Iris's hand.

"Well . . ." Iris looked at her wand and twirled it. She licked her lips before saying, "This isn't a real wand. It's a kid's wand that shoots bubbles. But that's still magic. The bubbles change colors and all and it can even make music."

"But it's fake," Harry pouted. He knew it was all too good to be true. She was just a lying girl.

"No, it's not. It's fun and it's magic. Follow me."

Iris led the way to the kitchen, Harry still holding on to the picture of his parents. She pointed up at the top cabinet where glassware was settled.

"I'm going to get a glass down. Watch."