In his 2nd and 3rd years, Harry begins to discover yet another drawback of being famous: the postwar baby-boom kids.
Professor McGonagall strode to the front of the Hall with the Sorting Hat, her face already fixed in a mask of grim determination. “Albright, Harry!”
A small boy scurried to the stool, and after a few seconds there was delighted cheer as the child named after the Boy-Who-Lived was sorted into Gryffindor.
”Boot, Harry!”
“My younger brother,” Terry Boot introduced him after the younger boy joined him at the Ravenclaw table. “Chin up, Haz, I know you wanted Gryffindor but family tradition outweighs your first name.”
At the front of the room, the Sorting continued.
”Chowdhury, Hari…Clemens, Harry…Dagworth-Granger, Harry…”
The awkward mood in the Hall perked up a bit when the first little girl stepped to the front of the line, but quickly returned when McGonagall called “Ellington, Harriet.”
So it went, dozens of firsties conceived in the joyful aftermath of the First Wizarding War and named for the nation’s young savior, most of them clearly hoping to join him in Gryffindor (there were a few tears and breakdowns when a Harry was sent to Hufflepuff or Slytherin). Occasionally the litany was broken up by a traditionally-named pureblood or a Muggleborn, but overall it was one long parade of Harry’s, Harolds, Henry’s, and Harriets, with the odd ‘Hadrian’ or ‘Hera’ for a bit of spice.
”This is a nightmare,” the original Harry Potter groaned, burying his face in his arms on the table.
”Look on the bright side, Harry,” Hermione said briskly. “At least you’re still the only Harry in our year. Think of those poor kids, all having to sit in the same classes together! And the professors, oh my goodness…”