Michael woke in a small hut. Waves were splattering the against the walls and a fierce wind rattled the filthy windows. A very fat boy with blond hair was sleeping on a moth-eaten sofa under a few moldy blankets and the snoring from behind one of the two doors suggested that another room was also being used as a bedroom. For his part, Michael was curled under the thinnest, most ragged blanket he'd ever seen, on the cold stone floor.

After a while lying there, trying to make himself believe that this was some strange dream, he sat up and leant against the wall, grimacing as his stomach rumbled with hunger. Between the snores from the fat boy and the next room, it was barely audible and even they were drowned by the low rolls of thunder that started near midnight according to the lighted dial of the boy's watch, which was dangling over the edge of the sofa on his fat wrist.

Shortly after the thunder began, Michael heard something creak outside. He hoped the roof wasn't going to fall in, although he might be warmer if it did.

Was that the sea, slapping hard on the rock like that? And what was that funny crunching noise? Was the rock crumbling into the sea? And why was he worried about these strange sounds when everything about his surroundings was unfamiliar and hostile in its feel.

BOOM.

The whole shack shivered and Michael leapt to his feet, confusion set aside as he stared at the door. Someone was outside, knocking to come in.

BOOM. They knocked again. The fat boy jerked awake. "Where's the cannon?" he said stupidly. Michael frowned. He'd though that the boy was a year or two younger than him but actually he was larger.

"Somebody's at the door," Michael replied and hoped that no one would challenge his presence.

There was a crash behind them and a large, fat man came skidding into the room. He was holding a rifle in his hands and Michael promptly backed up away from him – he didn't look like he knew what he was doing with it and that could be more dangerous than if he actually had some training.

"Who's there?" he shouted. "I warn you - I'm armed!"

There was a pause. Then -

SMASH!

The door was hit with such force that it swung clean off its hinges and with a deafening crash landed flat on the floor. Michael promptly took cover behind the sofa and hoped that anything coming through would be stopped by the moth-eaten piece of furniture. The way his luck was going, it probably wouldn't. He peeked around the side of the sofa and saw a giant of a man standing in the doorway. His face was almost completely hidden by a long, shaggy mane of hair and a wild, tangled beard, but you could make out his eyes, glinting like black beetles under all the hair.

The giant squeezed his way into the hut, stooping so that his head just brushed the ceiling. He bent down, picked up the door, and fitted it easily back into its frame as if that made everything alright again. The noise of the storm outside dropped a little. He turned to look at them all.

"Couldn't make us a cup o' tea, could yeh? It's not been an easy journey..."

He strode over to the sofa where the fat boy sat frozen with fear.

"Budge up, yeh great lump," said the new arrival.

The boy squeaked and ran to hide behind a woman, who had entered while Michael wasn't looking and was crouching, terrified, behind the fat man with the rifle. For his part Michael stood up and went back to his blanket, folding it into a pad that he could sit on without breaking his buttocks on the stone floor.

"An' here's Harry!" said the giant.

Michael looked up into the fierce, wild, shadowy face staring down at him and saw that the beetle eyes were crinkled in a smile.

"Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby," said the giant. "Yeh look a lot like yet dad, but yeh've got yet mom's eyes."

The man with the gun made a funny rasping noise.

"I demand that you leave at once, sir!" he said. "You are breaking and entering!"

"Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune," said the giant; he reached over the back of the sofa, jerked the gun out of Uncle Vernon's hands, bent it into a knot as easily as if it had been made of rubber, and threw it into a corner of the room. Michael's eyebrows rose. That was a neat trick.

Dursley made another funny noise, like a mouse being trodden on.

"Anyway - Harry," said the giant, turning his back on the little family tableau, "a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here - I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right."

From an inside pocket of his black overcoat he pulled a slightly squashed box. Michael opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was a large, sticky chocolate cake with 'Happy Birthday Harry' written on it in green icing.

Michael looked up at the giant. "Um, thank you?"

The giant chuckled. "You're very welcome, Harry. Ah, but I haven't introduced meself. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts." He held out an enormous hand and shook Michael's whole arm. "What about that tea then, eh?" he said, rubbing his hands together. "I'd not say no ter summat stronger if yeh've got it, mind."

His eyes fell on the grate, empty except for a few shriveled chip bags and he snorted, then bent down over the fireplace; Michael couldn't see what he was doing but when he drew back a second later, there was a roaring fire there. It filled the whole damp hut with flickering light and Michael felt the warmth wash over him as though he'd sunk into a hot bath.

The giant sat back down on the sofa, which sagged under his weight, and began taking all sorts of things out of the pockets of his coat: a copper kettle, a squashy package of sausages, a poker, a teapot, several chipped mugs, and a bottle of some amber liquid that he took a swig from before starting to make tea. Soon the hut was full of the sound and smell of sizzling sausage. Nobody said a thing while the giant was working, but as he slid the first six fat, juicy, slightly burnt sausages from the poker, the fat boy fidgeted a little. Dursley said sharply, "Don't touch anything he gives you, Dudley."

The giant chuckled darkly. "Yet great puddin' of a son don' need fattenin' anymore, Dursley, don' worry."

He passed the sausages to Michael, who was hungry enough that he devoured them ravenously, not caring that they were hot enough that his tongue felt like it was getting burnt. There hadn't been any conversation while he ate so he still didn't have any idea what was going on. Finally, as nobody seemed about to explain anything, he said, "Thanks for the sausages Mr. Hagrid. But I'm sure you didn't just come here to feed me. What's going on?"

The giant took a gulp of tea and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Call me Hagrid," he said, "everyone does. An' I came her from Hogwarts - yeh'll know all about Hogwarts, o' course."

Michael frowned. "No – never heard of it."

Hagrid looked shocked.

"Sorry," Michael said and shrugged.

"Sorry?" barked Hagrid, turning to stare at the family behind him, who shrank back into the shadows. "It' s them as should be sorry! I knew yeh weren't gettin' yer letters but I never thought yeh wouldn't even know abou' Hogwarts, fer cryin' out loud! Did yeh never wonder where yet parents learned it all?"

"Where they learned what?" asked Michael, wondering if Hagrid meant his parents or the parents of this Harry kid that he'd apparently taken the place of.

"WHERE THEY LEARNED WHAT?" Hagrid thundered. "Now wait jus' one second!" He had leapt to his feet. In his anger he seemed to fill the whole hut. The family were cowering against the wall. "Do you mean ter tell me," he growled at them, "that this boy - this boy! - knows nothin' abou' - about ANYTHING?"

Michael scowled at him. "Anything you're talking about, anyway," he said. "I know a fair few things about other stuff."

Hagrid simply waved his hand and said, "About our world, I mean. Your world. My world. Yer parents' world."

"World?" Michael replied blankly. Is that something to do with my being here? he thought.

Hagrid looked as if he was about to explode. "DURSLEY!" he boomed.

Dursley, who had gone very pale, whispered something that sounded like "Mimblewimble." Hagrid stared wildly at Michael. "But yeh must know about yet mom and dad," he said. "I mean, they're famous. You're famous."

"Famous? What for?" Michael asked, surprised. Crap – how was he supposed to know about Harry's parents – his own certainly weren't famous, or even well known, for anything, outside their relatively narrow circles that was.

"Yeh don' know... yeh don' know..." Hagrid ran his fingers through his hair, fixing Michael with a bewildered stare. "Yeh don' know what yeh are?" he said finally.

Dursley suddenly found his voice. "Stop!" he commanded. "Stop right there, sit! I forbid you to tell the boy anything!"

When Hagrid spoke, his every syllable trembled with rage. "You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An' you've kept it from him all these years?"

"Kept what from me?" said Michael curiously.

"STOP! I FORBID YOU!" yelled Dursley in panic. Behind him, the woman gave a gasp of horror.

"Ah, go boil yer heads, both of yeh," said Hagrid. "Harry - yer a wizard."

There was silence inside the hut. Only the sea and the whistling wind could be heard.

"A… wizard…?" Michael asked slowly.

"Yeah, o' course," said Hagrid, sitting back down on the sofa, which groaned and sank even lower, "an' a thumpin' good'un, I'd say, once yeh've been trained up a bit. With a mum an' dad like yours, what else would yeh be? An' I reckon it's abou' time yeh read yer letter."

Michael stretched out his hand to take the yellowish envelope, Hagrid offered him. It was addressed in emerald green to Mr. H. Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea. He pulled out the letter and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Michael read it again, more carefully, to make sure he hadn't mistaken what it said. Most it seemed fairly clear, except… "It says 'we await your owl'," he said. "What's that about?"

"Gallopin' Gorgons, that reminds me," said Hagrid, clapping a hand to his forehead with enough force to knock over a cart horse, and from yet another pocket inside his overcoat he pulled an owl - a real, live, rather ruffled-looking owl - a long quill, and a roll of parchment. With his tongue between his teeth he scribbled a note in handwriting large enough that that Michael could easily read it upside down:

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

Given Harry his letter.

Taking him to buy his things tomorrow.

Weather's horrible.

Hope you're well.

Hagrid

Hagrid rolled up the note, gave it to the owl, which clamped it in its beak, went to the door, and threw the owl out into the storm. Then he came back and sat down as though this was as normal as talking on the telephone.

"You send mail by carrier owls?" Michael asked, then realised how stupid that sounded and closed his mouth.

"Yeah, o' course," Hagrid said. "How else would we send 'em? Now, where was I?" said Hagrid, but at that moment, Dursley, still ashen-faced but looking very angry, moved into the firelight.

"He's not going," he said.

Hagrid grunted. "I'd like ter see a great Muggle like you stop him," he said.

"Muggle?" asked Michael, not recognizing the word.

"A Muggle," said Hagrid, "it's what we call nonmagic folk like them. An' it's your bad luck you grew up in a family o' the biggest Muggles I ever laid eyes on."

"We swore when we took him in we'd put a stop to that rubbish," said Dursley, "swore we'd stamp it out of him! Wizard indeed!"

"So you knew this all along?" said Michael, incredulously. "You knew I'd be a wizard?"

"Knew!" shrieked the woman suddenly. "Knew! Of course we knew! How could you not be, my dratted sister being what she was? Oh, she got a letter just like that and disappeared off to that-that school - and came home every vacation with her pockets full of frog spawn, turning teacups into rats. I was the only one who saw her for what she was - a freak! But for my mother and father, oh no, it was Lily this and Lily that, they were proud of having a witch in the family!"

She stopped to draw a deep breath and Michael took the opportunity to respond. "Sounds to me like you were jealous." So, he thought. She's my aunt then.

The woman went pale and then red again. "Jealous?" she shrieked. "Jealous? Of being strange? Of being abnormal?"

"Of your parents being proud?" Michael suggested in a deceptively mild tone. "Of getting their attention when she was at home? Aren't you being a little bit petty?"

"Petty!" shrieked the woman. "Tha blasted magic got her killed, her and that husband of hers. Her blown up and us stuck with you!"

Michael took a step back from the venom in her voice. So… my parents are dead. "Blown up?" he asked quietly. "What do you mean, 'blown up'?"

"WHAT!" roared Hagrid, jumping up so angrily that the woman, Dudley and Dursley all scuttled back to their corner. "How could you not tell Harry what happened to Lily an' James? It's an outrage! A scandal! Harry Potter not knowing' his own story when every kid in our world knows his name!"

"What happened? Why would I be famous for that?" Michael asked. He scratched his head – every question that was answered led to a dozen more.

The anger faded from Hagrid's face. He looked suddenly anxious. "I never expected this," he said, in a low, worried voice. "I had no idea, when Dumbledore told me there might be trouble gettin' hold of yeh, how much yeh didn't know. Ah, Harry, I don' know if I'm the right person ter tell yeh - but someone's gotta - yeh can't go off ter Hogwarts not knowin'." He threw a dirty look at the terrified family.

"Tell me what you can, then," Michael said sitting next to him on the sofa. "I can learn the rest later."

Hagrid sat down, stared into the fire for a few seconds, and then said, "It begins, I suppose, with - with a person called - but it's incredible yeh don't know his name, everyone in our world knows -"

"Who?"

"Well - I don' like sayin' the name if I can help it. No one does."

"Eh? Why not?"

"Gulpin' gargoyles, Harry, people are still scared. Blimey, this is difficult. See, there was this wizard who went... bad. As bad as you could go. Worse. Worse than worse. His name was..." Hagrid gulped, but no words came out.

"Oh for cripes' sake!" Michael exclaimed. "He's not likely to pop out of the fireplace if you say his name!"

"All right - Voldemort." Hagrid shuddered. "Don't make me say it again. Anyway, this - this wizard, about twenty years ago now, started lookin' fer followers. Got 'em, too - some were afraid, some just wanted a bit o' his power, 'cause he was gettin' himself power, all right. Dark days, Harry. Didn't know who ter trust, didn't dare get friendly with strange wizards or witches... terrible things happened. He was takin' over. 'Course, some stood up to him - an' he killed 'em. Horribly. One o' the only safe places left was Hogwarts. Reckon Dumbledore's the only one You-Know-Who was afraid of. Didn't dare try takin' the school, not jus' then, anyway."

"Now, yer mum an' dad were as good a witch an' wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an' girl at Hogwarts in their day! Suppose the myst'ry is why You-Know-Who never tried to get 'em on his side before... probably knew they were too close ter Dumbledore ter want anythin' ter do with the Dark Side."

What is this, Star Wars? Michael thought irreverently.

"Maybe he thought he could persuade 'em... maybe he just wanted 'em outta the way. All anyone knows is, he turned up in the village where you was all living, on Halloween ten years ago. You was just a year old. He came ter yer house an' - an' -" Hagrid suddenly pulled out a very dirty, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a foghorn. "Sorry," he said. "But it's that sad - knew yer mum an' dad, an' nicer people yeh couldn't find - anyway..."

"He killed them?" Michael asked.

"Yeah. An' then - an' this is the real myst'ry of the thing - he tried to kill you, too. Wanted ter make a clean job of it, I suppose, or maybe he just liked killin' by then. But he couldn't do it. Never wondered how you got that mark on yer forehead? That was no ordinary cut. That's what yeh get when a Powerful, evil curse touches yeh - took care of yer mum an' dad an' yer house, even - but it didn't work on you, an' that's why yer famous, Harry. No one ever lived after he decided ter kill 'em, no one except you, an' he'd killed some o' the best witches an' wizards of the age - the McKinnons, the Bones, the Prewetts - an' you was only a baby, an' you lived."

Michael rubbed his forehead and felt a thin line of scar tissue marking a jagged line across his forehead. "Bloody hell," he whispered.

Hagrid was watching him sadly. "Took yeh from the ruined house myself, on Dumbledore's orders. Brought yeh ter this lot..."

"Load of old tosh," said Dursley. Michael stood up from the sofa and glared at him. The man certainly seemed to have got back his courage. He was glaring at Hagrid and his fists were clenched. "Now, you listen here, boy," he snarled, "I accept there's something strange about you, probably nothing a good beating wouldn't have cured - and as for all this about your parents, well, they were weirdos, no denying -"

Michael had been known for a great many things at his school – but among them he'd been known for having an explosive temper. It had gotten him into a bit of trouble over the years. He'd stiffened at the word beating – he'd earned an odd smack from his parents but never anything that could be described as a beating – but it was the derisive tone of the word 'weirdos' that set him off. With an incoherent snarl he leapt up onto the sofa, put one foot at the back and jumped at Dursley, who reeled back – more from surprise than injury.

Before Michael could go for the man with his teeth or Dursley could rally a defense, Michael was dragged back off him by Hagrid, who set him back on the sofa and kept a restraining hand on his shoulder. Pointing a battered pink umbrella at Dursley like a sword, he said, "I'm warning you, Dursley - I'm warning you - one more word..."

In danger of being speared on the end of an umbrella by a bearded giant, Dursley's courage failed again; he flattened himself against the wall and fell silent.

"That's better," said Hagrid, breathing heavily and sitting back down on the sofa, which this time sagged right down to the floor. "Now calm down, Harry. There's no use doing that sort of thing."

"It'll make me feel better," Michael replied mutinously, but he sat down under the gentle pressure from Hagrid's hand.

"So what happened to that Voldemort bloke?" he asked, not caring that Hagrid flinched at the name.

"Good question, Harry. Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That's the biggest myst'ry, see... he was gettin' more an' more powerful - why'd he go?"

"Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he's still out there, bidin' his time, like, but I don' believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of 'em came outta kinda trances. Don't reckon they could've done if he was comin' back."

"Most of us reckon he's still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. 'Cause somethin' about you finished him, Harry. There was somethin' goin' on that night he hadn't counted on - I dunno what it was, no one does - but somethin' about you stumped him, all right."

Hagrid looked at Michael with warmth and respect blazing in his eyes and Michael felt like a complete fraud. He wasn't even the real Harry Potter and now he'd be famous for something that he hadn't had even the least bit to do with. Not, he thought, looking at his aunt and the fat lumps that were presumably her husband and son, that it seemed to have done Harry any good.

"Let's hope I'm really a wizard then," he said finally. "It would be a bit of a turn up for the books if I could defeat some great sorcerer when I was a baby and can't do any magic now."

Hagrid chuckled. "Really a wizard?" he said. "Oh you'll be a wizard alright. You wait, you'll be right famous at Hogwarts."

But Dursley wasn't going to give in without a fight.

"Haven't I told you he's not going?" he hissed. "He's going to Stonewall High and he'll be grateful for it. I've read those letters and he needs all sorts of rubbish - spell books and wands and -"

"If he wants ter go, a great Muggle like you won't stop him," growled Hagrid. "Stop Lily an' James Potter's son goin' ter Hogwarts! Yer mad. His name's been down ever since he was born. He's off ter the finest school of witchcraft and wizardry in the world. Seven years there and he won't know himself. He'll be with youngsters of his own sort, fer a change, an' he'll be under the greatest headmaster Hogwarts ever had Albus Dumbled-"

"I AM NOT PAYING FOR SOME CRACKPOT OLD FOOL To TEACH HIM MAGIC TRICKS!" yelled Dursley.

A few moments before, Michael had lost his temper with the man. Now it was Hagrid's turn. The giant seized his umbrella and whirled it over his head. "NEVER," he thundered, "- INSULT- ALBUS - DUMBLEDORE – IN - FRONT- OF- ME!" He brought the umbrella swishing down through the air to point at Dudley - there was a flash of violet light, a sound like a firecracker, a sharp squeal, and the next second, Dudley was dancing on the spot with his hands clasped over his fat bottom, howling in pain. When he turned his back on them, Michael saw a curly pig's tail poking through a hole in his trousers.

Dursley roared. Pulling Harry's aunt – Michael still didn't know her name - and Dudley into the other room, he cast one last terrified look at Hagrid and slammed the door behind them.

Hagrid looked down at his umbrella and stroked his beard. "Shouldn'ta lost me temper," he said ruefully, "but it didn't work anyway. Meant ter turn him into a pig, but I suppose he was so much like a pig anyway there wasn't much left ter do." He cast a sideways look at Michael under his bushy eyebrows. "Be grateful if yeh didn't mention that ter anyone at Hogwarts," he said. "I'm - er - not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin'. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an' get yer letters to yeh an' stuff- one o' the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job."

"S'alright," Michael replied. "It was a bit much though." Hagrid looked despondent at the criticism. "Couldn't you have aimed at Dursley, not Dudley?" Michael asked, with a twinkle in his eyes.

Hagrid blinked and then brightened, chuckling loudly. "Yeh right about that, Harry. Any road, it's gettin' late and we've got lots ter do tomorrow," he said. "Gotta get up ter town, get all yer books an' that." He took off his thick black coat and threw it to Michael. "You can kip under that," he said. "Don' mind if it wriggles a bit, I think I still got a couple o' dormice in one o' the pockets."

.oOo.

Michael woke early the next morning. The feel of the sofa's battered cushions underneath him was nothing like his bed and he could feel the rough material of Hagrid's coat against his face, convincing him that this was no dream. It took him a moment to work out what had woken him but then there was a loud tapping noise.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

"All right," Michael mumbled, "I'm getting up."

He sat up and Hagrid's heavy coat fell off him. The hut was full of sunlight, the storm was over, Hagrid himself was asleep on the collapsed sofa, and there was an owl rapping its claw on the window, a newspaper held in its beak.

With a sigh, Michael pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes before walking over to the window and opening it with a jerk. The owl swooped in and dropped the newspaper on top of Hagrid, who didn't wake up. The owl then fluttered onto the floor and began to attack Hagrid's coat.

"Oi," Michael said, trying to wave the owl off. "What did the coat ever do to you?" The bird snapped its beak fiercely at him and carried on savaging the coat.

Abandoning that tactic, Michael shook Hagrid's shoulder. "There's an owl eating your coat," he said loudly

"Pay him," the man grunted into the sofa.

"What?" Michael asked, unsure if he'd heard correctly.

"He wants payin' fer deliverin' the paper. Look in the pockets."

Hagrid's coat seemed to be made of nothing but pockets – Michael rather liked it – and they were all stuffed full of bunches of keys, slug pellets, balls of string, peppermint humbugs, teabags... finally, Michael pulled out a handful of antique-looking coins.

"Give him five Knuts," said Hagrid sleepily.

"Nuts? I thought he wanted money?"

"Knuts," Hagrid insisted. "The little bronze coins."

"Ah."

Michael counted out five little bronze coins, and the owl held out his leg so Michael could put the money into a small leather pouch tied to it. Then he flew off through the open window.

Hagrid yawned loudly, sat up, and stretched. "Best be off, Harry, lots ter do today, gotta get up ter London an' buy all yer stuff fer school."

Michael put the rest of the coins away and returned Hagrid's coat to him. "Is that going to be expensive?" He asked cautiously. "I don't really have any money, you know."

"None o' that," said Hagrid, who was pulling on his huge boots. "D'yeh think yer parents didn't leave yeh anything?"

"Oh," Michael said. "Hadn't thought of that." Damn – first I pretend to be this Harry Potter boy and now I'm going to spend his money. Whatever next?

"Have a sausage, they're not bad cold," said Hagrid, standing up and scratching his head. "an' I wouldn' say no teh a bit o' yer birthday cake, neither."

Michael bit into a sausage and decided that Hagrid was right about them. "Help yourself," he mumbled around a mouthful. "So is it in a bank or something?"

"Yeah, first stop fer us is Gringotts. Wizards' bank. Run by goblins."

"Goblins?" Michael exclaimed. "Really?"

"Yeah - so yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it, I'll tell yeh that. Never mess with goblins, Harry. Gringotts is the safest place in the world fer anything yeh want ter keep safe - 'cept maybe Hogwarts. As a matter o'fact, I gotta visit Gringotts anyway. Fer Dumbledore. Hogwarts business." Hagrid drew himself up proudly. "He usually gets me ter do important stuff fer him. Fetchin' you, gettin' things from Gringotts - knows he can trust me, see."

Michael followed Hagrid out onto the rock. The sky was quite clear now and the sea gleamed in the sunlight. The boat Uncle Vernon had hired was still there, with a lot of water in the bottom after the storm.

"How did you get here?" Michael asked, looking around for another boat.

"Flew," said Hagrid.

"Flew?" Michael asked nervously. He wasn't terribly fond of heights.

"Yeah - but we'll go back in this. Not s'pposed ter use magic now I've got yeh."

They settled down in the boat, Michael still staring at Hagrid, trying to imagine him flying.

"Seems a shame ter row, though," said Hagrid, giving Michael another of his sideways looks. "If I was ter - er - speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin' it at Hogwarts?"

Michael smiled and tapped the side of his nose. "My lips are sealed," he answered, eager to see more magic. Hagrid pulled out the pink umbrella again, tapped it twice on the side of the boat, and they sped off toward land.

Michael sat back and dozed for a while as the boat skimmed across the sea. Hagrid read his newspaper, a big tabloid that called itself the Daily Prophet. Michael had never been very keen on newspapers to read but the boat seats weren't made to be slept on, and there was nothing else to do so he tried to read the story on the front page. None of it made sense though – he didn't know who anyone was and half the words were unfamiliar. The only thing that he did see was that the date was apparently the 31st of July.

"Ministry o' Magic messin' things up as usual," Hagrid muttered, turning the page.

"What's the Ministry of Magic?" Michael asked, before he could stop himself.

"Well, their main job is to keep it from the Muggles that there's still witches an' wizards up an' down the country."

Michael nodded. This made perfect sense to him – if he could do magic, then the last thing he'd want was for people to know about it. He'd not be able to get away with half as much, but as long as no one believed in magic he could get away with almost anything. And apparently he could do magic.

At this moment the boat bumped gently into the harbor wall. Hagrid folded up his newspaper, and they clambered up the stone steps onto the street.

Passersby stared a lot at Hagrid as they walked through the little town to the station. Michael couldn't blame them. Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as anyone else, he kept pointing at perfectly ordinary things like parking meters and saying loudly, "See that, Harry? Things these Muggles dream up, eh?"

Finally they reached the station. There was a train to London in five minutes' time. Hagrid, who didn't understand 'Muggle money', as he called it, gave the notes to Michael so he could buy their tickets. Michael had never spent so much money at one time in his life. In fact, he wasn't sure every time he'd spent money put together had cost as much money as those two tickets.

People stared more than ever on the train. Hagrid took up two seats and sat knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent.

"Still got yer letter, Harry?" he asked as he counted stitches.

Michael put his hand in his pocket and felt the parchment envelope. He nodded.

"Good," said Hagrid. "There's a list there of everything yeh need."

Michael unfolded a second piece of paper he hadn't read the night before, and read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

UNIFORM

First-year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)

2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

COURSE BOOKS

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emetic Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

OTHER EQUIPMENT

Wand

cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) set

glass or crystal phials

telescope set

brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

"Can we buy all this stuff in London?" Michael asked in surprise. He'd only been to London a couple of times but he'd never seen this sort of thing in any shops anywhere.

"If yeh know where to go," said Hagrid.

Although Hagrid seemed to know where he was going in London, he was obviously not used to getting there in an ordinary way. He got stuck in the ticket barrier on the Underground, and complained loudly that the seats were too small and the trains too slow.

"I don't know how the Muggles manage without magic," he said as they climbed a broken-down escalator that led up to a bustling road lined with shops.

"I suppose we just muggle along," said Michael innocently but Hagrid didn't get the joke.

Hagrid was so huge that he parted the crowd easily; all Michael had to do was keep close behind him. They passed book shops and music stores, hamburger restaurants and cinemas, but nowhere that looked as if it could sell you a magic wand. This was just an ordinary street full of ordinary people. Were there really shops that sold spell books and broomsticks? Might this not all be some huge joke that someone had cooked up at Michael's expense? Michael shrugged. Hagrid didn't seem the type to play that sort of a joke and, Michael supposed, if it was a joke then someone had gone to a lot of effort. It would be a shame not to see how far it would go.

"This is it," said Hagrid, coming to a halt, "the Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place."

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out, Michael wouldn't have noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't glance at it. Their eyes slid from the big book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Michael had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it. Before he could mention this, Hagrid had steered him inside.

For a famous place, it was very dark and shabby. A few old women were sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man in a top hat was talking to the old bartender, who was quite bald and looked like a toothless walnut. The low buzz of chatter stopped when they walked in. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid; they waved and smiled at him, and the bartender reached for a glass, saying, "The usual, Hagrid?"

"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," said Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Michael's shoulder and making Michael's knees buckle.

"Good Lord," said the bartender, peering at Michael, "is this - can this be -?"

The Leaky Cauldron had suddenly gone completely still and silent.

"Bless my soul," whispered the old bartender, "Harry Potter... what an honor."

He hurried out from behind the bar, rushed toward Michael and seized his hand, tears in his eyes.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."

Michael didn't know what to say. Everyone was looking at him. The old woman with the pipe was puffing on it without realizing it had gone out. Hagrid was beaming.

Then there was a great scraping of chairs and the next moment, Michael found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.

"Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter, can't believe I'm meeting you at last."

"So proud, Mr. Potter, I'm just so proud."

"Always wanted to shake your hand - I'm all of a flutter."

"Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can't tell you, Diggle's the name, Dedalus Diggle."

Michael shook hands again and again - Doris Crockford kept coming back for more.

A pale young man made his way forward, very nervously. One of his eyes was twitching. "Professor Quirrell!" said Hagrid. "Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

"P-P-Potter," stammered Professor Quirrell, grasping Michael's hand, "c-can't t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you."

"Oh?" Michael said, a little surprised. He looked awfully young to be a teacher. "I'm, er, pleased to meet you."

Professor Quirrell laughed nervously. "You'll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself." He looked terrified at the very thought. Michael couldn't blame him – goblins and vampires… what else might be out there?

In the end, it took almost ten minutes to get away from the crowd. By that time, Michael was right on the edge of pushing them all out of the way and running right back out into London. He didn't mind a little attention but he was finding that it was possible to have too much of a good thing. Fortunately, Hagrid managed at last to make himself heard over the babble. "Must get on - lots ter buy. Come on, Harry."

Doris Crockford shook Michael's hand one last time, and Hagrid led them through the bar and out into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

Hagrid grinned at Michael. "Told yeh, didn't I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was tremblin' ter meet yeh - mind you, he's usually tremblin'."

"Really?"

"Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studyin' outta books but then he took a year off ter get some firsthand experience... They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit o' trouble with a hag - never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject now, where's me umbrella?"

Hags? Michael rolled his eyes. I wonder what his subject is that he's so scared of it.

Hagrid, meanwhile, was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can. "Three up... two across," he muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry." He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivered - it wriggled - in the middle, a small hole appeared - it grew wider and wider - a second later they were facing an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight. "Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley." He grinned at Michael's amazement. They stepped through the archway. Michael looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the archway shrink instantly back into a solid wall.

The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. 'Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self-Stirring- Collapsible', said a sign hanging over them.

"Yeah, you'll be needin' one," said Hagrid, "but we gotta get yer money first."

Michael hunched his shoulders and brushed some of his hair, which was now black as soot and seemed quite unruly, over his forehead. He'd rather not get any more attention right now. Nonetheless, he turned his head in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was shaking her head as they passed, saying, "Dragon liver, seventeen Sickles an ounce, they're mad..."

A low, soft hooting came from a dark shop with a sign saying 'Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy'. Several boys of about Michael's age had their noses pressed against a window with broomsticks in it. "Look," Michael heard one of them say, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand - fastest ever -" There were shops selling robes, shops selling telescopes and strange silver instruments Michael had never seen before, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eels' eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon...

"Gringotts," said Hagrid.

They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was -

"Yeah, that's a goblin," said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Michael. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Michael noticed, very long fingers and feet. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

"Like I said, Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Michael made for the counter.

"Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."

"You have his key, Sir?"

"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled his nose. Michael winced and turned his attention from the goblin on their right, who was weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals, and picked the biscuits up, stacking them to one side.

"Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely. "That seems to be in order."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

The goblin read the letter carefully. "Very well," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!"

Griphook was yet another goblin. Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Michael followed Griphook towards one of the doors leading off the hall.

"What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?" Michael asked.

"Can't tell yeh that," said Hagrid mysteriously. "Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore's trusted me. More'n my job's worth ter tell yeh that."

Griphook held the door open for them. Michael, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in - Hagrid with some difficulty - and were off.

At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Michael tried desperately not to let the nausea he felt show on his face. The sausages he'd eaten felt like they were about to make an escape.His eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see what had caused it, but too late - they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.

Hagrid looked very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, he got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling. Michael had to take a few deep breaths himself, to keep his stomach under control.

Griphook unlocked the door. A lot of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Michael gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.

"All yours," smiled Hagrid.

"Bloody hell," said Michael, stunned. "That's lot of money. How much am I likely to need?"

Hagrid helped him to pile some of it into a bag. "That should be enough fer a couple o' terms," he advised. "The gold ones are Galleons. Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy enough."

"Uh," Michael grunted. It might be easy if you'd grown up with it, but he'd grown up with the decimal system with was a great deal easier. "Can I change some of this to re- er, muggle money?" he asked Griphook.

"Take it upstairs," Griphook advised shortly.

"Thanks," said Michael and picked up a few more coins for himself.

Hagrid turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"

"One speed only," said Griphook.

They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Michael leaned over the side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

"Stand back," said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.

"If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," said Griphook.

"Do you ever check to see if anyone's inside?" Michael asked.

"About once every ten years," said Griphook with a rather nasty grin that Michael returned.

Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Michael was sure, and he glanced inside - but at first he thought it was empty. Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Michael wondered what it was, but knew better than to ask.

"All that glitters is not gold," he quoted from one of his parents' Shakespeare volumes.

"Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don't talk to me on the way back, it's best if I keep me mouth shut," said Hagrid.

One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Michael didn't know where to run first now that he had a bag full of money. He didn't have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know that he was holding more money than he'd had in his whole life - more money than even Dudley had ever had.

"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding toward 'Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions'. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts." He did still look a bit sick, so Michael nodded and took the opportunity to duck back inside Gringotts and change the coins in his pocket for pounds and pence that he could spend in London or wherever he wound up. Hopefully he could get some clothes that fit him better than the ones that he had.

It was with that thought that he entered Madam Malkin's shop alone, feeling nervous.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. "Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Michael started to speak. "Got the lot here - another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

Michael nodded. "And something else – a bit unusual," he said, an idea forming.

"Oh, not a problem, dear. Shall we deal with the uniforms first?"

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin stood Michael on a stool next to him; slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length.

"Hello," said the boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Mm," said Michael in an agreeable tone.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Michael scratched his chin and said nothing. His parents had told him that he didn't have anything nice to say, to say nothing. But it didn't keep him from thinking that this must be the most spoiled kid he'd ever met.

"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.

"Mph," said Michael and shook his head.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"Mph," Michael repeated.

"I do - Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"Haven't decided yet," said Michael, the most he'd said to the boy so far. He didn't have a clue what he meant, but he wasn't about to admit ignorance.

"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been - imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"Hmm," said Michael and looked away from the boy.

"I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Michael and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.

"Hagrid," said Michael, and waved back to Hagrid, giving a thumbs up to indicate that he understood. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"You don't get out much, do you?" said Michael mildly. He was liking the boy less and less every second.

"I heard he's a sort of savage - lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."

"Do you talk about everyone behind their backs like this," asked Michael sarcastically.

"Only the ones who aren't worth my time," said the boy, with a sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"

"Buried somewhere," said Michael casually. He didn't feel like giving this boy any emotional hooks.

"Oh, sorry," said the other, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"

"Well, one of them was a girl – I hear that that's kind of mandatory."

"They were a wizard and a witch though," the boy demanded.

Michael smirked. "What does it matter?"

The boy started and then glared at him. "They shouldn't let your sort in! You're not the same, you don't know our ways! I bet you'd never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter. Hogwarts should be kept it in the old wizarding families!"

Michael rolled his eyes. "Well, all that applies to me," he said amicably. "Except that my parents were a wizard and a witch – I just wasn't raised as one. Sounds like it's that that you object to, not parentage at all."

But before the boy could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Michael, not sorry for having had the last word, hopped down from the footstool.

"Now," said Madame Malkin. "What did you have in mind?"

.oOo.

Michael had several questions for Hagrid as they ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts). Michael didn't much like the raspberry but he ate it anyway to keep Hagrid happy.

"Hagrid, what's Quidditch?"

"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know - not knowin' about Quidditch!"

"Is that like not knowing about parking meters," asked Michael, thinking of the way Hagrid had behaved on their way to the train station.

Hagrid laughed. "It's more like not knowing what football is, Harry. Quidditch is our sport. Wizard sport. It's like - like soccer in the Muggle world - everyone follows Quidditch - played up in the air on broomsticks and there's four balls - sorta hard ter explain the rules."

He also told Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin's.

"- he reckoned people from Muggle families shouldn't be allowed in."

"Yer not from a Muggle family. If he'd known who yeh were - he's grown up knowin' yer name if his parents are wizardin' folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he know about it, some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in 'em in a long line o' Muggles - look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!"

"He's only my age Hagrid – if he believes it it's because someone told him. I know it's rubbish – I've been raised muggle, like my Mum. But how many more people believe it?"

"There's a few, Harry. Some folk don't meet Muggles much and they don't understand them at all. Most wizards have muggles in their families these days, so we know better."

"And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?"

"School houses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," said Hagrid darkly. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."

"You-Know-Who?" Michael asked.

"Yes."

"No – I don't know who, Hagrid. Or do you mean that Vold-"

Michael cut off as Hagrid waved his hands frantically. "Don't say that, Harry," he said. ""Don't go saying it in public, folks'll get upset."

"What, still?" Michael asked. "He's been gone for ten years, Hagrid."

"Doesn't matter," Hagrid said. "There's never been a dark lord as bad and there's no point taking chances."

.oOo.

They bought Michael's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have been wild to get his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Michael away from some of the history books and he wouldn't let Michael buy any books on curses either, but they got a pewter cauldron, a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was almost fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Michael, Michael himself went back outside and hoped he wouldn't have to use any of the more disgusting ingredients in classes at Hogwarts.

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid checked Michael's list again. "Just yer wand left - A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."

Michael blinked. "Birthday?" Then he felt silly – certainly, his birthday was in winter, but obviously Harry's must be today or yesterday – why else would Hagrid have given him a cake saying 'Happy Birthday Harry'? It was a bit embarrassing not to know when his birthday was supposed to be.

"Yeah –Harry, you do know your birthday is today, don't you?" Hagrid asked. Michael's expression must have been sufficient answer for he huffed angrily. "Why those useless Muggles! Right then, tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at - an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."

Michael's protests to the contrary, fifteen minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Michael now carried a large cage that held a study-looking tawny owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. "Thanks," said Michael shortly.

"Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly, taking the reticence as to mean that Michael was all choked up rather than ambivalent. "Don' expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivanders left now - only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand."

The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.

A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Michael felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Michael jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair.

An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"'Morning," said Michael awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Michael. Michael wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. "Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Michael were almost nose to nose. Michael could see himself reflected in those misty eyes. "And that's where..." Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Michael's forehead with a long, white finger. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands... well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do..."

He shook his head and then, to Michael's relief, spotted Hagrid. "Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again... Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.

"Er - yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he added brightly.

"But you don't use them?" said Mr. Ollivander sharply.

"Oh, no, sir," said Hagrid quickly. Michael noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.

"Hmmm," said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. "Well, now - Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

Michael shrugged. "You mean which hand I'll hold the wand in?" he asked. "I'm right handed if that signifies anything."

"Hold out your arm. That's it." Mr. Ollivander measured Michael from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand," he explained as he carried out these measurements.

Michael suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take it and give it a wave."

Michael took the wand, looked at it and flicked his wrist lightly. Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try -"

Michael repeated his efforts - but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

Michael took the wand and almost dropped it as he felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. With a sudden certainty, he described a small circle with the tip and saw a silvery light glow at the tip. The circle he had drawn filled with that silverly light and took a mirrorlike look for a moment before it faded away.

"Yes, indeed," Mr. Ollivander said. "Oh, very good." He put Michael's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper.

Michael paid six galleons and ten sickles for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Michael and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Michael didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn't even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the brown owl asleep in its cage on Michael's lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Michael only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.

"Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," he said.

He bought Michael a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Michael kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.

"You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid.

Michael wasn't sure he could explain. He chewed his hamburger, trying to find the words. "Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "And I'm famous, for something I can't even remember. That's going to be weird. I think I should have bought some children's book about me so I know what everyone thinks about me."

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile. "Don' you worry, Harry. You'll be just fine. just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts - I did - still do, 'smatter of fact."

Hagrid helped Michael on to the train that would apparently take him back to the Dursleys (which it seemed was a family name, not his uncle's first name), then handed him an envelope.

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts," he said. "First o' September - King's Cross - it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find me... See yeh soon, Harry."

The train pulled out of the station. Michael wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; he rose in his seat and pressed his nose against the window, but he blinked and Hagrid had gone.

.oOo.

Michael didn't actually go the Dursley's of course. How could he? He didn't have the least idea where they might live. Instead he got off the train at the first town outside London and went shopping for some better clothes than the one he had already. The galleons he'd changed for muggle money turned out to exchange for quite a lot – so he lied about his age at the town's youth hostel and rented a bed for a few days.

For most of the next week he split his time between the hostel's lounge, reading his school books and at the local library, reading whatever else he wanted. During the night, when he was sure he was alone he cried. He missed his Mum and Dad. But he always wiped them away if he thought someone might see them. He was thirteen, not a little boy, and he was pretending to be older. It worked out fairly well he thought, but by the end of the week, even the big wad of money he'd got for the galleons taken from his - Harry's - vault looked like it was going to run out. So he packed up his trunk again and reluctantly went back to London and Diagon Alley.

He spent quite a while in the bookshop next to the Leaky Cauldron, waiting for a family to go into the pub and once he spotted one, he trailed after, them, a cap low over his face. No one paid any attention to him, presuming that he was with the family, and he found it quite easy to nip into the yard and open the arch into Diagon Alley.

Without Hagrid or a shopping list to constrain him, Michael window-shopped from one end of the alley to the other, compiling a list of what he wanted. Then he went to the ice cream shop and went through the list carefully while he ate a huge toffee ice cream sundae. His Mum was always looking to buy special offers and save money whenever she could, so Michael followed her example and used his first list to draw up a second, much smaller list, of the things that he absolutely had to have and where he could get them for the best price.

What he ended up with was more than he'd really wanted to spend but much less than he'd feared he might have to. With a sigh, Michael folded up his list and trotted up the street to Gringotts again.

In the end he managed to get a better deal on a tent than he'd expected to – buying a secondhand item and having a few upgrades fitted worked out cheaper than getting a newer model. The tent, the centrepiece of what he required, was charmed to be invisible to Muggles and was large enough inside to provide just as much comfort, if not more, as the hostel that Michael had been staying at. He'd even managed to trade in his trunk for a rucksack that was larger inside than the outside was, making it much easier for him to carry his stuff around.

.oOo.

On the 30th of August, Michael made an unwelcome discovery. Having looked at the ticket for the first time, making sure that he hadn't lost it, he noticed that he was to take the eleven o'clock train from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Which would be a neat trick, since he was fairly sure that station platforms only came in whole numbers.

He scribbled a hasty enquiry to Hagrid and sent it with his owl, who he'd named Pollyanna after a half-remembered bird in a storybook he'd read a few years before, but Pollyanna hadn't returned by the morning, even though Michael woke up early to wait for her.

Eventually he decided that there was no use waiting around – he'd just have to go to the station himself and work things out from there. He'd prepared the day before so his bag was almost ready – all he had to do was pack away the tent, which took a little longer than he'd expected. Between that and having to find a taxi to take him to King's Cross he reached the station with only half an hour to spare.

Undaunted, he went along the station until he reached Platform Nine and then a little further to Platform Ten. There was no sign of a Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Somehow that didn't surprise Michael very much. He'd have to ask someone.

He stopped a passing guard and explained that he thought someone was having a laugh at him. The guard had never heard of a Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, unless it meant going three-quarters of the way along Platform Nine (which Michael thought might have some potential) and assured Michael that there was no train leaving any platform at eleven o'clock.

With only the stray hope that there was some secret platform somewhere, that was hidden the same way as the entrance to Diagon Alley, Michael set off along Platform Nine and kept his eyes open for any children his age or older who looked like they might be being sent off to school.

Luck appeared to be with him as four boys went past him, pushing cars loaded with trunks not too different from the one that Michael had had. All four boys had flaming red hair, as did the woman behind them and a little girl whose hand she was holding. "- packed with Muggles, of course -" he heard one of them say and paused to watch where they were going. 'Muggles'? That sounded like they might be wizards, which meant that they might well know where he should go, and now that he looked closer, the oldest of the seemed to have a caged owl on top of this trunk.

After a moment's discussion, the oldest boy turned his card and marched towards the barrier between Platform Nine and Platform Ten. A crowd of tourists blocked Michael's line of sight and when he could see again, the boy and his cart were gone.

Hmm, I don't think he could have gone around the barrier without my seeing it, Michael thought. So that must be where the access is. Now if I could just see how it's done…

Two more boys, like enough to each other that they might well be identical twins went for the barrier and this time Michael watched as they simply vanished into thin air as they approached it. There didn't seem to be any particular action, they just went there and then they weren't on the platform anymore.

Reluctantly, Michael decided that he would have to do something that he generally preferred to avoid. It was a compromise on one of his strongest principles but there was nothing else for it. He was going to have to ask for some help.

"Excuse me," Michael said politely to the plump woman. "Do you know where I might find Platform Nine and Three-Quarters?"

"Hello, dear," she said. "First time at Hogwarts? Ron's new, too." She pointed at the last and youngest of her sons. He was tall, thin, and gangling, with freckles, big hands and feet, and a long nose.

"Yes," said Michael. "But I don't know how to get onto the platform. I sent a letter to ask but I haven't had a reply."

"Not to worry," she said kindly. "All you have to do is walk straight at the barrier between platforms nine and ten. Don't stop and don't be scared you'll crash into it, that's very important. Best do it at a bit of a run if you're nervous. Go on, go now before Ron."

Michael gave her a puzzled look and then turned and trotted dutifully towards the wall. He had second thoughts a moment later, but it was the best option he had available so all he could do was close his eyes and make a note to get his revenge if this was some sort of complicated trick. He was sure that he should have reached the wall by now though...

When he opened them, he saw a scarlet steam engine waiting next to a platform packed with people. A sign overhead said Hogwarts Express, eleven o'clock. Michael looked behind him and saw a wrought-iron archway where the barrier had been, with the words Platform Nine and Three-Quarters on it. Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, while cats of every color wound here and there between their legs. Owls hooted to one another in a disgruntled sort of way over the babble and the scraping of heavy trunks.

The first few carriages were already packed with students, some hanging out of the window to talk to their families, some fighting over seats. Michael shook his head and began to walk along the platform in search of an empty seat, hoping that the whole train wouldn't be that crowded. Towards the end of the train he spotted a compartment that appeared to be empty and was putting his stuff inside when there was a flutter of wings and Pollyanna flew down to him, a letter clutched in her claws. Michael had to scramble to get Pollyanna's cage out of the bag and get her into it and himself, bag and cage onto the train, a task that would have been a great deal easier if he had had three or four hands instead of the standard issue of two.

"Want a hand?" offered a voice from behind him and he turned to see one of the red-headed twins he'd seen earlier.

"Could you hold this a moment?" Michael asked, passing him the cage. The older boy took the cage, and Michael jammed the letter into his pocket, opened the cage for Pollyanna, then slung his bag up and into the compartment before taking the cage back. "Thanks," he said cheerily. "Right at the worst possible time," he added, tapping the letter and Pollyanna squawked at him. "Not your fault," Michael assured her and put the cage onto the train rather more carefully than he had the bag.

"Hey, George," called the other twin. "What's keeping you?"

"Just helping one of the ickle firsties," George called back.

"George!" called the boys' mother. "Don't you go getting any first years into trouble."

Michael blinked and stuck his head out of the window to see the twins' mother looking at them sternly. "Oh, hello again," he said. "George was helping me get my stuff aboard." Just then a gust of wind blew along the platform and lifted the hair off of his forehead. Michael wasn't really used to his hair falling forwards, he had usually brushed it back from his face but Harry's hair was a lot less co-operative in that respect.

"What's that?" Fred said suddenly, pointing at Michael's forehead and presumably the scar there.

"Blimey," said George. "Are you…?"

"He is," said the Fred excitedly. "Aren't you?" he added.

Michael blinked at them and then realised what they meant. "Er… Hal Potter," he said, cheeks reddening. "Pleased to meet you." He'd decided a little while ago that he'd not go around calling himself Harry – hopefully that would cut back on the people starting at him.

It didn't seem to work very well because the twin chorused: "Harry Potter!" and gawked at him. They weren't alone in that – their younger brother and sister were doing the same and there was something in their mother's expression that suggested that she felt much the same way. Michael went even redder in the face and pulled back into the carriage abruptly.

A whistle sounded and he could hear the boys scrambling for another door. "Hurry up," their mother called and then: "Ginny!" as a small red-headed face appeared at his own door for a moment before the girl was pulled away, presumably by her mother.

"Bloody hell," he muttered under his breath.

Then he closed his own door just before the train began to move and the platform swept away behind him, houses flashing past the window as the train gathered speed. "Well, here I go," Michael said to himself as he settled picked up Pollyanna's cage and climbed onto the seat to rest it on the rack. Then he did the same with his rucksack and sat down to read the letter.

Hagrid apologised profusely for not thinking to tell 'Harry' how to find Platform Nine and Three-Quarters and gave some not entirely coherent directions to follow. With a sigh, Michael folded the letter and tucked it away, making a mental note to look for Hagrid when he got to Hogwarts and assure him that it was alright.

He'd just finished when the door into the passageway that ran along the other side of the carriage opened and the twin's younger brother came in, with his trunk in tow. "Anyone sitting there?" he asked, pointing at the seat opposite Michael. "Everywhere else is full."

Michael shook his head and helped the boy get his trunk settled before they sat back down facing each other. The boy looked at Michael searchingly and then looked quickly out of the window, pretending he hadn't looked. Michael rolled his eyes.

"Hey, Ron." The twins poked their heads around the door. "Listen, we're going down the middle of the train - Lee Jordan's got a giant tarantula down there."

"Right," mumbled Ron.

"Harry," said the other twin, "did we introduce ourselves? Fred and George Weasley. And this is Ron, our brother. See you later, then.

"Bye," said Michael and Ron. The twins slid the compartment door shut behind them.

"Are you really Harry Potter?" Ron blurted out.

Michael nodded. "Call me Hal," he said shortly.

"Oh - well, I thought it might be one of Fred and George's jokes," said Ron. "And have you really got - you know..." He pointed at Michael's forehead.

With a sigh, Michael pulled back his bangs to show the lightning scar. Ron stared. "So that's where …"

"I suppose," said Michael, "I can't remember it."

"Nothing?" said Ron eagerly.

"Nothing."

"Wow," said Ron. He sat and stared at Michael for a few moments, then, as though he had suddenly realized what he was doing, he looked quickly out of the window again.

"Are all your family wizards?" asked Michael, curiously.

"Er - Yes, I think so," said Ron. "I think Mom's got a second cousin who's an accountant, but we never talk about him."

Michael nodded. The Weasleys were clearly one of those old wizarding families the pale boy in Diagon Alley had talked about. "That must make life interesting," he said.

Ron shrugged. "Only when Fred and George are up to their tricks. What about you, I heard you went to live with Muggles. What are they like?"

Michael returned the shrug. "Just people," he said. "Not all that different from witches and wizards I suppose, we just use machines where you use magic."

"But you're a wizard too."

"I didn't know that," Michael replied. "I've only known about magic for a few weeks. Seems handy though. Nice to have a bit of money to spend for myself."

"What do you mean?" Ron asked.

"There was some wizard money in my parents' vault," Michael explained. "I figured that I could spare a little for a couple of treats."

"Must be nice," Ron said. "You never get anything new, either, with five brothers. I've got Bill's old robes, Charlie's old wand, and Percy's old rat." He reached into his jacket and produced a fat grey rat that was asleep. "His name's Scabbers and he's useless, he hardly ever wakes up. Percy got an owl from my dad for being made a prefect, but they couldn't aff-" Ron broke off and his ears went pink. "I mean, I got Scabbers instead," he finished and went back to staring out of the window, avoiding Michael's eyes.

The train had left London now and were passing through rolling hills of green fields, mostly freshly harvested but some with cows or sheep in them. Ron didn't seem inclined to talk about anything so after a few minutes Michael opened his bag and pulled out a paperback novel, opening it at the bookmark to continue reading from where he'd left off, immersing himself in a tale of adventure upon the high seas.

Sometime after what Michael usually considered to be lunchtime and was beginning to wonder how long it would take to get to Hogwarts, there was the clattering of a trolley outside and a woman opened the door, smiled at them and asked "Anything off the cart, dears?"

Michael, who had been regretting not bringing a packed lunch, leapt to his feet, but Ron's ears went pink again and he muttered something about sandwiches. Michael went out into the corridor with the firm intention of getting a square meal off the cart but was left scratching his head a little over the selection available. Bettie Bott's Every Flavor Beans and Drooble's Best Blowing Gum didn't look too tempting and nor did Licorice Wands. Tentatively he picked out a Pumpkin Pasty and a couple of Cauldron Cakes, as well as a number of Chocolate Frogs, reasoning that chocolate at least, wouldn't be too unusual.

When he went back into the compartment, Ron had taken out a package and unwrapped it to reveal four sandwiches which appeared to have corned beef inside. Michael had never had corned beef before and looked at his Pasty for a moment before offering it to Ron. "Trade you for a sandwich," he offered.

"You don't want this," Ron demurred. "It's all dry. She hasn't got much time, you know, with five of us."

Michael grinned. "I've made sandwiches myself," he said. "And I'm not in any position to complain about dryness. Go on, I've never had Corned Beef before."

After a moment, Ron held out one of the sandwiches and the compartment was filled by the sound of two boys eating their fill of their food. Michael split his second Cauldron Cake with Ron, who was easier about the sharing this time, and then picked up a Chocolate Frog and examined it thoughtfully. "Is this just chocolate?"

"Yes," Ron agreed. "But see what the card is. I'm missing Agrippa."

"Card?"

"Oh, of course, you wouldn't know - Chocolate Frogs have cards, inside them, you know, to collect - famous witches and wizards. I've got about five hundred, but I haven't got Agrippa or Ptolemy."

"Ah," Michael said and nodded his understanding, he'd seen similar ideas before. He unwrapped the Chocolate Frog and studied the card. It showed a man's face. He wore half- moon glasses, had a long, crooked nose, and flowing silver hair, beard, and mustache. Underneath the picture was the name Albus Dumbledore.

"Dumbledore," he told Ron. "Have you got him?"

"Yeah," Ron said. "Can I have a Frog? I might get Agrippa."

Michael shoved the chocolate into his mouth and passed over a frog.

On the other side of the card was printed:

ALBUS DUMBLEDORE

CURRENTLY HEADMASTER OF HOGWARTS.

Considered by many the greatest wizard of modern times, Dumbledore is particularly famous for his defeat of the dark wizard Grindelwald in 1945, for the discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, and his work on alchemy with his partner, Nicolas Flamel. Professor Dumbledore enjoys chamber music and tenpin bowling.

Michael turned the card back over and frowned when it was blank and didn't show Dumbledore's face anymore. "What…?" he muttered, tilting it to see if it was some sort of trick of the light.

"What's wrong?" Ron asked.

Michael held up the card. "Pictureless," he said. "It was there a moment ago."

"Well, you can't expect him to hang around all day," said Ron. "He'll be back. No, I've got Morgana again and I've got about six of her... do you want it? You can start collecting." Ron's eyes strayed to the pile of Chocolate Frogs waiting to be unwrapped.

"Help yourself," said Michael with a grin and tossed the card aside. "Not my thing though. Do all wizard pictures move around like that?"

"Sure," Ron answered. "Why? Don't muggle pictures move at all?" Ron sounded amazed. "Weird!" he said when Michael shook his head to confirm that muggle pictures were immobile.