Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter franchise, nor do I make any money from this story.

PROLOGUE

The Wandmaker of Diagon Alley

Diagon Alley was a breath-taking place. Harry marvelled at the old-fashioned shops with their stone walls and their beavertail tile roofs, at the wizards and witches hurrying down the cobblestone as their colourful robes billowed behind them, even at the almost unnoticeable details such as the carvings on the worn wooden plaques and the bronze bells on each front door. He had never seen anything so beautiful before; the entire street looked as if it had been taken out of a storybook, a children's fairy tale. Large wooden barrels were overflowing with grapes and figs, and baskets of spices sat on tables outside the stores. Owls stared at the passers-by from their silver cages, occasionally hooting or squawking at groups of particularly noisy children.

"You may take the time to wander around later, Mr Potter." The stern voice of the woman which had introduced herself as Professor McGonagall only hours before did little to dampen the young boy's fascination. "First we have to buy your school supplies."

Thus they rushed from one wooden door to another, from the Apothecary to the bookstore Flourish and Blotts. Harry enjoyed every minute of it. What he hadn't been looking forward to, however, was the trip to Madam Malkin's robe shop. He had never really gone shopping for clothes before, but rather received what second-hand attire his Aunt Petunia deemed appropriate. Being forced into regal robes like the ones the bearded old wizards wore in fantasy films didn't particularly appeal to the young boy. Not that it mattered to his professor either way; she didn't seem to register his complaints.

She ushered him into the store and promised she'd wait outside, asking that Harry bought clothing outside his standard Hogwarts uniform as well. Inside was a blond boy with sharp features, standing straight as a young woman measured him. "Hello," the boy said. "Hogwarts too?"

Harry nodded, wondering whether this could be his first friend. Although he had loved playing with Dudley as a young child, the Dursley parents tended to spread rumours to the neighbours about his supposedly atrocious character, meaning most residents of Privet Drive kept their children at a safe distance from him.

"I'm Draco – Draco Malfoy. I'm a first year. Hopefully they'll sort me into Slytherin, I can't imagine being in any other house. What about you? Are you a pure-blood?"

Harry eyed the boy cautiously. He didn't seem overly friendly, but wasn't intentionally rude either. McGonagall had explained about the different Hogwarts Houses last night, and had told him that both of his parents – who had been exceptionally powerful wizards – had been Gryffindors.

"Harry Potter," he introduced himself finally. "Yes, both of my parents had magic, though I really don't mind what house I'll be in. They all sound fine to me, honestly." He chose his words carefully, knowing what the other boy wanted to hear.

"Harry Potter," Draco repeated. "The Boy-Who-Lived. Of course your parents had magic… Though I heard your mother was a Mudblood. Is that true?"

"I don't know," Harry said, trying hard not to jump at the obvious insult towards his late mother. He was liking the boy less and less by the minute. Just as the young woman was finishing up Draco's robes, he looked back at the boy. "I was raised by Muggles."

"Oh." Draco looked quite disgusted for a moment. "I'm sorry to hear that. How come you weren't raised by a magical family? I mean… you are Harry Potter."

Harry shrugged, climbing onto the pedestal for the woman to measure him too. He had come to ask himself the same question the previous night. If he was really so famous and loved, why had he been left with the Dursleys, a violent, magic-hating pair of hypocrites? It didn't really make sense to him, but he didn't dare ask McGonagall just yet.

"I'll wait for you while you get your robes, if you want," Draco offered. "My mother's across the street, buying my textbooks. Father promised to get me a new broom too, I hope it's a Nimbus. Do you play Quidditch?"

Harry sighed. "I told you," he said. "I was raised by Muggles. I don't know what Quidditch is."

Draco's pale grey eyes widened. "Oh Merlin," he said in a mutter, more to himself than to Harry. "I'll have to show you everything, won't I? I can't believe you were raised by Muggles…"

Once the boys were done, they thanked the employee, paid her a few Galleons and made their way towards Professor McGonagall, who introduced herself to Draco. "Your mother was quite a competent witch, Mr Malfoy," she told him. "I certainly hope you will prove to possess similar talents."

"Of course, Professor," Draco said, bowing only slightly. His father had told him that Malfoys bow to no one, but his mother believed bowing was a sign of respect. If he had to be honest with himself, he trusted his mother a lot more than he did his father, who was colder and more demanding. "I'd best go, Professor. My mother will be waiting for me. It was an honour meeting you."

As if on cue, however, a tall, elegant woman with the same blonde hair as Draco, and even colder blue eyes, dropped a pale hand on her son's shoulder. "Professor McGonagall," she greeted, inclining her head. "I believe you already know my son Draco will be attending Hogwarts this year."

"Certainly," McGonagall replied. "Lady Malfoy, I have high expectations of your son. I advise you to aid him in meeting these expectations." She gave the younger woman a pointed look which Harry didn't understand. He looked at Draco, who seemed to be catching on, but the boy didn't give any indication of wanting to share this information with him.

The woman – Lady Malfoy – recovered quickly from the emotion that flashed in her icy eyes. "Very well." She tightened her grip on her son's shoulder and, with a slightly condescending look towards Harry, pulled him back. "It was a great pleasure meeting you again, Professor. I should hope my son does not disappoint you." With that the Malfoys left, their thick, royal robes swaying around their shoes.

"What was that about?" Harry asked in a hushed voice as McGonagall dragged him towards Ollivander's wand shop.

The professor pursed her lips, as she always did when Harry asked a difficult question. "Sometimes, Mr Potter," she said, "appearances are very deceiving. We mustn't make assumptions about people too quickly. Young Mr Malfoy might be in dire need of a positive influence in his life, though his appearance states otherwise."

Harry frowned at McGonagall, unsure where she was going with that sentence. He didn't ask any other questions.

Ollivander turned out to be a senile wizard of no less than eighty years, with wide silvery eyes resembling an owl's and a scratchy voice which served to frighten first-year students. Harry tried tens of wands, yet none seemed right. He began worrying that maybe McGonagall had been wrong, that he wasn't really a wizard.

"Nonsense," Ollivander said reassuringly. "There's a right wand for each young wizard." And indeed – no less than fifty-seven wands later, Harry wrapped his fingers around one made of rosewood and dragon heartstring. Ollivander smiled terrifyingly.

"Wonderful," he said. "Just like your brother's."

Harry choked on his own saliva. "Excuse me?" he spun around to look questioningly at McGonagall, who had paled over. A brother? He had a brother? Where was he? Who was he? Why hadn't anyone told him? Why weren't they living together? "Professor, what's going on?" he asked, the panic in his voice rising noticeably.

"Garrick," McGonagall demanded in shock. "What in Merlin's name…"

Ollivander's humourless smile widened. "The wand chooses the wizard, Minerva. I am a wandmaker, I have no alliances. Otherwise the wands come out uneven, powerless, biased towards one side…"

Before even having paid, Professor McGonagall dragged Harry out of the store, fuming. She wouldn't answer any of his questions, she wouldn't even look at him. Finally, he exploded. "I want to know!" he yelled. "What did Ollivander mean?"

"Do stop acting so insolently," the Transfiguration mistress snapped. "Had I known what he meant, I would have told you."

"Did I have a brother, Professor?"

"None that I know of," his professor replied, her voice softening considerably. "The Potters only had one child – you. Even if there existed another son which I had not known of, Hogwarts sends letters to all magical children in Britain, even those who have no intention of attending. You were the only Potter on the list."

Harry shook his head. "Well, can we do some research?" He'd have to look at this calmly and rationally if he wanted answers. It was true, he'd always dreamed of having a brother, but it was shocking, terrifying, and it didn't make any sense whatsoever to him. Where was this brother? And why had no one seen him? Part of Harry felt like running back to Ollivander and asking, the other just wanted to forget this had ever taken place.

He shook his head, forcing himself to stop thinking about that. He'd find a way to uncover the truth…

Until then, he'd have to settle for reading his schoolbooks and learning as much about Wizarding Britain as he could. McGonagall, after having deemed his uncle's behaviour inappropriate and unfit to live with, had invited him to stay with her in the Leaky Cauldron until the end of the summer, as her duties for the upcoming First of September were already done.