Thank you for the reviews! This is the second chapter, and the end for now. I will probably write a sequel to this someday, however.

The Light of Sun and Star and Moon

As Harry grows older and towards the time that he'll need to go to Hogwarts, the goblins start to insist that he spend more time outside the Realm of Song and walking the streets of Diagon Alley and other wizard enclaves that spread around the goblin banks. "You need to practice English," Gorgeslitter tells him as he guides him around the wizarding section of Paris. He has an illusion on to look like a wizard so no one will rudely gape at him. "Your Gobbledegook is sounding more and more like your native language now."

"What's wrong with that? And I can't practice English here anyway."

"There are wizards here who speak English."

Harry sulks, but Gorgeslitter is firm, and Harry has learned that he won't get away with anything when a goblin looks like that. Grudgingly, he spends more time speaking English, and he spends more time casting spells, and he learns to ignore the voices of wood and stone and water weeping when wizards won't listen to them.

But he does nearly rebel on the day that Gorgeslitter takes him to Ollivander's wand shop.

"Do I really need a wand? I function fine without it," he grumbles in Gobbledegook as Gorgeslitter guides him firmly into the shop.

"Not fine in the way that other wizards will want to see," Gorgeslitter answers.

Harry nods glumly. He has learned that presenting a secretive front to wizards, conforming to what they expect to see, is important. The goblins could win a war with the wizards if they called upon all the resources of the Realm of Song, but no one wants to do that. Exposing those secrets? Having wizards know about the lakes of metal and the Deep Ones and the secrets of forging and crafting? It would be terrible.

So Harry puts his chin up and puts on what he thinks of as his "wizard smile," one calculated to make everyone think that he's nice and simple, and marches into Ollivander's shop. Gorgeslitter stays outside. Harry wishes he could, too, that he had a goblin body as well as a goblin soul, but needs must.

The old man who comes out of the back of the shop to stare at him is at least interesting, with magic writhing around him and his head cocked as if he hears the wands speaking in their boxes. Harry bows his head a little and makes sure he's speaking in English when he says, "Hello, sir. I'm Harry Potter. I've come for my wand?"

"You are Harry Potter. But you haven't come for your wand."

Startled, Harry lifts his head. "But I need it to be a wizard!"

"You are here because the goblins made you come."

Harry narrows his eyes. His hand rests on the knife that Ripclaw gave him, although he hopes that it just looks like he's resting his hand on his hip like a prissy little wizard. He whines, "But I need a wand! Even if the goblins made me come, why can't you give me a wand?"

"I only sell my wands to those they're meant to bond with, Mr. Potter. After you spent so many years in the Realm of Song, there is nothing for you here."

Harry tilts his head to the side, ignoring the wizard for a moment, while his mind drifts among the boxes and listens to the voices of wood and hair and—many other things. Then he looks up and blinks. "You're wrong, sir. There's a wand here that wants to bond with me. Don't you talk to them when they speak?"

Ollivander's mouth falls open a little. Then he turns and gestures at the boxes. "Tell me which one it is, if you can hear them."

"Not just hear, listen," Harry corrects him. He's always liked that distinction. He makes his way along the shelves, listening harder when he hears the murmur ahead of him become sharper and more excited. Then he reaches out, and his fingers brush the edge of the right box. He laughs aloud as the box actually splits apart so the wand can leap into his hand.

It's such a pretty wand! The holly wood gleams, and Harry can't help but pet the side of it where he can see a slight knot in the wood. And the core is phoenix feather. It sings to him with an echo of the bird it comes from. Harry thinks it's ghalimart, and he never uses that word for anything but some goblin magic.

He turns around to find Ollivander squinting at him. "Can it be?" he murmurs to himself. "Can you really be a goblin-trained wizard who has retained wizard magic?"

"They always taught me wizard magic," Harry corrects him. But he does it gently, because so many wizards don't know a thing about goblins. It's not their fault, the poor stupid things. "Here are the Galleons, sir."

Ollivander takes the Galleons slowly, moving as if he wants to drop them. Harry can ignore the sad chirping voices of the coins well enough. They're so changed from what they used to be that they don't retain much more than a dream of living free in lakes.

"I think you are going to change the wizarding world, Mr. Potter," Ollivander says as Harry steps out the door.

Harry throws a startled look over his shoulder, but shakes his head and keeps walking. He can't change it by himself. That would require wizards to start listening to goblins and walls and floors and all the rest, and he doesn't think they ever will.


"This is the train that you must depart on."

Harry sighs and stares at the train in front of him. It has too many voices in it for him to separate them: voices of iron and other metals and steam and wheels and coal and furniture. He turns to Toothsplitter, who stands lightly next to him and ignores the whispers and stares from other wizards. "What if I don't like it and I want to come home?"

"The Realm of Song will always be your home," Toothsplitter replies in Gobbledegook, and reaches out to cup the sides of Harry's face. "And I have a present that should make you feel better."

"Unless it's you coming with me, then—"

Harry gasps when he sees the belt buckle glinting in the middle of Toothsplitter's palm, though. She's right, it does cheer him up. He scoops it up and stares at it, aware that he's licking his lips and looks greedy. He doesn't care. The intricate pattern of gold and iron knots on the buckle can only mean one thing.

Harry looks up. "You're promoting me to journeyman because I'm leaving?"

"Of course that is not the only reason. Did you think I would let you get away with shoddy work?"

Harry grins, because he does know his teacher. No, Toothsplitter would never do a thing just for sentimental reasons. If she's promoting him to journeyman smith, she really does think his work is that good. He leans closer and rests his forehead briefly on her arm, giving her the greeting an apprentice goblin uses to a master for the last time. "Good-bye. I don't know what the wizarding world will be like, but I think they're a little stupid."

Toothsplitter laughs aloud and puts one hand on his shoulder. "Go in peace, little one. And astound them. That's the way you are."

Harry waves at her and runs onto the train. He has a trunk with his clothes and his weapons and his wand and his school supplies. He doesn't have much else. The knowledge he carries is in his head; Harry does read books, but most of the way goblins pass on knowledge is with song.

Harry wonders if he'll run into anyone else in the wizarding world who values such things. Probably not. But he might still have a good time here anyway if he can keep in mind that wizards just don't listen the way he does.


People keep gawking at him. But when Harry says something in response to their demands to see his scar, or their gasps, or something else, they all flinch back from him. They seem to expect him to be human.

Oh, well. Harry did tell Toothsplitter that he already knew most wizards would be stupid. It's only a little disappointing to be proven right.

They're standing in the Great Hall right now, with clouds hovering overhead. Harry thinks that's fascinating and hopes he gets the chance to talk to the ceiling. Sometimes it's hard to do that because the walls or the floor think you're addressing them instead, and the Great Hall is the highest place he's ever been in.

And the brightest. Harry's eyes are watering behind his glasses. He hopes that most of the corridors are darker.

Some of the schoolbooks he got did talk about the Houses, but Harry wasn't sure which one he wanted to be in until he heard some of the other students talking on the train. Now he knows there's only one choice.

"Gryffindor!' shouts the Hat for a few people, and "Hufflepuff!" for others. Harry waits. The line in front of him gets shorter and shorter, but some people already have their eyes fixed on him. They knew what he looks like because of pictures in the newspapers when he was young, the books told Harry.

It still makes Harry think they're all slightly stupid. Why would you trust a photograph to tell you what someone is really like? Only their magic and their work can do that.

"Potter, Harry!"

Harry walks forwards and confidently reaches for the Hat when the older professor standing by the stool hands it to him. She's staring at him. Harry smiles at her, but he's embarrassed for her, too. By the time that you get to that age in goblin society, you're respected and probably a master smith or healer or counter or some other important profession. You don't go around gaping at people because you should be the kind of person they gape at instead.

The Hat settles over his eyes, and promptly says, "What a fascinating notion of the world you do have, to be sure."

"I'm glad you can talk back," Harry tells it. "There are so many objects here that feel dim and dull, probably because no one ever pays attention to them."

The Hat chuckles, making the older woman gasp. But its other words are mental, like Harry's, and no one else can hear them. "They are dim and dull. But you have—well, an unusual mind. Where would you like to go, Harry Potter? There is only one House that would be absolutely unsuited for you, and that would be Hufflepuff."

"Because they're all so loyal to many things instead of one?"

"That would be part of it, yes."

Harry nods. "I'd like to go to Ravenclaw."

"Only because they have a half-goblin Head of House?"

"Do you really think that most wizards are going to like or sympathize with me once they find out that I was raised by goblins? I want someone who will. And I like learning, too. Just because I don't read books all the time doesn't mean that I wouldn't fit into Ravenclaw."

The Hat chuckles again for him. "Indeed, and well-argued. That logical side will help you in your new House as well. Best of luck to you in RAVENCLAW!"

Harry hands the Hat back to the older woman, who's blinking, and then hops off the stool. As he heads towards the table decorated in bronze and blue, he catches the eye of the small professor and mouths, "Hello," in Gobbledegook.

The professor's mouth falls open, but he nods and mouths back, "Welcome, young speaker," and then applauds harder than ever, and Harry's heart sings.

Unwearied Then

It actually turns out to be simpler living in the wizarding world than Harry ever thought.

For one thing, he just speaks the truth when people ask him about where he was, and he ignores the gasps and outrage. Some people think he shouldn't have been raised by goblins. But then, some people think they have the right to steal possessions, and some people think wands don't have voices, and some people think they should be allowed to kill others and get away with it outside a war or a formal dueling ring. That doesn't make them right. Harry lives in reality. He ignores their opinions and guards his possessions and listens to his wand and is ready to defend people.

His Potions professor hates him. He keeps saying Harry should read the book. Harry chants the properties of aconite and bezoars the first day for him in class, but it just makes Snape turn incredibly purple.

Harry reckons that's partially because he couldn't answer the question about the Draught of Living Death with goblin knowledge. Well, Harry does try to read the books more often, but they are boring. Things would be improved if wizarding society had bards you could pay to sing about potions.

Some of the Ravenclaws think he's mental for creating music for himself when he studies, but he hums it quietly and goes into the dungeon corridors that few people seem to use when he wants to sing aloud, so they mostly ignore it.

Harry also finds plenty of friends in the castle when humans are avoiding him. There are mirrors that no one has ever asked to shine, blocks of stone in the walls that still remember their quarries, and staircases that always lead Harry in the right direction because he asks them nicely. The Great Hall's ceiling is as fascinating to talk to as Harry thought it would be.

Professor Flitwick is pretty fascinating, too. He asks Harry lots of questions about the Realm of Song when Harry is serving the inevitable detentions Snape assigns him, and the detentions he gets from Professor McGonagall because he asks his wand to do things instead of using the proper incantations, and the detentions he gets from the Astronomy professor for not doing the homework (Harry just doesn't think stars are interesting, because they're too far away to talk to).

Professor Flitwick arranges for Harry to serve the detentions with him, and he does try to speak to Harry about doing his homework more. But he ends up laughing most of the time, so Harry knows Professor Flitwick isn't annoyed.

"You should do your Astronomy essays, however, Harry," he tells him in Gobbledegook as Harry finishes up writing some lines in English about how he will not disobey the professors. "Poor Professor Sinistra."

"But how much am I going to use Astronomy? And my eyes can't see some of the things she's talking about, anyway."

Professor Flitwick leans forwards and studies him seriously when he says that. "Are you saying that your eyes were damaged from living underground, Harry?"

"They're not damaged. But they're not used to looking at stars. And how much do you use Astronomy in your life now, Professor Flitwick?"

Professor Flitwick says, "Harry, that is not the point. I want you to start doing your Astronomy homework."

But he smiles when he says it, so Harry decides he's won and that squinting a little harder to see the stars Professor Sinistra is talking about won't be so bad.


Professor Dumbledore comes ambling up the stairs to Ravenclaw Tower one day and wants to stop and talk to Harry. Harry tells him that he can but he's very busy working on one of those missing Astronomy essays, so can it wait?

Professor Dumbledore looks at him for a very long time when he says that. Harry gets bored and goes back to writing his Astronomy essay. They're sitting on the stairs outside Ravenclaw Tower. It's one of the staircases that likes Harry, and Harry reaches out and absently pats one of the steps.

It seems the professor decides that means it's good to talk now. "One of the things that I am concerned about, Mr. Potter, with you being goblin-raised, is that you don't seem to have many friends at Hogwarts."

Harry blinks. "I'm not sure who told you that, sir. I have lots of friends. I can think of fifty or so off the top of my head."

"Is that so, Harry? Would you mind introducing me to them?"

"Of course. The first one is the staircase you're standing on. It's grateful that people don't spill butterbeer on it like they do with the floor in Gryffindor Tower, but it doesn't like us carrying all those heavy books up it. The Sorting Hat is fascinating, too. Sorry that you found me in your office that time, but I just wanted to talk to it."

Being in the Headmaster's office is one of those things that everyone else treated with shock and horror. Even Professor Flitwick seemed upset with him. But Harry doesn't understand. Finding hollow places in the stone is natural to him. And he doesn't understand why they call them "secret passages," either. Harry offered to tell the professors about them, so they wouldn't be secret anymore. The only people who wanted to listen were those two red-haired Weasleys from Gryffindor, though.

"I was asking about human friends, Harry."

"Oh, sorry, sir. You didn't say. Well, there's Fred and George Weasley from Gryffindor, and Professor Flitwick. I also think that it's very easy to talk to Cedric Diggory. He wants to know a lot about how his broom sounds when he rides it. I was able to tell him some of the bristles were about to break off! He said thank you and that he would take better care of it."

"If you had grown up with your relatives, Harry, then you would have had a normal life when you came here."

"How does sleeping in a cupboard make me normal, sir?"

Professor Dumbledore stares at him. He doesn't appear to know what to say.

"They called me a freak and never told me about magic," Harry tells Professor Dumbledore, shaking his head. He thinks poor Professor Dumbledore can't be that smart, even though Fred and George's brother Percy always says he's a genius. Well, Percy also isn't that smart. "My people always told me about magic and that I was human and had me practice English and wizard magic. That's a lot better than my relatives."

"You—you are the Boy-Who-Lived, Harry."

"Yes, sir, I am. I lived a much better life in the Realm of Song than with my relatives." It's been a long time since Harry thought about the Dursleys. He pities them now. They'll never hear a river speak or watch molten gold dance in front of them or argue with Toothsplitter about cases in Latin. It's such a sad, limited life.

"That means that you must face down Voldemort."

"Oh, him. He's kind of a waste of space, isn't he? Anyway, most of my people don't think so. Blackeyes thinks that it had something to do with my scar, but she healed the piece of soul in my scar, so it can't have anything to do with that anymore."

Professor Dumbledore sits down very hard on the steps.

"Your—your scar is still visible," he whispers when a few minutes have passed and Harry has written a few more lines on his Astronomy essay.

"Yeah, Blackeyes said it had been there too long to do much about in the end," Harry says distractedly as he flips through the book to find the fact he needs. Honestly, he wishes books had voices of their own instead of the voices of the leather and sinew and paper they're made from. It would make it easier to ask them where facts are hiding. "But she got rid of the piece of soul." He looks up hopefully. "Sir, do you know why Jupiter's rings are important?"

"I think," Professor Dumbledore says slowly, "that is a question you must answer for yourself." He stands up even more slowly. Harry hopes that he hasn't broken a hip or something. Toothsplitter is always unhappy with Gravensword when that happens to him. "Voldemort may still come after you, you know, Harry."

"I'll cut his head off when he tries."

Professor Dumbledore looks like he wants to sit down again. "What?"

Harry draws the knife Ripclaw gave him. "I can cut through skin very fast," he explains. "I can cut off his head."

"It's—it's not that simple, Harry."

"It can be," Harry says, and puts the knife away. "If you just let it."


There are other conversations, and adventures. Harry makes friends with the sinks in the boys' bathrooms, and they tell the others, so when a troll comes wandering into the school and into a girls' bathroom, Harry just has to ask the sinks to turn on all at once. The water comes spraying out and the troll gets it in its eyes and lumbers off so the professors can take care of it.

Harry finds study partners in his House who don't mind that he constantly hums under his breath. Some of them even want to learn Gobbledegook and how to talk to objects. Harry happily shares some of the speaking with them that won't betray secrets of the Realm of Song or crafting and forging, and smiles when he hears Terry Boot asking a shower to turn on and Michael Corner sulking because a stone was mean to him. (Harry did try to tell Michael: you never insult a stone's flakes of mica. It's just not done).

A few Slytherins try to insult him, but they stop when the floors beneath their feet constantly buckle and their own books refuse to open.

All in all, Harry fits better into the wizarding world than he thought. But he's still happy when the Christmas holiday comes and he can go back to London and through the front offices of Gringotts that are only for show and down into the darkness again.

Toothsplitter welcomes him with a challenge to prove that he hasn't lost all his smithing skill, and Harry spends his first night hammering all the dents out of a breastplate that some idiot giant wore against a dragon.

Then he sits on the shore of a dark river and exchanges tales of Hogwarts with Gorgeslitter and Ripclaw and Gravensword and his young goblin friends, and listens to the songs continually going on in the background.

He falls asleep in his small sleeping space that night, and goes running through tunnels the next morning. The stone chants underneath his feet, tales as old as the planet. Harry feels the weight of his wand in his pocket, its soft curiosity about the Realm of Song, and smiles.

He can have two worlds, and anyone who says that he can't is lying. But the Realm of Song is always going to be home.

The End.