Disclaimer: Not my work. Credit goes to Luna for the idea, and to J. for the original work.


The world seems twice as vibrant when you are happy, and it was undeniable that the children were. The rapport that they had built seemed odd to observers, their entire selves somehow in tune with each other. But it was a good sort of odd, and most observers just passed with a smile, a laugh, or a brief look.

Diagon Alley was a fantasy world for children who had lived the most normal lives possible. But their joy came not only for a half-spoken wish come true, but for each others' presences, their bond almost seeming to sing in joy and relief.

They noticed little of the world around them, engrossed in running around each other, first one chasing the other, then the chase turning, and the hunter becoming the hunted, then the game stopping altogether and two little heads bending to share confidences, or a joke, but private, and shared quietly.

Other times they walked next to each other, not holding hands, but so very next to each other that it was undeniable that they were accompanying each other, that they had a connection that most would never come close to. Even when either looked away from the other, their bodies betrayed them, angling so that they were not turned away, truly.

Sometimes they were completely silent, sharing only glances at most, but seeming to share entire conversations in the quirks of lips, raising eyebrows, quiet laughs. Sometimes they seemed a lot older, in the way they contained their emotions, suppressing them down into little emotive gestures, the raising of a hand, the crinkling of an eye.

To the watching, concerned parents, this said a great deal, mostly false.

That is not to say that the world was ignored. A sun shone, though it was not very hot a day. People wandered, clearly wizards, dressed in odd dress-like robes, pointed hats, and in the glimpses seen in the swish of a robe parting at each step, thigh length lace-up boots in the oddest colors.

Shops passed, with names from the normal Saffron's, a clothing shop which catered to wizards, therefore a robing shop, to the Cauldron's Bubbles, an apothecary. The children pointed them out to each other excitedly, wondering what exactly was the import of each shop, what it's role was, how normal, how necessary, how basic.

Both wondered, secretly, exactly how ignorant about the very fundamental necessities of this world they were, and resolved to solve it. And their thoughts had never been that secret. Harry knew of Hermione's misgivings and vice versa.

Both stretched comforting tendrils of thought to each other, comforted and comforting within a fraction of a second, reassured and reassuring, loved and loving, and finished.

That was the power of their bond.


Ollivander's had always been, traditionally, the last shop on the list of a Muggleborn, and the first shop on the list of a Pureblood. Maybe it was one more way of discrimination, and maybe there was no such malicious reason, and it was just coincidence. Maybe Purebloods waited for their wands all their lives, as the ultimate all purpose tool, a badge of their world. And Muggleborns waited for it for but a few months, or even a day of delicious anticipation.

Whatever the reason be, it was not so for this set of Non-Purebloods. They started the trip with a visit to the bookstore, (After Gringotts, which was obvious), then insisted on going to Ollivanders.

The shop's door opened inwards, and the swinging of the door disturbed the bead curtain hanging on the threshold and the tinkling sound flooded the small musty shop in which they were entering.

The sunlight streaming in through the door Harry had held open for the rest of his companions - Hermione, her parents and Hagrid - to enter, lit golden thousands of dust specks disturbed by the motion that seemed so long undisturbed.

Of course, that was not possible, since Hagrid had described the proprietor as the foremost wandcrafter in Britain, which meant that his abilities would be in high demand. Especially around this time of the year.

Which meant that this was faked. Some sort of illusion, perhaps? It was definitely done with style. An attempt to impress newcomers into the world of magic of the importance and mysticism of their wands? Perhaps it was for the wandcrafter's personal amusement. And perhaps there were greater reasons.

Injustice has a way of breeding cynicism.

Before Hermione's dramatic entrance into his life, Harry had been perfectly unconcerned by most of the mistreatment accorded him by his relatives, accepting it as his due. You can't miss what you've never had, after all. But after you have been given a glimpse of it... (And Hermione was more than a glimpse, thankyouverymuch.)

Well, injustice has a way of breeding cynicism.

Although Harry had been looking towards the door, he was not startled when someone coughed from behind him, the bond having pulsed in warning as soon as Hermione had seen the man approach him.

The slow turn he executed was meant to show to the man that Harry was not impressed. Halfway through, however, he decided he was.

The man was an impressive caricature of what every Muggleborn would expect a wandcrafter to be. Excentric, creepy... everything was there. "Harry Potter..." the man breathed, and even the tone was perfect.

There was little to actually say, of course, to a man who told Harry summarily that his dead mother and father had had such and such a wand, with not even a pretense of tact.

Then there was working through wand, after wand, after wand, even as Hermione watched, burning with anger that the wandmaker was playing with him, and he was sure of it, and how dare-

The latest wand exploded in his hand.

Everybody in the room started, except Hermione, who gave a long slow blink at Harry. Nothing either of them did would surprise the other. Externally, at least.

Really?

Hermione had a tight grip on his... call it his mind, threatening to press, just a little, and give him a head ache for the rest of the day. A grip that said she meant business, and calm down, now. Harry relaxed himself forcibly, feeling Hermione's grip relax in tandem. They both sighed in relief, unwittingly out loud, and Hermione's parents exchanged glances as eloquent as any Harry and Hermione had ever exchanged.

Olivander looked between the two, and his pale eyes widened, and for once he looked something other than entirely in control of the situation, as he had even as Harry took vindictive pleasure from the unpredictability of unmatched wands and wrecked random and destructive havoc on his shop.

He hesitantly brought out one wand from the back of the shop, the one Harry fully believed that he had intended to give Harry in the first place. Harry reached to it, and had only to touch it when it burst out into red and gold sparks.

Picking it up only erupted in more, and Harry listened only vaguely to Olivander's explanation of it's core, phoenix feather, and it's length, which he promptly forgot. He ignored all of Olivander's attempts to make him curious, repeating 'How curious, how curious.' as if truly amazed, but always deliberately just within Harry's earshot.

It was only as Harry started to pay for the wand, fully intending to ignore whatever the wandmaker wanted to tell him, that the wandmaker dropped his act, and warned him against that wand. He told Harry that the wand was brother to the one that had killed Harry's parents, and at this second mention, Harry snapped.

The wand burned in Harry's hands. A white hot flame flickered over and around his fingers, leaving them unscathed as the wand burned itself to ashes around them. Harry reveled in noticing that the dust covering the shop disappeared for an instant- False, he was certain. And Hermione quietly and surely gave him a migraine that would last for the rest of the day.

He might have winced.

The wizards around him had paled. Hermione again had not reacted visibly. The Muggles had started moving towards the door, trying- and failing- to tug Hermione with them.

There was stillness.

Harry broke the silence, eventually. "I have only one sibling." he said calmly, his young voice innocuous in the stillness, "And I have no wish to deal with whatever problems a brother bond with my parents' killer brings."

After a moment, Ollivander moved. "I have one more pair," He said, and he was speaking in a normal tone of voice, without the creepy undertones. "Perhaps you and your honored sister would like to try them?" He nodded at Hermione.

Both of the children started.

They were still children, not superhuman, though they were intelligent, and their lives had not been truly normal.

So they were startled, and reacted. But the wandcrafter had already moved. He went towards the back of the room lined with shelves upon shelves of dusty armlengthed boxes holding long, slim, shiny pieces of wood that could preform miraculous deeds, leaving no footprints behind him in the layers of - false - dust on the floor.

He brought back two boxes, not of cardboard as most of the others were, but of wood, inlaid with gold wire in an intricate pattern. He opened these boxes slowly with a visible, odd, reverence, explaining as he did so, "My mentor made these, not me. Most wandcrafters only make one sibling pair per life, and this was my master's. They are crafted from the root of a Linneth tree, with cores from the scales of the same dragon."

He handed one of the wands to Hermione and the other to Harry, then stepped back carefully, a wise decision, considering what had happened with the last two wands.

"On the count of three?" Harry suggested, turning to Hermione, who smiled. There was no count aloud, though both children raised their wands at the same time with a perfect swish. A grey streamer emerged from Harry's wand, while Hermione's emitted pure white sparks.

The adults burst into slightly relieved applause, while the children smiled, having felt their wands' connections and liking the idea of having one more connection between the two of them.


There was little more of amusement that day, except that which they forcibly squeezed out of each others' company, Hermione ignoring the presence and slight worry of her parents with the thoughtlessness that being an eleven year old brings.

For that day, their worlds were each other, engrossed as they were in the differences the bond brought when so close to each other. There was still shopping to complete, but nothing could actually pull all of their attention apart.

They played, ran, laughed, watched, and at the end of the day, held each other, if not physically then mentally, for Hermione did not wish for her parents to worry too much before she had a chance to tell them some of what had occurred over her vacation with her aunt.

Hermione freed Harry from his migraine as he turned away to go towards his own house, a gentle goodbye in a day of chaos, excitement and joy.

And then they went home, separated as much as they ever could be, tired, and lonely.

Sometime at midnight, Harry snuck out of his house to go to the park where he and Hermione had spent their time, and sat on the swings where they had sat together.

If a night watchman had passed by there, he would have seen a boy swinging for all he was worth, pushing himself higher and higher and higher, until at the peak of each arch, he could see for miles and if he imagined very hard, all the way to the dark window where his sister sat, looking his way.

But no one did, so no one saw the boy fly as he let go of the swing at the very highest point it could get. No one watched the boy continue the arch, flying up, up, up, then descending too slowly to be true, like a falling leaf, laughing in pure delight as he gently settled on tiptoe on the ground, as lightly as a fallen snowflake.


Then there was waiting at home with a terrified cousin, a belligerent uncle, and a disgusted aunt. He tried not to let it affect him, and Hermione was a great help there, calming him, distracting him at crucial times.

The bond had evolved again, still not allowing for much communication, but as it had allowed Hermione to give him headaches, (Harry couldn't because of the crippling guilt it poured on him if he deliberately hurt Hermione) it allowed Harry to calm Hermione and affect her emotions, though she always knew what Harry was doing.

Then the day arrived, and he was loaded into a car, his entire 'family' dropping him off to platform Nine and Three Quarters, laughing in his face as they showed him the counter between Platforms Nine and Ten. They laughed in his face as they drove away. Harry did not find any need to panic. After all, Hermione would be coming, and they'd both figure it out together.

Hermione didn't arrive, and soon enough Harry had figured out how to enter the platform by listening to wizards chatter around him. After waiting for a few more minutes, he entered the platform, the noise of a train overwhelming him, along with the noise of the hustle and bustle, the cries of children, the farewells and greetings flying over and across him.

For a moment he wondered what it would have been to have had someone calling to him too, but then he banished the thought. What he had was enough. More than enough.

He climbed onto the train, claiming an empty compartment, and settled himself, leaning his head against the glass of the window, to listen to the activity in himself, waiting for Hermione to give any indication that she had arrived.

Slowly the noise started to lessen, as he filtered it out, until he was listening more to the beating of his heart, the whooshing of his breath, feeling more the cold of the glass against his cheek, then listening to or feeling the hubbub.

Then the compartment door slid open. He knew without looking up who it was, and smiled without opening his eyes. Hermione entered, the door sliding shut behind her. She put down her books onto an empty space, sat against the opposite window mimicking Harry's pose, joining him in the depths of their consciences where they could choose to intermingle so that neither knew where one started and the other ended.

Neither stirred as the train started. Neither stirred when the door opened, closed, then opened and closed again, signalling someone's arrival and departure. Neither stirred for a long long time.

This was how the siblings came to Hogwarts.


2502 words. I like. This is the length it should be.

Anyway. I'm not sure the tone for this is like the one before it. God only knows, I don't. And of course, you guys know. I'd appreciate it if you'd tell me. Luna, I'd like nice constructive crit for this, pleeease? You do awesome-cool ones.

Also, Ollivander's. I am not sure where that came from. But yeah, Our Harry is different. I have no idea if my hastily cobbled together explanation works.

Also, this universe is becoming fun. That means that I have no real control over what happens next. I do know the plot, I just don't know how it will work. I meant to write Madam Malkins, and Gringotts as the written in parts. Instead we get faking Ollivanders. Odd.

Hija