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Harry Potter and the Assassin's Creed
Chapter Two: A Tree in the Room

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With a heavy sigh, Harry regarded the pile in front of him.

His wand, the handle of Sirius' knife, some screwed up parchment, the crumpled Circlet, some Floo powder from Umbridge's fire – but when was floo even invented? – and, in coins, eleven Galleons, one Sickle and four Knuts.

Not much, he thought. Though the golden galleons might go a long way.

He'd had two sickles but had managed, after much effort and gesticulation, to swap one for a few loaves of hard, seedy bread. It seemed to be all that food vendors in the town sold, apart from raw vegetables or dark, stringy and rather suspect meat, and Harry thought he'd avoid chewing raw onions and unknown animals for as long as he could help it.

He wished he had his invisibility cloak so that he could escape the scrutiny of the crowds for a time, but as far as he could recall it was still in Umbridge's office; he got a great many strange looks in his filthy school robes. Which was ironic, he considered – he thought the lot of them were a lot stranger dressed than he was.

He'd managed to discern a few things in the night and day he'd spent there – foremost that sleeping outside was the most unpleasant thing he'd ever experienced. He'd also worked out that he was undoubtedly in some sort of medieval time – unbelievable, but considering how many things he'd thought were unbelievable prior to this that turned out to be true it made a little more sense – and that he was no closer to being able to communicate with anyone than he had been at the beginning.

He awkwardly swept his meagre belongings off of the barrel and into the inner pocket of his robes, including Sirius' knife – though he wasn't sure why, as it was just a useless handle now. Perhaps so that he'd be able to remember exactly why he needed to get back – if he really had gone back in time (again), he theoretically would be able to go back to the same moment he'd left in. Although… did time turners go forwards, or only backwards? He couldn't remember what Hermione had told him those years ago… did it apply to something that wasn't a time turner?

It was bizarre, but if Harry hadn't had the experience with the Time Turner on that dreadful night in his third year, and learnt first hand how fickle Time Travel really was, he would likely have simply broken down, at a loss. Why had he ended up wherever he had?

He rubbed his eyes, which still watered periodically from the thick, putrid air – his sense of smell had grown attuned to it but he was uncomfortably aware that it still hung there. From the dark doorway he was sitting in he made his way unsteadily out.

The doorway, barely out of the fetid thoroughfare, had been his bed for the night – he'd managed just an hour of uncomfortable, terrified sleep. He wondered if he'd have been able to sleep better if he hadn't seen FitzOsbern stabbed in front of the church, or even if it hadn't been quite so dark. The pain in his broken arm hadn't dulled at all through the night, either – after the heat of the chapel, the colder it became outside the worse his arm hurt, serving as a persistent reminder that no, he wasn't dreaming and yes, this really was happening.

Yawning, he began to wander aimlessly along the streets once more, looking for some sort of landmark – he knew nothing about the middle-ages, if that was what this was, and wasn't sure if he'd be able to recognise anything, but hoped something would give him an idea as to where he was even if he couldn't work out the exact date.

The muddy roads around him, considering the riot that had taken place yesterday, were actually quite well-populated – the bloodshed hadn't stopped these people from going about their daily lives. They were simply, inexplicably unfazed and in the midst of the flurrying activity there seemed no end to the masses of people squeezed into the narrow streets, and no end to the tasks they had set themselves – women with weaved wicker baskets of cloth or vegetables who bustled around with puffing cheeks; men carrying heavy barrels or beating material with bats, calling jovially to one another and being answered sullenly at equal pitch; vendors at ramshackle stalls proclaiming their wares in their strange, oh-so-foreign tongue, holding glittering trinkets or lean, sickly fruit aloft…

The buildings around him were predominantly single-storey, and some were crooked enough to put The Burrow to shame. Almost everything was built in wood and the newer buildings stood out, pale and clear, whilst the older buildings were rotting masses of decades-old mud and black, rotting wood. Bar one or two richer-looking plots, the only things he'd seen that weren't built entirely out of timber were the Churches – some had stone foundations, others were built entirely out of bulky rubble and crumbling grey mortar. As Harry stood, staring along a larger road, he thought the scene stretching away in front of him looked like a giant, half-closed zip – at one end, a weary, half-built stone bridge over a huge river, and stretching the half mile to where he was standing on either side of the stinking, muddy thoroughfare were the buildings – the misshapen teeth of the zip, ready to close and swallow up the stinking thoroughfare.

A woman in a dark crevice exposed herself to Harry with a broken smile. His cheeks grew hot and he hurried past, her jeers following for a short while.

The people had a certain oafish, rugged look to them, a little like Crabbe and Goyle had. More than half of the occasions when others had looked at him, both male and female, they'd sized him up, eyes raking down his robes, obviously wondering whether he had anything on him of value and finding, at a glance, that he wasn't worth the bother. They were almost exclusively dressed in brown or grey rags – though whether they had begun as monotone articles or were simply dyed by years of living in filth, Harry couldn't fathom. The exceptions were the monks and the occasional richer-looking men and women on horseback, accompanied by huge retinues of armed soldiers and other retainers, all clad in bright, striking greens and blues and throwing silver coins to some of the more brave members of the poorer mass who would risk being trampled by the dozen horses for the chance to catch a fleeting piece of precious metal and whisk it away into the folds of their rags.

There were an unbelievable number of animals – donkeys or mules pulling downtrodden carts; huge horses with riders or being led at reign; mangy, underfed, half-wild dogs tied to posts all over the road, barking at passers-by or lying in the filth, staring mournfully at the food on sale nearby; a few cats, darting after the hundreds of scattering rats that ran between the feet of oblivious denizens… Harry didn't think he'd ever seen so many animals. He dreaded to think what other creatures might be within the muck and filth in the road, or under those few buildings constructed on stilts.

Harry couldn't shake the idea that he was still in England, though he had no real reason to believe that. The sun was pale and managed to take away the bite of the chilly wind, but the horizon was covered in heavy cloud and the air was laden with moisture. Most of those around him didn't seem to notice – presumably, it was usually like this. A British Summer, he couldn't help but think.

But it could be anywhere in Northern Europe, Harry reminded himself, not daring to hope that whilst he might be eons from home chronologically, he might not be eons from home geographically – some vain hope existed that being closer to where the Department of Mysteries and Ministry would end up being would assist him in the inevitable quest to return.

But it was not looking good.

Harry came to the outside of what looked to be some sort of early pub – but despite the early hour of the morning, the tavern was heaving with murmuring patrons. The noises that drifted out were that of slurring camaraderie and were a lot more inviting than the bustle of the road he was on. At a loss for anything else to do, Harry went in.

Different smells in here – urine and stale beer being prominent. A few people looked up from their stools around a squat table and one old man actually nodded to him in an almost friendly way, so that Harry had to resist the urge to hug him for being the first person to show the slightest sign of friendliness who hadn't been stabbed outside a burning church.

Speaking of which, the smell of wood smoke from the hearth in the corner brought back the painful memory of the previous day, glimpses of fleeing monks before his eyes, before he could bring himself back together. It was some warmth, at least, after a shivering night.

He walked towards the bar, jostled a little by two huge, barrel-chested men who were laughing uncontrollably, faces red and puffing, at some private joke. One clapped his shoulder, slurring something, but let him pass, lifting his iron tankard in mocking salutation and cracking into peels of heaving laughter once again.

When he reached the bar, which was really just a table with two barrels behind it and a stern, sniffling woman in her twenties, he felt carefully in his pocket for a coin as she put down a wooden cup of pale, watery liquid.

He smiled thanks, lifting out his last sickle as it was the only thing he knew had worked and didn't want to risk getting out a handful of gold in front of the drunken, impoverished patrons. She scowled at him.

"Ach dewle," she muttered, holding up the glinting sickle with spidery fingers, scrutinising it carefully. "Disesful."

But she folded it into sleeve, still scowling at him. Harry had expected change of some sort, not knowing what anything here was worth, but instead she crept off into the shadows for a moment.

He was certain he'd just overpaid, he considered sullenly, lifting the mug and sipping the mixture – bitter and a little sour, but definitely alcoholic. It would do to quench a little of his thirst.

After a minute or two or clattering around in the corner, the woman shuffled back, teeth gritted in discomfort as she planted a bowl with cold brown stew and a husk of stale bread in it in front of him and gestured upwards, behind Harry.

"Choys," said the woman, still pointing. "Oht loft roomth yon grecen."

Harry turned to see where she was pointing – a narrow, crooked staircase went up into the shadows.

Ah, thought Harry. It's an inn, not just a tavern, and I think I've just bought a room.

He nodded to her, holding the bowl of stew and bread in his injured hand gently and lifting his cup in the other, and made his careful way through the crowd and up the creaking staircase. He would absolutely take this opportunity to escape from this strange new world for a while.

The corridor at the top was impossibly narrow – merely a space between walls which Harry had to turn sideways to pass through. There were two doors – one to his left, shut and with rather loud snores emanating from it, and one at the end. This second door was shut also, but drenched in shadow and silence.

It held the quiet promise of solace.

As Harry reached it, he simply pushed against it for it to open – inside was just about the sparsest, smallest bedroom he'd ever encountered, reminding him very uncomfortably of the cupboard under the stairs where he'd spent most of his childhood.

Half of the room was made up with a sloping ceiling/wall with a wooden flap in its centre, and nestled awkwardly under this was a straw-and-rag floor-level bed. There was a chest right next to the door to the room which held a tiny, flickering candle, next to which Harry deposited his stew and beer… he couldn't quite understand how, but the cupboard under the Dursleys' stairs was actually better than this place in a lot of ways.

After taking a moment to get his bearings in the oppressive space, Harry adjusted his sling with a wince and went to the window flap. After fiddling with the latch he managed to get it open – it arched outwards, onto the pitched roof of the inn, letting the pale daylight spill through. The noises from the street outside did battle with the sounds coming from the tavern below, and Harry took a breath of the fresher air before settling uncomfortably down on the straw bedding and putting his head down.

The ceiling, sloping away, seemed very close to his face – he could make out the grains in the wood and termite holes just a few inches from his nose. The bedding was old and musky and scratched uncomfortably against his neck. His eyes ached, constantly, and he knew he was probably straining them – his glasses had been lost to the fire in the church the day before, and while his eyesight wasn't completely awful he had grown accustomed to everything around him being just that little bit clearer and more in focus.

The church coming unbidden to his mind once again, the terror of just what he was – a stranger in a foreign and violent world – threatened to catch up with him and he closed his aching eyes, gritting his teeth and refusing to cry as his helplessness began to catch up with his tiredness.

I'll get back, he promised himself. I'll get back and I'll find my friends and I'll save you, Sirius. This isn't real – this isn't going to –

There was movement behind him.

He started, jerking his broken arm and causing himself yet more pain, as he rolled over to manoeuvre himself out from under the sloping ceiling to see who the intruder was.

A woman… no, not a woman, a girl… regarding him doubtfully. Dressed in a multitude of grey rags with wide blue eyes and thin, frizzy blonde hair… Merlin, she looked almost like Luna.

"Oh, God," said Harry. "I'm so sorry – is this your room? Did I go into the wrong room?"

He was embarrassed to feel that his eyes were wet as he regarded the girl in the doorway. He cleared his throat and made to stand up, his one working arm pulling himself up.

"Did I -" he fought himself free from the tangle of straw and rags. "Did – uh… I'm sorry. I'll just – I thought…"

He was suddenly silenced as the girl sighed, and began to pull off her clothing.

Harry's mouth gaped like that of a fish as he watched her. He was still trying to free himself.

Her last layer on the top half came off, revealing a dirty, underfed body, with protruding ribs and small, bruised breasts.

"What?" Harry asked dumbly, having found his voice, heat rushing up into his neck and cheeks. "I'll leave! I'll leave - what are you doing? What are you doing?"

She ignored him, kicking off small cloth shoes and piling her removed garments next to the chest.

"Stop!" Harry said, finally freeing himself and coming back to his senses. "Stop it – let me – I'll leave. I'm sorry, I didn't think - I thought this was the room – I didn't -"

He was rapidly silenced once again as her final remaining garment was discarded, leaving Harry with a side view of her battered bare legs. Without further ado, she walked over to the straw bed – a furiously blushing Harry jumped as far out of her way as possible – and she turned to him, looking at him once more.

She met his eyes with her huge blue ones and took his hand, lowering herself onto the bedding.

Then he realised what was going on.

With a muffled cry of terror, fighting down shock and vomit, Harry tore out of the room, garbling obscenities, and nearly flew down the stairs as he rushed to be free.

He shoulder barged his way through the crowd towards the door, knocking at least one tankard from a man's hand.

The patrons' voices rose in jeering chorus as he fled.

…

London.

Delighted in some ways to have figured out where he was, the discovery of St. Paul's at one side of the town – though it was built out of wood and had taken him a while to recognise – dampened his spirits tremendously. He'd been holding onto the foolish hope that he was somehow not where he knew himself to be.

Of course, when he realised, there could be no mistaking it – a castle on the other side that would later become (he vaguely remembered) the Tower of London. The half-built stone bridge was London Bridge, stretching over the dark expanse of the River Thames… south of which was nothing but a few houses.

Surrounding those houses and making it almost unrecognisable everything was green… shallow hills and valleys that stretched off as far as the eye could see.

The problem was that he had barely any geographical knowledge of modern London… so now that he knew where he was, albeit however-many-years ago it could be, he still wasn't any closer to finding his way out. And he certainly couldn't remember there being such a huge stone wall surrounding what was left of this part of London in the modern day.

For lack of anything else to do and still hopelessly stuck if not hopelessly lost, he decided to go into St Paul's Cathedral – he knew, at least, what monks were. He knew what they did and had some sort of vague knowledge of what they were like. They were the only people who didn't represent such a chasmal unknown in this strange world.

And Harry nervously thought that he probably ought to confess for buying a prostitute, still not entirely comprehending what had happened back in the inn but knowing that these days a piece of silver went a lot farther than it would back home...

Waiting for some men herding a huge flock of noisy sheep to pass, he walked to the open doors at the front of the church and swallowed, forcing down memories of fire and slaughter, before plunging into the darkness beyond.

As he entered, he was struck by the heat and darkness – everything was lit by candle or flaming torches in brackets on the walls. The naked flames were uncomfortably close to the wooden structure and Harry felt his stomach heave slightly. He moved further in, eyes drawn to the shadowy recesses that the vaulted ceiling disappeared into, to the point that he almost walked into a monk.

"Sorry," apologised Harry automatically.

The monk gave him a watery-eyed smile, casting his glance over Harry's attire, before lifting an arm and gesturing towards one side of the church.

"Euwel fynt waybred un a sayt en afyrst, bowe," said the old monk. "Eu bi-loken houeþ."

Harry nodded dumbly, walking cautiously towards where gestured… until he saw the large, lumpy loaves of bread on display.

'Thank you, Merlin,' Harry wished vehemently. 'I mean – God… Thank you, thank you, thank you…'

He broke off a chunk of the nearest loaf, admiring the rest of the display. His husk was stale and powdery but tasted like heaven. His teeth couldn't break through it fast enough.

God bless monks and their charity, he decided.

He turned to find the monk had gone – but the church wasn't empty. Several people sat in pews and knelt in the corners of the structure – all faced the altar at the front. Nobody was standing there giving a service, but they all seemed to be listening raptly.

In that moment Harry felt like an intruder. He wasn't supposed to be here… wasn't supposed to be in this time, among these people. He didn't belong in this church, eating things for free from impoverished monks, and didn't belong anywhere else – this wasn't his England.

But where would he belong? wondered Harry. How on Earth could be possibly get back and who – if anyone – could help him? He couldn't speak the language, and hadn't the first idea about time-travel… the things he could remember from the future were jumbled and fuzzy, as though he really was from this time and his entire life at the Dursleys' and Hogwarts with Ron and Hermione had been a –

Harry stopped short, staring at a wall, wondering how he could have been so stupid.

Hogwarts: It was so obvious – something that Hermione would have put together in two seconds flat.

A nervous giggle escaped him, the idea taking shape in a tiny glimmer of hopeful ingenuity.

Hogwarts was a place he knew he could find wizards… the only place, for that matter. He doubted the Leaky Cauldron or anything resembling Charing Cross was in existence here. And everyone knew Hogwarts had been around for more than a thousand years…

Despite his newfound hope making him was to quite literally jump for joy, the negatives began to weigh down the idea… when was he? He knew where, but when! What if he'd gone back farther than a thousand years? What if he got to Hogwarts and saw nothing but hills and a lake… and how was he even going to get to Hogwarts? It was in Scotland, he'd always assumed – in the Scottish highlands in the middle of nowhere. What was it Hermione always said..? Yes - it was unplottable. It couldn't be put onto any maps… it couldn't be apparated into, though evidently Harry wasn't going to be able to attempt that. There was obviously no Hogwarts Express, or Platform 9¾ and not even any trains about. The people around him looked like they'd barely discovered the wheel.

Nervously he looked around, almost afraid to be overheard thinking.

Shaking his head at his own stupidity – and more than a little miffed at his own nerves – he began to walk out of the church, desperately trying to drag up all he knew from primary school of History.

He emerged at the front of the church once more. A rich man in red garb pushed his way past, wrinkling his nose, but Harry ignored him. He stared straight ahead and saw the muddy road become a gate in the huge town wall just fifty yards away.

1066 AD, he though absently. The muggle Norman… William the Conqueror?

He chewed his lip in deliberation, cursing the lack of actual historicaleducation at Hogwarts, before walking towards the busy gate. What did he have to lose? London – if that really was where he was – wasn't doing a whole lot for him. After all the horrors he'd witnessed the day before and the trial that this day had been, he figured trying his luck somewhere else wouldn't be unwise.

He'd also started to come to terms with the fact that being closer to where there might eventually be a Department of Mysteries didn't really mean he was any closer to getting back to his friends and Sirius.

The thought of his Godfather sent a pang of remorse through him as he ploughed into the throng of people.

People milled to and fro through the archway, with bored looking guards leaning on their spears watching the masses in barely disguised boredom. A few horses and riders went through, causing those on foot to have to dance out of the way in the ditch-cum-road beneath the threatening teeth of the portcullis, and carts took up nearly the entire space when they were led through by crinkled old men or beefy women.

'I'm walking through a caricature,' Harry thought as he emerged on the other side.

Rather than disperse, the crowd stayed fairly tightly packed together on the single road that led away before, to Harry's surprise, treetops were suddenly overhead and he was in a forest.

Aware of how surreal being in a thick, lush forest was where he knew there to be busy roads and traffic, he pushed onwards, an idea suddenly starting to form as to where he should head. Within another fifty yards, after going around a curve in the road and losing sight of London's wall or even the towering wooden steeple beyond it, they came to a crossroads. Harry hoped he had enough sense of direction to take him to where he was aiming as he turned left along with one or two others, losing the press of the crowd.

Navigating through thick woodland, even so close to a town he could still hear, was much more difficult than he'd imagined. This wasn't like the Forbidden Forest in-so-much as this forest had light and a clearly defined mud track, but the density of the trees and the creaking, ancient life of the woods was similar.

Almost without warning he came to the River.

Without breaking stride, the few others that had turned down this route began to continue West along what was little more than a pathway that wound along by the river, grass high on the bank side and trees leaning over from the right. The other side of the river was similar – thick roots stretching down into the water and a jumble of earth and lush greenery made Harry wonder just how all of this could have changed… the whole thing, the entire environment, looked timeless.

Before too long they came to a village.

Not really a village, Harry considered. More of a large hamlet, built from the edge of the water and half immersed in the trees. And in less than a thousand years, if he'd estimated right, Charing Cross Road would lead north from there. Nelson's Column would be seen from where he was standing right at that moment.

He felt vaguely disappointed, despite knowing just how much of a long shot it was – there wasn't really any chance of Diagon Alley having been there so many centuries ago, but Harry knew he'd never forgive himself if he'd left before checking.

He took a closer look at the village he was standing in, half of which looked ready to topple into the Thames at the slightest suggestion of wind.

'Nope,' he smiled wryly. 'No Leaky Cauldron. Not even a Gringott's.'

Several squat houses of wood and one built with some stone, a fully stone church, along with what looked like a communal fire in the clearing everything surrounded – plus an old woman scowling at him from the winch of a well, to whom he waved, giddy in his helplessness.

The nearest building to him, however, looked to be a set of stables. Harry was briefly toying with the idea of trying to buy a horse, but knew he'd never be able to ride it. He also doubted that the gold he had on him – despite the amount of scarlet women it could acquire – would actually be able to afford one.
Running out of ideas, he discretely took out his wand and balanced it awkwardly on his palm, and said, "Point Me Diagon Alley!"

Nothing happened – not even a twitch. Harry sighed as he pocketed his wand and, took one last glance around, before turning back onto the pathway next to the Thames.

What on earth would he do now? Harry wondered. He was completely out of ideas and was trying to think as creatively as possible – 'What Would Hermione Do?' had become almost a mantra in his head. He fingered the circlet in one pocket and his wand in the other, wishing he had a broom or something, or that floo powder worked, or that he could – somehow – just drop back into the time he was supposed to be occupying.

After a few moments of walking, however, he slowed.

'Hold on a moment…'

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, he turned around and began to walk back towards the little village. He'd walked further than he'd realised, but suddenly had a flash of something he hadn't fully paid attention to when he'd seen.

'It couldn't be…'

Striding purposefully into the clearing, he crossed it, ignoring the scowling woman at her well, and walked up to the house that was made partly of stone.

It had no windows and a basic structure and was otherwise unremarkable… except for the engraved markings above the door which read something like; 'don bIBe dRawes sen CCCLXXXII 3er3oIl'

Harry hadn't learnt much history of the middle-ages. Not much that he could remember, at any rate. What he had learnt in primary school was Roman Numerals. It had taken a few moments for it to come together in his head, but they were definitely Roman Numerals.

'C is century,' Harry remembered, brow furrowed. 'L is – either twenty or fifty. X is ten and I is one. So that's… three centuries, plus… if it's fifty, plus three tens, it's eighty, plus two. Three hundred and eighty two.'

He grinned, having suspected as much. There was only one building he could remember in the world that had '382' written on it.

Walking up and barely daring to hope, he knocked twice on the door before pushing it inwards and entering.

…

Harry had almost forgotten what it felt like to not be labouring under crushing disappointment.

Ollivander's didn't look very different on the inside. It had the same wooden counter, behind which were the same spindly stacks, upon which were the same types of wizards' wands, though without little boxes.

Even if Harry hadn't fully thought through what he'd do if he did find somewhere that still existed in his day, he was grateful for finding anything.

A robed man emerged from the shadows who looked so much like the Ollivander he'd met at eleven that for a moment he was taken aback – from the confused look he was giving Harry he was obviously not the same man, and was in fact an ancestor, but the family resemblance was uncanny.

Unable to stop himself from grinning, Harry walked up to the counter. The man seemed to shrink back a little.

"Hello," said Harry. "I'm – well, I'm from the future, but I'm a wizard."

The man continued to stare at Harry as though he were a turtle that had burst into song.

Blast – language barrier, of course, Harry realised.

He reached into his pocket and the old man – Ollivander – started to tense up, as though afraid of being attacked. As gently as possible, Harry removed his wand and held it up, between two fingers, for inspection.

The look on the old man's face resembled one he might have worn if that same turtle had begun to tap-dance. He began to stutter away in the strange foreign language that most people seemed to speak before snatching the wand away from Harry and holding it up to the nearest candle, running his fingers down the length of it and jabbering on.

Harry smiled, feeling unduly relieved that he was at least getting somewhere, nodding along sagely to whatever Ollivander was saying.

Finally, after his inspection of the wand, Ollivander turned back to Harry and said, forcefully, "Þere yer giet Þes holegn drawen?"

He sounded almost accusing, and Harry frowned.

"That's my wand," he replied, gesturing. "I'm a wizard."

He tried to remember what word FitzOsbern had used…

"I'm – uh… So – sorcíe?" he tried. The old man's eyes flickered.

"N'fair passetre utile lis Normaunds," Ollivander spat in a completely different accent, slamming Harry's wand down and marching back into the shadows.

Harry swore, using one of Ron's favourites.

"Sorry," he then said, calling after him into the shadows. "I'm not French. I can't speak French, I mean. I need your help!"

There was no sign of the old man. Everything in the shop was still. He tried desperately to remember what FitzOsbern had been saying – at the end, he'd been asking Harry for help. What were the words he used..?

Groaning in frustration, he snatched up his wand from the counter and paced, but it was no good; he couldn't remember. He thought Hermione would even have trouble with this particular puzzle – how could he make people understand him? It wasn't even like French or German… it wasn't a language he knew anyone could speak. Nobody gets taught Olde English or Medieval French!

Ollivander reappeared and Harry jumped.

The old man pushed an inked quill across the counter, gesturing to write with it on the corner of a dusty scroll.

"Canneye maken, bowe?"

"Write with it?" Harry asked softly. "Can I - on what..? On that scroll? No – wait -"

In a flash of inspiration, he pulled out the crumpled parchment he had in his pocket. He unfolded it awkwardly with his one working hand after transferring his wand to the other - on one side was a hastily scrawled 'revision' note from Ron (Harry, Keep an eye on when Hermy finishes her chapter. I'm dying for lunch - R). It must have been weeks old. On the other it was blank.

Ollivander was still gesturing.

"I don't understand," Harry said, stubbornly holding on to the note and beginning to get frustrated. "You won't be able to understand what I write."

"A poyntil. Canne yer maken?" Ollivander asked, pointing at the quill.

This is ridiculous, Harry thought, going to the counter and flattening the parchment against it. He couldn't remember Ollivander's descendant being this annoying.

He picked up the quill, but before he could even write anything – though admittedly it would likely by this point be something quite rude – the old man had snatched it up.

"For God's Sake!" shouted Harry, red sparks shooting out of the end of the wand his slung hand was gripping. "Do you want me to bloody write or not? I'll maken, you sod!"

Further infuriating Harry, Ollivander seemed to find this outburst extremely funny.

Count to Ten, Potter,Harry told himself. Breathe.

After Ollivander had reigned in his wheezing laughs, he wiped his eyes a little before squinting at the scrap of parchment that was in Ron's scrawl. The old man hummed to himself as he examined the text.

Harry, teeth still clenched rather hard, refrained from asking the man what was so important about it. He might have been seeing if he could help, he reasoned, even if he could use a good throttling...

Ollivander looked up, seeming to consider Harry for a few moments, eyes glittering disturbingly like Dumbledore's, before he shrugged.

"Kume," he said, beckoning, before disappearing into the shadows again.

It was unmistakeably a gesture to follow him, but Harry felt a little perturbed at the abruptness of his change in demeanour.

Wand now carefully in his good hand, Harry made his way around the counter and into the shadows behind Ollivander, brushing aside cobwebs as he went towards a flicker or orange light.

Unwittingly thinking yet again of the burning church, he suppressed the feelings of nausea and walked into a small backroom that was lit with a fire, over which a black pot simmered.

Harry was reminded of Hagrid"s cabin, though everything in here was obviously smaller and the whole place was earthier and more Spartan. A tiny cot in the corner, a table to one side, some stools, and large stacks of mundane instruments and equipment. There was a small archway on one side into what looked like a primitive workshop, and one tiny window in the corner.

The most distinctive feature of the room though was the tree that grew in the centre of it, leaves and all, at a dramatic angle away from the fire. Ollivander was, at that moment, ducking underneath it to reach the table and stools.

Uncertainly, Harry made his way gingerly through the room, avoiding the bizarre tree, to where Ollivander now bustled with a mortar, pestle and cauldron. He pulled up a stool and perched on it, wand still out uncertainly, as he watched the old man work.

A few herbs, some of which Harry recognised, along with bits and pieces of various animals were crushed in the clay pestle and Ollivander hummed tunelessly, muttering occasionally, as he began to brew a potion of some sort. He upended a water skin into the copper cauldron unceremoniously, throwing the mushy mixture in after it, and added one or two little bits more before stopping to consider.

Lips pursed, he reached into the folds of his robes and rummaged for a few moments before emerging with two things – one was a bundle of parchment sheaves, and the other was a meaty leg from a chicken or duck.

As it happens, the drumstick was not for the potion – he handed it to Harry absently, who took it, before Ollivander wiped his hand of grease and continued to brew the potion. Harry managed to simply hold it for a total of ten seconds before he began to eat – fortunately, Ollivander seemed to have intended this purpose. Harry was finding it harder to get an impression of the man who was currently perusing the sheaves of parchment, double-checking his recipe.

A few minutes later, as Ollivander corked a narrow clay pitcher and regarded his mixture and Harry finished devouring the meat off of the bone, the old man picked up the copper cauldron, careful not to spill any, and carried it towards the fire. With iron tongs he struggled to remove the pot that was simmering and replace it with the cauldron. Using the tongs, he carried the still bubbling black pot back towards Harry.

"Potte ye herte-spon en," the man instructed.

"What?" asked Harry.

"Spon – ye boon, nyce bowe," snapped Ollivander, the pot beginning to shake. "Potten!"

Harry followed his eyes, worried about his intentions, to the chicken bone. He picked it up and gestured with it.

"You want me to - ?"

"Aye, bowe!" the old man grunted, hands shaking now too.

Harry dropped the chicken bone into the pot. To his relief, this seemed to be what Ollivander had wanted him to do. The man shuffled the pot through the little archway into the shop and Harry heard him put it down with a relieved sigh.

"Sorry," muttered Harry, turning his attention back to the dilapidated tree.

Glaring, the old man stepped through once more, walking past and moving to the cauldron. The mixture within was beginning to bubble and, using the same iron tongs, he started to stir it gently.

Dangerous to mix with both iron and copper, Harry thought, remembering a potions lesson from the year before. He wasn't about to point this out, though, for a myriad of reasons.

A whistle caught his attention – it was Ollivander, not the mixture, and he beckoned him over. Reluctantly putting his wand back in his pocket, Harry went over.

"Poute," said Ollivander, demonstrating stirring with the tongs. "Poute, ay?"

"Yes. Pout, stir," Harry nodded with a frown, probably reckoning that the man knew just how dangerous this was and wasn't going to risk it himself. He took the tongs he was handed and began to mimic the man's motions.

'What is this all about?' He wondered sullenly. 'Is he just getting me to do some of his chores, or something? Is he taking advantage of – of the stupid tourist!'

After a minute or so, Harry really was ready to turn around and tell the old man to go stuff himself, when he heard a quiet "Engorgio" from behind him.

He turned his head to see Ollivander enlarging the square of parchment he'd given him. Harry was surprised – after two solid days of different languages he hadn't expected certain spells to have the same incantation.

When Ollivander had the square to a large enough size – about a foot in length and width – he began muttering different incantations, wand waving over it, and Harry watched, entranced, until the cauldron he was stirring gave an angry hiss and he reluctantly turned his attention to it again.

Only seconds later he felt a hand on his shoulder. He leant away and the old man bent down, taking the tongs from him, shaking the residue off of them and lifting the copper cauldron by its handle delicately. Harry moved backwards out of the way – he went to the table, content to let the man continue working simply out of curiosity. He regarded the now-larger parchment, which apart from size looked no different than it had before. Ron's scruffy handwriting, five times larger, stood out starkly in black ink.

After bustling some more in the next room, Ollivander entered once more, holding a misshapen wooden cup out to Harry with a steaming mixture within.

Harry stared doubtfully for a moment, before taking the cup.

The old man held out a hand signalling him to wait, though Harry hadn't intended to simply drink it, and bent over the parchment. He cast a couple of surgically accurate 'Diffindo' charms, cutting a scrap from the whole.

When Ollivander held it up, Harry saw it contained the portion of text 'Keep an eye on when' and nothing else. The old man, eyeing Harry critically, rolled up the segment into a thin tube, folded that tube, and took the cup from Harry. He put the rolled and folded parchment into the steaming cup.

After waiting a few moments, with Harry curious despite himself, Ollivander grunted once more, and held out the cup again.

This time the meaning was clear.

"You want me to drink it?" asked Harry, gesturing, to which the older man only nodded.

He took the cup gingerly… gazing into it he saw the parchment had dissolved.

He cast one more doubtful look at Ollivander before making his decision. This choice had two deciding factors; first, he didn't really have anything to lose, and second, it couldn't be worse than Skele-Gro.

He lifted the cup and drank.

…

He woke fairly quickly.

"Urgh," he said eloquently, his tongue numb and a fizzing sensation playing over the roof of his mouth. He opened and closed his lips a few times, the hinges of his jaw aching and a warm feeling flooding up from his throat. His mouth did not feel like his own.

He was still in Ollivander's house – he could see the tree directly above him. He shifted himself up onto his one good elbow… the bastard had left him on the floor. The room was otherwise empty.

'I bet he knew it would do that,' thought Harry murderously. 'Last time I ever drink an unknown potion from a stranger… Merlin, putting it like that makes is sound even stupider.'

He reached into his pocket and, sure enough, his wand was gone. He was surprised to find the crushed circlet and coins still in place… but that said – he'd taken the only thing of value.

He pushed himself up with a grunt, back aching after the hard wooden floor, and walked through the archway into the workshop – there sat Ollivander, with Harry's wand to one side and his own more crooked one nearby, carving into a length of wood.

"I suppose you think that was funny," said Harry loudly, trying to make the man jump, but he slurred it a little.

"Not funny," replied Ollivander, making Harry think he'd banged his head on the way down. "But necessary."

He still hadn't turned around. Harry stood dumbly, suddenly unsure of what was going on.

"What?" he managed.

"Are you able to understand me?" asked the old man casually, still carving. His accent was… implacable.

"Yes…" said Harry, his tongue feeling sluggish. "How exactly are you talking in English? Was this the potion, or have you been playing a trick on me?"

"A real language, indeed," sighed Ollivander, finally stopping his carving and turning to face Harry. "I always speak English; some French, Latin and Greek. You can hear my words, now, and the charms on the paper taught you basic English and French."

"That – it…" Harry had to think for a moment before he could talk. "That seems a little easy."

The man's eyebrows rose.

"Easy? Boy, I brewed a six-century old draught and from memory. Your concept of ease astonishes."

Harry was having a hard time associating the language, spoken with a clipped but varying accent, with the animalistic grunts and hard consonants of what he'd spoken up until that point.

"I've not been able to understand anyone," said Harry. "And now – I've drunk one potion… I've never heard of anything like this."

"Quite rare, indeed," said Ollivander. "Overcome your stupor, yet, or would you like some time?"

"I – no. I don't understand… I can speak English – your English – and French, now…"

"Yes," said Ollivander, and Harry heard the smile. "The last thing I spoke was in French, as is this. A little test. And you replied in kind. Good."

"Is this going to work with everyone or just you?"

Ollivander decided to stop carving and turned around finally.

"Anything in London-English or Norman-French," the old man said, spitting the last. "You'll understand an amount of similar dialects, but common sense need also be employed. Your understanding will grow as your brain gets accustomed."

"Right," said Harry slowly, who was ironically at a loss for words. After all the things he'd wanted to know, wanted to be able to ask people, he found they'd fled his mind.

"Now for my question," said Ollivander, standing. "Who made this wand?"

"My wand?" asked Harry in surprise. Such was the resemblance that he almost blurted out 'You made it' but managed to reign it in. "A – uh – very skilled wandsmith."

"I know this," said Ollivander. "But I desire a name."

"I can't tell you," said Harry, an ominous feeling brewing as he saw a glint of victory in the old man's eye.

"You made it?"

"What?" asked Harry, genuinely surprised. "No – no, of course I didn't."

"Who then?"

Harry wished he had the wand in question in his hand at this moment. The wand maker appeared to have helped him dramatically, but he couldn't possibly fathom how a man who'd seemed so like his own Ollivander could possibly be so imposing.

"You wouldn't believe me," said Harry in a small voice.

Ollivander chuckled. In the darker room, the shadows just beyond reach, he looked positively sinister.

"Sixty winters scouring the world," said Ollivander. "Any wand-makers more skilled than I, I apprenticed myself to before killing."

Harry's jaw dropped in shock.

"My father did so, and his before him, and my son has begun his own. Finding wand-makers is difficult – there are not many wizards and those who are tend to hide - so it is a competitive business. You," he said sharply, holding Harry's wand up, "have the best made wand I've ever seen. Holly… a curious core…"

"Thank you," said Harry, a buzzing in his ears he was sure was his pulse.

"If you'd like it back," said Ollivander, "I would like to know who made it for you. That is, for helping you with your language."

"I really can't tell you," said Harry, certain he was about to be killed… and by an Ollivander of all people?

'I faced down Voldemort, I faced down Voldemort, I faced down Voldemort - '

"Well, boy," the old man sighed. "Will you consent to answering a few questions?"

Harry barely nodded, eyes only on his own wand in the older man's hands.

"Where are you from?"

"Little Whinging in Epsom," answered Harry quietly.

The man's brow creased as he said, "I've not heard of it."

Harry decided not to mention that it was less than fifty miles from where they were, figuring that the man probably knew where Surrey was at the very least.

"You're too young for the Crusade… did you buy the wand from one who came back from the Crusade?"

"No," said Harry.

"Not from an Arab or a black?"

Harry's eyebrows shot up, but he shook his head.

"Have you trained at Hogwarts?"

Harry's heart skipped a beat and he couldn't help himself.

"Hogwarts exists?" he asked, barely daring to hope. "How do I get there?"

"Well," said Ollivander with a sneer. "If you're brain is busy, try using your feet."
Harry was staring at the fire mantle, searching for the obligatory pot of Floo, when he registered what the man had said.
"My feet… you mean walk? To Scotland?"
"Just over the wall," nodded Ollivander. "Enough of this; tell me, did you come to England for Hogwarts?"

Harry thought for a few moments, trying to figure out how he was expected to walk to Scotland, before nodding.
"Who made your wand!" the man suddenly shouted.
Harry started and stepped back, but kept his mouth stubbornly closed.

"Will you really not tell me who made this wand?" the old man said, suddenly deflating and losing all composure. "I have to tell my son…"

"You wouldn't believe me," Harry said, awkward about the idea of giving Ollivander even the slightest hint when it might cause him to send his son to kill someone. "Please give it back."

Looking mournful and a little pensive, Ollivander stepped forwards and handed Harry his wand. Never had holding the little stick felt like such a relief. Harry stepped backwards a pace or two.

"I didn't want to steal it," said Ollivander, now looking very, very old. "I just need to know who is capable of this."

"Don't worry," said Harry uncertainly. "Um – nobody is capable of this. It isn't – uh… you'll figure it out."

Silence.

With a nod and hasty thanks, Harry made his way to the front of the house and out into the darkening world.

He did not stay to see Ollivander sigh heavily and begin to write a letter on some of the remaining parchment. He did not see the steel in the man's eyes as he wrote to his son.

…

Author's Notes:

This chapter was approximately 8,342 words. Many thanks for reading.