If I owned Harry Potter, you would have paid $7.99 for this story.

Chapter Two
The Professor

Five days ago, Harry had received a very strange letter informing him that he had been accepted at a "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry".

There were three things about this letter that were strange. The first was that, so far as he knew, he had never applied to such a school. The second was that, so far as he knew, wizards and witches weren't real. And the third (he'd realized, once he'd penned a reply to this Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall asking for clarification) was that he was apparently supposed to reply using an owl.

No sooner had he wondered where he would get an owl, though, than one tapped on his bedroom window. Apparently Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had anticipated this problem.

A flurry of correspondence later, and Professor McGonagall (as she'd told him to address her) had arranged for someone to meet with Harry that Saturday to explain the situation.

Vernon and Petunia had not been happy about this, but Harry had pointed out, as he twirled the F-S Fighting Knife in his hand that he'd gotten last Christmas, that they would be even less happy if they had less than twenty fingers between them.

And so Harry found himself coming down the stairs when, at twelve o'clock on the dot, the doorbell rang. Harry opened the door and was greeted by the oddest-looking person he'd ever met.

The man was tall and thin and very old. He wore a lavender suit, shoes with buckles instead of laces, a tie spangled with stars that Harry could swear were moving, and white hair and a beard that both reached his belt. Keen blue eyes seemed to X-ray him from behind half-moon glasses.

"Good afternoon. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts. It's a pleasure to finally see you again, Harry."

Several things tried to come out of Harry's mouth at once, but Ellie's most important lesson came back to him, as it always did at times like this: Always look like you know what you're doing. So he quickly put together most of the things he wanted to say.

"It's nice to meet you. Come in—is it Headmaster? Professor? Or one of those titles from the letter—Mugwump, I think?"

"'Professor' is more than adequate," Professor Dumbledore said. "When you have as many titles as I do, there is always a danger that you'll forget to answer to one of them."

Which only strengthened Harry's desire to say the one thing he hadn't included in that sentence—are you for real?

Harry glanced towards the living room, then back at Dumbledore. He'd been planning to talk in there, but one look at the man and he realized that if Vernon came in, he'd either fly into a rage or have a stroke. And while it'd be interesting to see how a wizard handled such things, either one would probably delay their discussion.

"We can speak in my bedroom," Harry decided. "This way."

The two of them climbed the stairs—Professor Dumbledore was very spry despite his age—and came to Harry's door. Harry undid the lock with practiced ease, not noticing Dumbledore's curious look, and led him in.

The furniture in Harry's room was shabby; the mattress was lumpy, the desk dented, and the wardrobe didn't close properly. Besides the furniture, the only objects in the room were a few shelves of books and a dart board that was so thoroughly thrashed, Dumbledore would probably never guess Harry had wanted it fixed at least a dozen times.

Harry realized he only had one chair, but just as he was turning to offer it to Dumbledore, the older man drew a stick from inside his jacket and flicked it. Instantly, a cushy red armchair was standing in the empty space before the door.

Harry gaped. Dumbledore chuckled as he settled into the armchair. "I do so enjoy seeing the wonder on a child's face the first time they see magic. Alas, I haven't introduced anyone myself since I became Headmaster."

"Erm, right," Harry said. "I suppose that answers my first question. So, these things we can do…they're magic?"

"They are indeed," Dumbledore said. "What sorts of things can you do, Harry?"

"Nothing like that, I mean, that was—" Harry realized he was babbling and took a deep breath. Always look like you know what you're doing. He also realized he was still standing, and moved to sit down. "I can move things by wanting them to move. If I throw something, I can make it hit where I want it to go. I can repair things"—Harry sat in his desk chair, which gave a nasty squeal, and he grimaced—"at least to some degree. I can fight back when people try to hurt me." An image swam to his mind—Vernon raising his hand, Harry closing his eyes, Vernon's pained cry, Harry looking up, the mix of horror and triumph as he saw the knife in Vernon's palm—then another—gasping for breath, Vernon's silhouette standing over him, half the cricket bat disintegrated—and Harry shook his head to clear it. "I even talked with a snake at the zoo a few months ago."

"Did you really?" Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows had risen far above the rims of his glasses. "That's quite the list, young man. And without a wand?"

"A…a wand, Professor?"

Dumbledore showed Harry his stick. Up close, Harry could see it was much more than a strip of dark wood; it was intricately carved, with everything from eldritch sigils to what looked like clusters of berries etched along its length. "A wand is a wizard's tool, Harry. It focuses and amplifies your magic, allowing you to cast spells more intricate or powerful than you could perform unaided. Most spells are cast by performing the proper gesture with your wand and speaking an appropriate incantation."

"You didn't use an…incantation when you created that chair, did you, sir?"

Dumbledore smiled. "You're a sharp one, aren't you? I am powerful enough that I can perform many spells silently. You probably will be too, Harry. The skills you mentioned—moving and guiding and repairing objects—are, though simple compared to conjuring a chair, far beyond what most wizards can do unaided. At Hogwarts, we will teach you the greater magics that can be performed with a wand, but you should take special care to maintain and grow the abilities you already have.

"As for the other skill you mentioned—speaking to snakes—I feel I must warn you. A person who can speak to snakes is called a Parselmouth, and wizards and witches have many unfounded superstitions about such people. I would not mention it to anyone you don't already trust."

Harry nodded, then paused for a moment. "Professor…if there are all these magical people in the world, why haven't I ever heard of them?"

"We hide ourselves, Harry. We have a law, the International Statute of Secrecy, that requires us to keep our existence from the Muggles."

"Muggles?"

"Non-magical people. No wizard or witch may reveal our existence to any Muggle, save close family members. We keep from performing magic in front of them, and we hide our buildings and communities from them with magic. When one of them does manage to see something magical, we erase their memory of the incident and send them on their way."

"But why?"

"Different wizards have different answers, Harry. Some say that the Muggles would pester us for magical solutions to their problems if they knew of us. Others"—he frowned here, as though he didn't like these others—"claim that Muggles are somehow beneath us, and that we oughtn't to associate with their sort."

"What do you think, sir?"

"I think," Dumbledore said, "that there are not very many wizards and witches in the world. Not one person in a thousand could use a wand to so much as make sparks, Harry. And only the most formidable of those could stand up to a single Muggle soldier, let alone an army. It is no coincidence that the Statute was introduced mere months after a Muggle with a flintlock pistol bested a wizard in a duel. If the Muggles ever did turn on us, all the magic we could muster would not spare us their wrath."

Harry decided to be very careful where he used his magic.

"Fortunately, the spells we hide ourselves with care not what technology the Muggles use; if they cannot see a building in person, they cannot see it through a camera. And the charms that expunge records on paper work just as well against their remarkable thinking machines. Maintaining our secrecy requires a great deal of work, Harry—a good portion of the Ministry of Magic is devoted to it—but it is not truly difficult."

"There's a Ministry of Magic?" Harry asked.

"Oh, yes. In Britain, the Minister and the directors of the various departments are appointed by the Wizengamot, which also passes laws and tries court cases. At the worldwide level, the International Confederation of Wizards settles disputes between magical governments and ensures everyone is enforcing secrecy."

And Dumbledore seemingly held important positions in both of those governments—unless "supreme mugwump" meant "court jester". "Sir…why are you here? Surely you have more important things to do than talk to an ordinary ten-year-old…wizard?"

The word felt right, Harry realized as he voiced it. He was a wizard.

Dumbledore sighed. "Alas, Harry, I'm afraid you are no ordinary ten-year-old wizard."

And so Dumbledore told Harry of Lord Voldemort and his Death Eaters and their genocidal reign of terror.

"Though few truly wanted Voldemort to win, Harry, even fewer had the courage to stand against him. James and Lily Potter, your parents, were among them. Your father was a tremendous duelist, tricky and creative with preternatural reflexes, and your mother was one of the most powerful witches I'd ever met, and matched it with an amazing repertoire of magic; she had been the sort of student Hogwarts sees only once in a generation. Together, they were a force to be reckoned with. They even dueled Voldemort himself three times and survived, a record only I have exceeded.

"It was that third duel, I believe, which brought them to his attention. A wizard who had been friends with Lily once, before he took the Dark Mark, warned me that the Potters were being targeted for death. In other circumstances the Potters would have treated this as an opportunity, perhaps set an ambush—but Lily was with child, and even before you were born, they loved you too much to risk you."

Harry furiously blinked away his tears.

"Instead, they went into hiding behind the strongest protections we could devise. But it was not enough. A traitor allowed Voldemort past the protections, and at nine o'clock in the evening on Halloween 1981, he blasted open the front door to your house.

"From what we can tell, your parents were caught off guard. Neither was carrying their wand." (Harry made a mental note to always carry his wand. And his knives, too.) "James tried to hold him off downstairs, while Lily ran went to your nursery to try to protect you. Voldemort killed James, then Lily, and then he turned to you. And then something strange happened."

"What?" Harry asked, ignoring the burning in his eyes.

"Voldemort had been using the Killing Curse. It's a spell that cannot be cast if you want to harm, or even to kill in self-defense; you have to be willing to murder the victim, whether it's justified or not. Because of that, and because there is no known shield or counter-curse for it, use of the Killing Curse is punished by life imprisonment.

"But when he cast the Killing Curse at you, Harry, the spell rebounded. Voldemort, who cast the spell and should have been unharmed, vanished without a trace; and you, who had been the target and should have died, survived with only a cut upon your forehead. It has made you famous in our world—the child who struck down the Dark Lord at the height of his power, the boy who lived when all others died."

Harry reached up and touched the strange zigzagging scar.

"But…how?"

"I have no facts to answer you with, Harry, only theories. But your mother could have run, could have saved herself, and instead tried to protect you. That is the sort of action that can invoke Old Magics—powers far greater, and far more subtle, than what mere wands command."

Harry turned away from Dumbledore. By the time he turned back, wiping his eyes, Dumbledore was studying the books on his shelves.

"You have the beginnings of a fine personal library here, Harry."

"Thank you, sir."

"No fantasy novels, though?"

Harry shook his head. "The Dursleys don't approve of imagination."

"I see," Dumbledore said with a frown.

After a moment's silence, Harry said, "So what happens next?"

"If you accept your invitation to Hogwarts"—Harry nodded, and Dumbledore beamed— "then I will ask a member of our staff to meet your here and escort you to Diagon Alley, a magical shopping district in London. It will have to be on or after your birthday; you must be eleven to purchase a wand."

"July 31st, then," Harry said.

"Eight o'clock?"

"That sounds fine."

"Then there are two things I should give you." Dumbledore pulled a small golden key out of his pocket. "The first is the key to vault 687 at Gringotts Wizarding Bank. It is a trust vault set up by your parents, and should contain more than enough money to see you through your school years. On your seventeenth birthday, when you come of age in the wizarding world, keys for the Potter family vaults will appear within it. Be careful with this key—whoever holds it has the right to withdraw as much money as they wish."

Harry took the key from Dumbledore.

"You will most likely visit Gringotts early in your journey to Diagon Alley. While you're there, ask the teller to begin sending account statements to yourself instead of me. If he claims there is a fee for this service, he is trying to swindle you. Reiterate that you want one statement sent to you, not one to you and one to me, and he will have to comply."

Harry frowned. What kind of people were these bankers, anyway, to try to trick customers into paying unnecessary fees?

"The other thing"—Dumbledore withdrew a paper envelope from his pocket—"is your ticket for the Hogwarts Express. It leaves at eleven o'clock from King's Cross Station, London. I recommend you get there early so you have time to find a good cabin."

Harry took the envelope and looked inside. The ticket was on the same sort of parchment as his Hogwarts letter. "Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, sir?"

"It is hidden between Platforms Nine and Ten. Go to Platform Nine and look for what appears to be a bricked-up archway near the entrance. If you approach it with confidence, you will have no trouble passing through."

"Thank you, sir." He put both the key and the ticket in his desk.

"I believe that's all we have to discuss today, Harry, unless you have any questions."

Harry shook his head. "I'll show you out, then?"

"That would be very kind of you, Harry. Thank you."

Dumbledore made his chair disappear, and Harry led him downstairs. Harry paused as he was reaching for the door handle.

For the last five days, ever since Professor McGonagall had told him someone would be coming to meet with him, old fantasies, buried in the back of Harry's mind for five years, had started to come back unbidden. He had to ask…

"Professor…do I have to stay with the Dursleys?"

Dumbledore sighed. "They are your only family, Harry."

"Sir…they don't…hurt me anymore, not since I started defending myself, but…" Harry clenched his eyes shut, willing back the tears. "It's not right here. They're not my family; they're just my relatives."

Dumbledore looked at him sadly. "I'm sorry, Harry. There is nowhere else I can place you."

"Of-of course, sir. I should have known better."

"No, you should always ask for help when you need it. I'm sorry that I have none to offer this time."

Harry nodded, but inside, he was reminding himself: You can't count on anyone to protect you but you.

"I shall see you at Hogwarts on September the First, then," Dumbledore said. "Remember to be ready to visit London on your birthday. I'm sure it will be quite the occasion. And good luck with your Sorting."

Harry was turning to open the door, puzzling over the word Sorting, when he heard a soft pop! behind him. When he turned back, Professor Dumbledore was already gone.