Posted: 28 April, 2012

Disclaimer: I do not own anything in this story that is recognisable from the Harry Potter books, movies, etc. Everything else however (eg. story plot, original characters, etc.) stems from my own imagination and belongs to me. No copyright infringement is intended and I am not profiting financially from this story in any way.

Summary: An unexpected find in the attic of Grimmauld Place changes the course of Harry's life. Except not, because it's not this Harry who'll be affected. Rather, everything is about to change for another Harry, from long ago and far away.

03: Return to Magic

"Up! Get up and make breakfast, and don't you dare let it burn. I want everything perfect for Diddy's birthday!"

"I'll be out in a second!" Harry called through a yawn.

Harry sat up and tugged off his pyjamas, then tugged up a pair of oversized trousers, securing them with a belt he'd made of a length of rope, before pulling on a ragged shirt that he practically drowned in. Thus attired in his very best Dudley hand-me-downs, he left his cupboard and headed for the kitchen to see to breakfast. As he settled in at the stove, Harry took a moment to roll his eyes at the huge pile of gifts on the table.

A year ago, he'd have felt a pang of jealousy and sadness at the sight of Dudley's birthday haul. But a year ago, he hadn't gotten to know his parents, who had seemed to make it their mission to smother him with as much affection as possible in hopes to, as his mother phrased it, "ensure you're a happy and well-adjusted boy, in spite of those despicable Muggles' appalling attempts to stifle your potential and cause you misery." His dad would usually respond to this by pointing out that the 'despicable Muggle' comment sounded rather like prejudice. Lily would always insist that it was nothing of the sort, that she had no problems with Muggles in general, and was just stating a fact because the Dursleys were both Muggles and despicable excuses for human beings. His mother, Harry had noted, often talked like a dictionary or an encyclopaedia, but she wasn't snobby about it. And his father, he'd also noted, had a tendency towards the dramatic. He also, for reasons Harry didn't quite understand, seemed to like trying to rile his wife up and getting her to rant.

So no, Harry wasn't too jealous about Dudley's many gifts. After all, Harry owned the best thing in the whole world: a ring that, among other things, let him talk to his parents even though they'd died. He wouldn't trade that for a million of Dudley's presents, and that realisation allowed him to watch the drama of his cousin's tantrum at his number of presents, and finagling of Aunt Petunia into buying more, with little more than exasperation and scorn. Lily was a much better mother than Petunia, Harry thought. If Dudley tried that sort of thing on her, Lily would have sent the boy to his room, or even gotten James to take him over his knee. Harry knew this for sure because she had commented on it often enough, between tutting disapprovingly at her sister and brother-in-law's parenting attitudes. It always made Harry grin to imagine it really happing, Dudley getting told off and spanked for his usual atrocious behaviour, rather than indulged and coddled.

"Bad news Vernon," Petunia said grimly as she returned from the telephone. "Mrs Figg just called and she's broken her leg, so she can't take the boy today. He'll have to come with us."

"What?" Dudley yelped. "No, he can't! Daddy, tell her he can't. I don't want the freak to come with us. It'll ruin the whole day!" he fake-sobbed.

But, to Dudley's dismay, there was nothing for it. Since neither Vernon nor Petunia felt it a safe idea to leave Harry at home unsupervised, or to let him wait alone in their brand new car, Harry ended up accompanying the family, and Dudley's friend Piers Polkiss, on Dudley's traditional birthday outing. This year, they went to the zoo.

As he trailed behind the group, watching Dudley and Piers chatter as Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia watched on fondly, Harry felt the urge to call on his own parents. It would be nice, he reflected, to have them there for the trip with him. Like a Potter family outing. Unfortunately, there were limitations to his ring when it came to calling on his parents' spirits. Or rather, a limitation on the spirits themselves. It was because they no longer belonged in the mortal world, Lily had explained, that the longer they lingered the more they yearned to return to the peace of the afterlife. It helped, they both assured him, that while they did belonged in the afterlife, there was still true joy for them to be found on the mortal plane, being that they were there together to visit with their dear son. And so, while there were no real limits to how long Harry could keep them with him, he forced himself into the habit of only calling them a few hours every couple of days, usually when he got time alone so they could talk freely. Any longer and harry could see the strain on them, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt his parents because he got greedy and wouldn't let them go.

And so it wasn't till later that evening that Harry called his parents. Their spirits faded quietly into existence inside his cupboard. They took in the surrounds with their usual disapproval. Time had not at all diminished their anger at where their son was forced to sleep, or his situation at the Dursleys in general, though they had learned to restrain themselves from tracking either Vernon or Petunia down to yell at them unnoticed.

"What's wrong bambi?" James asked. Harry flushed, feeling very glad that only he could see and hear his parents. It would be beyond embarrassing if anyone else overheard the sappy nickname his father had for him, and refused to stop using. Even with the meaning behind it explained—the whole: son-of-a-stag thing—he still couldn't help but equate it with Petunia calling Dudley her Diddykins or something similarly soppy. "You look like you've been hanging out with a Dementor."

"Dementor?"

"A magical being that, among other things, causes depression," Lily provided. "And he's right, you do look a bit depressed."

"I'm grounded to my cupboard again," he said glumly. "For a month."

"A month?" James demanded, instantly furious. "Those—"

"Utter bastards," Lily said with uncharacteristic profanity, earning a raised eyebrow from James along with his agreeing nod. "What for?"

"Well, it was Dudley's birthday, you see," Harry said, and then went on to explain the zoo visit, finishing with, "…so then it snapped a bit at Dudley's heels, just playing, and said 'Brazil here I come, thanks amigo' and slithered away. Only, Dudley claimed it tried to eat him or squeeze him to death or something. And then, on the way home, Piers just had to say he'd seen me talking to it. I've never seen Uncle Vernon get so purple. I tried telling him it was an accident but he didn't care. He chucked me in here and said I wasn't allowed out but for toilet trips for a month. It's the longest time I've ever gotten!"

"The snake said?" James repeated dumbly.

"Oh yeah, that was weird. I didn't know snakes and wizards could talk to each other," Harry said. "It's sort of cool. Can we talk to other animals too?"

"Oh my," Lily said faintly. "That's unexpected."

"What?" Harry asked, nervous at their reactions. "What's wrong?"

"Well, nothing's wrong exactly, only—"

"My bambi's a Parselmouth!" James squawked. "How did this happen?"

"James," Lily said sternly, smacking the back of his head and ignoring the yelp of pain that followed. "As you have your little breakdown, do try to remember the fragile self-esteem and self-worth issues those despicable Muggles have inflicted on our son."

"What? What do you—" James cut himself off, finally noticing Harry's hunched posture and uncertain expression. He slumped and leaned forward to rest his chin on Harry's head and wrap his arms around him, or at least position himself as if he were. He was a bit off though and a warmth Harry had grown to find both familiar and comforting spread over his head and torso at the points of contact, causing him to relax. "Harry, hey, don't mind me, your old man's an idiot sometimes. It's all fine. Just, like your mum said, a bit unexpected."

"Why?"

"Well, Parseltongue—that's snake language, and a Parselmouth is someone who speaks it—it's a pretty rare talent."

"So not all wizards can do it?"

"Nope. And unfortunately the few famous ones who did were—well, they weren't very nice, and so it's got a bit of a bad rep."

"Oh. Any that you've told me about so far?"

"Well—er—that is to say—" James fumbled.

"Voldemort was the last known one," Lily said honestly and Harry must have looked horrified because she attempted to cup his cheek, making his face feel warm. "Hush, it's fine. Knowing Parseltongue doesn't make you a bad person, or make us love you any less," she told him, and a very different sort of warmth filled Harry, as it always did when they told him they loved him. "People make their own decisions, choose to be good or evil, and their abilities don't take that choice away from them. There's nothing wrong with you being a Parselmouth, because without or without the ability you're still a good boy Harry."

"Of course there's nothing wrong with it," James continue loudly, "despite what my shocked stupor before might've made you think. I just reacted without thinking. I was surprised and confused, since Parseltongue's supposed to be a hereditary trait."

"Hereditary?"

"You know James, that's a good point," Lily said thoughtfully. "Hmm, I wonder."

"Wonder what?" James asked.

"I mean, we know that with the magical community being so small, a lot of the pureblood families intermarried over the centuries. It's possible you had a Parselmouth some generations back—"

"I think I'd remember that!"

"Some generations back," Lily repeated with a quelling stare, "but either the connection was so obscure, or so long ago, that it's been forgotten about. The other possibility is my line."

"But you're Muggle-born, Lily."

"I know that, but there was this interesting theory I heard in my latter Hogwarts years. Some wizard postulated that magic couldn't just pop out of nowhere, and so Muggle-borns couldn't really be Muggle-borns but in reality, were descendants of Squibs. The line was just lost in the Muggle world long enough that we've forgotten our true history. I always meant to do some research on my family tree to see if anything turned up, but with the war I was so busy, I never got the time." She looked at Harry. "Perhaps you should look into that Harry. It could be interesting."

Harry nodded. It did sound interesting.

"In the meantime," James said, "why don't you kick back and let me tell you about a little story involving a trampoline, a pine tree, and a giant vat of custard."

"Not one of your Marauders exploits again!"

"But my Lily-flower, our dearest baby boy has been most cruelly and unjustly punished, sentenced to isolation and mind-numbing boredom," James said in flowery prose. "Surely you will not prevent me from easing his suffering by regaling him with tales of most noble mischief and adventure."

"There's nothing noble about the incident in question," Lily snorted. "I do remember it you know, and the fact that my hair smelled like custard for a week."

"Quick Harry," James whispered loudly. "Use the eyes, like I taught you." Harry hesitated, unsure, but James nodded encouragingly. He turned to his mother and poked out his lower lip, opening his eyes wide and looking at her pleadingly, as his dad had secretly taught him. "Cruel Lily, how can you say no to such an adorable face?" James asked, gesturing grandly at the face in question.

"You are such a bad influence James Potter," Lily said with amusement. She waved a hand. "Fine, fine, tell your story."

Harry grinned and settled in to listen. His dad told the best stories.

..ooOOoo..

"Get the mail boy."

"Make Dudley get it," Harry retorted, though he knew he'd end up being forced to go anyway.

"Hit him with your Smelting's stick son."

Harry sighed, dodged the eager swipe Dudley sent his way, and headed for the front door. Well, he was still being treated like a servant, but at least he'd been let out of the cupboard this morning, finally. Reaching the front entry, he picked up the letters under the mail slot and turned to head back to the kitchen when one of them caught his eye. He froze, and quickly twisted his ring.

"Look," he whispered before either of his guests could speak.

"Hurry up boy!" Vernon could be heard yelling. "What're you doing, checking for letter bombs?" he asked, then chuckled.

James scoffed. "The lard ball thinks he's funny, doesn't he? Well, I'll say now that—"

"James, look!" Lily cried with a bright smile, pointing at the letter in Harry's hand. "It's from—"

"Hogwarts!" James shouted as he looked closer. "Your letter finally came. Congratulations!"

"Honestly boy, get a move on!" Vernon yelled, more impatient this time.

"Quick, hide it," Lily said urgently.

"Hide it?"

"I can just imagine them taking it away and destroying it, trying to keep you from Hogwarts. After all, they've spent the last decade trying to hide the existence of the wizarding word from you. I doubt they plan on giving up easily," she explained. There was, from down the hall, the sound of a chair scraping back. "Hurry, hide it!"

"In your pocket!" James quickly suggested. "That big shirt will cover it. Now kneel down as if you're tying up your shoes."

Harry hurried to follow the advice, heart beating frantically.

"Boy, what are you doing?" Petunia asked suspiciously as reached him. "What was taking so long?"

"Sorry Aunt Petunia," Harry said. "I saw my laces were undone and—"

"Never mind," she said impatiently. "Just give me those."

"I think she suddenly remember you should be getting a letter soon," Lily commented as her sister snatched the mail and flipped through it rather frantically, before sighing in relief, pinning Harry with one last glare, and returning to the kitchen. "You must be hungry. Why don't you go have breakfast and call us again later when we can talk?"

Harry nodded and let them fade away.

..ooOOoo..

"You ready?"

"I'm telling you Lily, this won't work. You need a wand, everyone knows that."

"Harry, pay no attention to your father, just give it a go."

Harry nodded and, after taking one last look to make sure nobody was around, even though he'd been assured charms would prevent Muggles from noticing, he threw his right hand out toward the road and thought hard about needing transport. It wasn't difficult really, imagining he wanted a way to get far from Privet Drive and the Dursley. For a moment nothing happened.

"See Lily," James said smugly, sauntering out onto the road. "No wand, no bu—"

BANG!

James gave a surprisingly high-pitched squeal, and raced back to the sidewalk, emerging from the gaudy purple triple-decker bus that had run—well, 'through him' was possibly the best description. James frantically checked himself over for injuries, and sighed in relief to find none.

"See James," Lily mimicked in an equally smug tone. "What was that about how it wouldn't work? Also, you screamed like a little girl."

"I did not!" James cried, with a look of great offence.

Harry couldn't help but laugh at the whole spectacle, but cut himself off as the doors to the bus opened. An elderly, drab-look witch looked down at him.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard," the woman said in a supremely bored tone, clearly reciting a much-used speech. "Just stick out your wand hand, step on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Maggie Owens, and I will be your conductor this morning. Where can we take you today?"

"The Leaky Cauldron," Harry responded as he'd been coached.

"That'll be eleven Sickles. Thirteen if you want hot chocolate, and fifteen will get you a hot water bottle and a toothbrush."

Harry suddenly panicked. Sickles? What were they?

"It's alright Harry. Just tell her you'll be paying in Muggle currency," Lily said soothingly.

"I'm, um, paying with Muggle currency?" Harry said, though it came out as more of a question. "And just the basic fare, please—no hot chocolate or anything else."

"Right, just a moment," Maggie said, finally a hint of emotion in her voice: irritation, to be specific. She reached for a dusty looking device—it seemed to be an overly complicated cross between a calculator and a mechanical type-writer—and pecked at a few keys until it gave a loud ding! "Then that'll be three pounds and twenty-four pence."

Harry handed over a five pound note. He'd stolen it from his aunt's purse at the direction of his mother and with the help of his invisibility powers—though, Lily had also been sure to stress that it was an exceptional situation, and that if Harry even thought of stealing under normal circumstances she would be very disappointed in him, which was more than discouragement enough for Harry. The conductor, after consulting her device once more, then squinting at a handful of Muggle coins suspiciously, gave him his change. Harry boarded and took a seat.

"Better get a grip of that pole," James advised.

Harry did so, and not a moment too soon as the bus gave a BANG! and took off with a jarring lurch. Sometime later it came to a skidding stop.

"Diagon Alley!" Maggie announced, somehow managing to shout without losing her normal monotone.

Harry carefully peeled back his fingers from their desperate grip, and quickly disembarked. The bus took off again at once with another loud BANG!

"I still can't believe it worked," James commented, looking in the direction the triple-decker had disappeared.

"Well, I admit I wasn't entirely sure it would either," Lily said. "But I have a theory about that ring of Harry's. The way it makes his accidental magic act up, and sparks when he gets emotional—it reminds me a bit of the way a wand acts in an untrained hand."

"Huh, it is sort of the same isn't it? But the ring's clearly not a wand."

"No, but maybe it's some other sort of magical focus. Never mind that though. You can see the Leaky Cauldron, can't you Harry?"

"Yeah, it's right in front of me."

"Good, let's head in then."

"Remember to keep your head down though," James reminded him. "If you're even half as famous as some of the wizards and witches who've passed on recently tell us, the last thing we want is to incite a riot." He paused, considering. "Although—"

"No," Lily said sharply. "Ignore your dad Harry. He's having one of his stupid moments. We do not want to bring a mob down on you when neither of us is capable of defending you if they get overly enthusiastic."

"Ah, you may have a point there," James admitted sheepishly. "Let's stick to the head down idea. And maybe brush your hair forward a bit too, to make sure your scar's covered—supposed to be a dead giveaway that, from what we've heard."

"And once we're in, walk straight through and out the back door."

Harry nodded and stepped forward, entering the dim pub. It was like stepping back in time, and only the prodding words of his parents prevented Harry from stopping to stare and drawing attention to himself. The back door led him, unexpectedly, to a tiny dead-ended courtyard.

"What now?"

"Damn, you'll need to go back in and ask Tom to open the way for you," James muttered.

"The ring, remember?" Lily reminded. "If it acts like a wand then—"

"Oh, good point. Here Harry, tap these bricks in the order I point to them." Harry did so then gasped as the wall opened to reveal an amazing scene. "Welcome to Diagon Alley, bambi," James said with a grin, and for once Harry didn't so much as crinkle his nose at the nickname, too busy staring at awe.

"Come on, Gringotts is this way," Lily reminded them.

The wizard bank was a towering white marble building, with roman columns and great double doors inscribed with a poetic but dire warning against thieves. It would have been a grand and magnificent sight, if not for the comical way it tilted this way and that at various levels. Nevertheless, despite the leaning, it still left an amazing impression. Even more impressive were the short but fierce looking goblins. Harry had never seen a non-human being before and had to make the conscious effort not to gawp.

"Next," the teller snapped, and peered down at Harry disdainfully when he stepped up. "What?"

Harry just blinked a bit at first, taken aback by the sheer rudeness. Clearly, the bankers of the wizarding world were nothing like the professional, proper and polite ones in Muggle banks. If a Muggle teller acted this way, Harry knew, they could face a warning at least, or firing at worst. And yet, not a single customer had given a second glance to the rude goblin, despite the fact that it had spoken loudly enough for others to overhear, so the behaviour must be fairly normal.

"Tell him you need a key reissue," James told him, and Harry dutifully repeated the words.

"Fine," the goblin said shortly, then turned over his shoulder and shouted, in a snarly sort of way, "Griphook!" Another goblin—younger looking but just a fierce, though not quite so scowly—stepped up. "Key reissue for this wizard. See to it."

Griphook nodded, jerked his head at Harry, then turned and walked away. Harry hurried to follow, assuming that was what he was supposed to do, and was surprised at the quick pace the goblin set given his short legs. In a cramped office Griphook withdrew a form, a plain looking quill, an inkwell, and a black quill that seemed particularly wicked, setting them all on the desk before Harry.

"Fill in this."

"Use the goose feather quill first," James said.

"The lighter one," Lily added.

Harry nodded and picked it up, looking over the form. It was very short and to the point. He filled in the current date, his name, his date of birth, and the vault number—687, according to his parents—and then reached the bottom where he was supposed to sign his name. Before he could do so, Griphook cleared his throat. Harry looked up to see the goblin pointing at the menacing black quill. A glance in his parents showed them nodding so he swapped over.

"It's a blood quill though," James said warningly, "so it'll hurt."

"What's a blood quill?" Harry asked aloud without thought, earning an odd look from Griphook.

"That is, obviously," the goblin told him.

"It'll—well, it carves into the back of your hand so as to write with your blood, rather than using ink," James said with a grimace and Harry's eyes went wide. "Don't worry, it's painful but it'll be over quickly. And you need to sign in blood so it can confirm your identity, as well as in confirmation of all the details you filled in. Gringotts forms are charmed so you can't lie if you write in blood, you see. From what I've heard, anything written that's not true just won't seep into the parchment—when it dries it flakes off instead."

"Blood quills are barbaric is what they are," Lily muttered. "You'd think some witch or wizard would have invented a less painful way to extract blood for contracts." She sighed. "Your father's right though—it is necessary."

Gathering his courage Harry started to sign. He winced and bit his lip as the back of his hand felt like it was being gouged into with a knife. He hissed and bit his lip as he continued determinedly on and, the moment he finished the last 'r', he threw the quill down and cradled his hand close. There on the back of his hand could faintly be read 'Harry Potter', but the lines were fine, more of a scratch than anything, and it wasn't even properly bleeding. Harry couldn't help but thinking it had caused an awful lot of pain for such a mild injury.

"Harry Potter?" Griphook muttered with a trace of surprise, and looking up Harry saw him glance at him with a raised brow before returning to his work. The goblin frowned suspiciously at the form before blowing across it, then nodding as the blood dried into the parchment. "All in order." Griphook then took the form and ambled over to a wall with a slot Harry had previously not noticed, and pushed the paper through. He stood tapping his foot impatiently for a moment before there was a ding, and a something small and shiny came flying back out. Griphook caught it deftly and turned, handing it over to Harry. "Your new key. I am obliged to inform you that with a key reissue, as per protocol, the locks were changed, and any former keys are no longer valid for your vault. Any other business today?"

"Thanks," Harry said with a nod, reflecting that that was the most he'd heard any goblin say all at once. "And I'd like to get some money from my vault."

"Follow me," Griphook ordered, brusque once more.

..ooOOoo..

Harry stumbled down the bank steps, still dazed. His parents watched on with fond amusement.

"I'm bloody rich," he whispered out, not for the first time.

"Three cheers for old family money," James said, nodding.

"Rich," he said again. "So much gold. Piles and piles."

"Yes Harry, but don't go thinking that means you can be irresponsible with it," Lily warned. "Like your father said, it's old family money, and since your ancestors left it to you, it's only right you try and leave something for your children and any generations to come."

That made sense, seemed fair, and so he nodded. "Alright. So, where to first?"

"Trunk, otherwise you'll be dragging shopping bags all over the alley."

..ooOOoo..

It was the stop, and purchase, Harry had been most looking forward to. As he stepped in the shop the bell tinkled over the door. It was dark inside, and dusty, and the air seemed alive somehow—the hair at the back of his neck prickled, as if he could sense the magic in this place.

"And who might you be then?" came a whispery voice from behind Harry, causing him to jump and turn in surprise.

"Ollivander hasn't changed a bit I see," James laughed. "Still creepy."

Suddenly the old man froze, a furrow appearing between his brows as his head cocked to one side and his eyes glazed, staring rather unnervingly in the direction in which James's spirit stood. Harry's heart sped up. Surely the man, this Ollivander, couldn't see or hear his dad—right? Harry knew from his parents that 'raising the dead' was almost unheard of, especially in the way he could do, and certainly would be viewed with suspicion if anyone knew. He had a terrifying thought that if Ollivander knew, he might tell, and Harry could get sent to jail for Dark Magic. Or worse, they might find and take the ring away from him, and he'd lose his parents again.

"Can he—" James started to ask, staring wide-eyed at Ollivander, whose attention sharped as he spoke.

"Shush!" Lily hissed, wrapping a hand over her husband's mouth. "Be quiet and be still."

At Lily's words, Ollivander's gaze then slipped in her direction. Harry thought for sure the sound of his pounding heart must be audible, so on edge he was. There was a long moment of tense silence, where James and Lily stayed perfectly frozen and made sure not to utter a sound. Finally, Ollivander hummed and shook his head.

"I could have sworn—never mind, never mind, just age finally catching up to me I suppose," the old man muttered, then turned his attention onto Harry. "And you must be—ah yes, Harry Potter. You resemble your father keenly, though your eyes are a mirror of your mother's," he said, leaning disconcertingly close to peer into said green eyes. "I remember it like it was yesterday, you know, when they came for their own wands. Your mother, she was matched to a nice willow wand with a unicorn hair core. Good for Charms. Your father's though was mahogany and more suited to Transfiguration." Ollivander then leaned in, if possible, closer still. Harry valiantly resisted the urge to back away. "And that must be where it happened." A spindly finger traced over Harry's scar and the boy tensed. "I sold the weapon that did it you know. Yew it was, with a phoenix feather core. A powerful wand, and if I'd known what it was going out into the world to do—well, if wishes were Abraxan, as they say, we would all ride the clouds. But never mind, never mind, you're here for a wand yourself if I'm not much mistaken. Let's see then." The man finally backed up, much to Harry's relief, and pulled out a tape measure. "Which is your wand arm?"

Harry forced himself not to glance questioningly at his parents. He was still nervous about the perceptive, not to mention creepy, Mr Ollivander. The last thing he wanted to do was draw attention to his spirit companions again while still in the wand maker's presence. And so, Harry gave his best guess in response to the question.

"I'm not sure what a 'wand arm' is, but I'm right-handed?"

The wand maker nodded and started measuring his right arm—shoulder to fingertip, hand width, elbow to wrist, and several other places—before he moved away, starting to pull down boxes from the walls. The tape measure though continued on with its business all on its own, propelled, no doubt, by magic. Harry stared at it strangely as the places it measured grew odder and odder. He was staring cross-eyed as it measured the distance between his nostrils when Ollivander returned, piling boxes on the counter.

"Enough," he said, and the tape crumbled lifelessly to the floor. From one of the boxes he withdrew a stick of wood. "Here Mr Potter, try this one."

Feeling rather stupid, Harry gave it a wave—and had it promptly snatched away. From there followed a very, very long procession of many, many wands. Ollivander seemed excited at having a tricky customer. Finally though, the wand maker stopped, stared at Harry very intently, and disappeared into the far depths of the store. When he returned he was carry another wand box, but cradled it with a sort of gravitas.

"Perhaps, perhaps." Another sharp look was shot at Harry, before Ollivander carefully took this next wand from its box and held it out to Harry. "Holly and phoenix feather Mr Potter. Let's see if this might not be what we were looking for."

Harry reached for the wand, nervous at the look of anticipation on Ollivander's face—a look which promptly fell as Harry waved the wand and received no more reaction than any of the others had given.

"Not that one either then?" he asked, rather stating the obvious.

"No—I thought that perhaps—but no, that's not it." Ollivander tucked the wand back in its box and then, rather than go searching for more once again, turned to Harry with a considering expression. "Mr Potter, I have a suspicion—a suspicion that there is no wand here for you."

"What?" Harry cried. Was the man suggesting that there had been a mistake or something, and he wasn't really a wizard after all? "But there has to be. I need one for Hogwarts!"

"It is very rare, has happened only thrice in fact that I recall, but sometimes a customer will come to me who I simply cannot match to a wand. For one, it turned out the young witch had been sneaking her late grandmother's wand for some years, under her parents' noses. It is the wand that chooses the wizard, you see Mr Potter, and the witch's wand in question was a possessive sort, had bonded faithfully to the girl, and my other wands could sense that and so none would match with her." Ollivander shook his head, chuckling. "Her parents as I recall were torn between rebuking their daughter for her sneaking, and tearful pride that she'd matched to the wand of her grandmother, who all had been quite fond of before her passing."

"I see," Harry said, thinking of the ring on his finger that seemed to act like a wand. Was that the issue here then? Had his ring bonded to him and would let no other wand do the same? He hoped not. How would he explain that without giving his the secret away, and risking the loss of his parents? "What about the other two?" he asked desperately, hoping for an out.

"Ah, the other two, that's the thing." And then, yet again, Ollivander was staring at him unnervingly. "The other two Mr Potter, possessed a rather rare and unique magical talent. They demonstrated a proficiency, or rather a disposition, for wandless magic."

Harry stared. "Wandless magic?" he repeated.

"Yes, indeed. I would like you to try an experiment, Mr Potter. I would like you to extent the Jupiter finger of your wand hand—"

"Jupiter finger?" Harry interrupted to ask.

"I believe the Muggle-borns call it the point finger—yes, that one. Now extend it toward that empty box there on my counter. Now, I want you to move your finger like so, with a swish and a flick, and say 'Wingardium Leviosa'. Imagine, as you do, the box rising and floating."

Harry was feeling a bit unsure about all this, but decided it couldn't hurt to try. Besides, the surreptitious glance he'd sent towards his parents showed them watching with keen curiosity, and Lily had even nodded her head ever so slightly in encouragement. He turned his full focus to the box and concentrated, imagining it floating.

"Wingardium Leviosa," he said, copying the pronunciation and finger movements as precisely as he could. "Whoa!" he gasped as the ring on his hand warmed and tingled and the box on the counter rose, ever so slightly, and somewhat jerkily, before plopping back down as he got distracted. "Did I just—"

"Indeed Mr Potter, it seems so. Well, you'll need a blank then I daresay."

"A blank what?"

"Here," Ollivander said, showing him a box with another wand, which he had pulled from beneath the counter. "It's a perfectly mundane branch, possessing no magical conductivity whatsoever, but carved as a wand. I keep but a few on hand, and rarely have need to sell them."

"What do I need it for though?"

"Most accounts of wandless wizards, though there aren't many, cite that it is easier to learn using a prop. The actions are more visible that way, and thus it is easier to spot flaws in the wand movements when you're learning. Just be sure to pick the 'Jupiter erect' wand grip as your standard."

Harry made an intuitive leap. "Pointer finger out?" he guessed.

Ollivander nodded. "That way when you switch to casting without the prop, you're already in the habit of pointing the Jupiter finger for casting. I'm almost certain one of the first year Hogwarts texts covers wand grips—The Standard Book of Spells, I think it was," he said as he wrapped the box with its blank wand in brown paper and handed it over. "That will be ten sickles."

As Harry left the shop, his parents slipping out behind him, he didn't notice Ollivander's watching him go. He didn't see the way that those silver eyes, quizzical but glazed once again, strayed unconsciously towards the invisible spirits that Ollivander couldn't quite perceive. He didn't notice the man frown and shake his head and mutter, somewhat ironically, "There's something odd about that boy," before dismissing his curiosity and returning to his work.

..ooOOoo..

The moment the door shut behind them, Lily spun to face the other two.

"Was it just me, or could he tell we were there?"

"Never mind that," James said, eyes wide. "Harry's a wandless wizard? Ow! What was that for?"

"You were having another stupid moment dear. I was trying to knock that loose screw back into place, hopefully get the cogs running properly again."

"Screw? Cogs?" James asked with confusion. "Are they more Muggle signs?"

"Science James, and no, they're—never mind. I think the reason Harry couldn't match a wand is because of the ring."

"You think it really is like a wand then?" Harry asked loudly enough to be heard, but quietly enough not to be overheard and thus earn raised brows from passers-by, who would think him talking to himself, as he looked down at his finger.

"It seems more likely than you being a wandless wizard. Plenty more people can cast limited wandless magic than most people think, but exclusively? No, that's about as rare as—"

"Parseltongue?" James asked cheekily and laughed as the 'look' he received. "Sorry Lily. You're mum's probably right though Harry, I just didn't think of it."

"Is it a lot like Parseltongue?" Harry queried hesitantly. "Wandless magic, I mean. Do people think it's a Dark ability?"

"Merlin no, it's the opposite really. Or, well not opposite exactly. Wandless magic's not really seen as Light or Dark, just as the mark of a powerful wizard. People will probably be impressed."

"I don't know—do I really want to get attention about it? What if people start wondering and questioning, and maybe even someone figures out about the ring? I don't them to take it from me, or I'll never see you both again. Until I die, that is."

James sobered. "That's a good point. Maybe you should keep it quiet? There's no way in hell I want to leave you alone again after the situation you've ended up in since we died. Honestly, the Dursleys? What was anyone thinking leaving you with them?"

"You should get in the habit of using that wand Ollivander supplied," Lily said. "And not just for the ease of learning that he mentioned either. If you always use it and never mention it's a blank—"

"They'll never know I'm supposed to be doing things wandless," Harry said.

"Exactly. Now, about Ollivander noticing we were there—"

"Well, he's a wand maker," James said, as if that explained everything. Both his wife and son gave him blank looks and he smacked his forehead. "Sorry, I forget sometimes that Muggle-raised don't know some things that are just taken for granted. The thing about wand makers, see, is that they're always a bit odd and perceptive, and usually see and feel things normal wizards don't. Have to be, don't they? How else do they figure what cores go with what woods and what customers would suit what wands? There's an intuition to it apparently. Most wand fittings Ollivander will usually only go through a handful maybe, before finding the right one."

"He found mine of the fourth try," Lily mused reminiscently.

"And I got mine of the fifth. And that's only three or four misses out of—how many wands do you suppose he has in stock—hundreds, maybe thousands? So yeah, wand makers have a way of seeing things other people don't. Still, I don't think he truly saw us or anything, so much as sensed something different was going on, because when we went quiet he looked like he thought he'd imagined things."

"It did seem that way, didn't it," Lily agreed.

Harry was relieved, and subconsciously rubbed his ring, almost petting it. It warmed on his finger and he smiled. No, it was safe for now, and his parents wouldn't be taken away.

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