Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe, history owns mythology and divination, and I own a laptop.

AN: 1. So, another chapter…already! Hell, I'm awesome (no, not really…just wait until exams start…). This one will be very summary-ish (who wants to spend hours writing about a shopping trip, anyway?). Nevertheless, I have tried to make it as entertaining as possible.
2. There are small passages taken straight out of the book in this chapter, only slightly modified. And if there are any spelling or grammar errors, blame it on my philosophy prof – he has us reading Hegel, and I think I just lost 50 IQ points today.


Chapter 4: Of Wands and Waiting

After recovering, Harry had thanked Griphook profusely, excusing his sudden outpouring of emotion by saying matter-of-factly, "It was cryin' time, now we got to fly." Years later, he would deny that those words ever came out of his mouth.

Griphook frowned, remarking that the vaults were not reached via any sort of flight, but Harry just chuckled in return and shook his head, stuffing Jean's letter and the tiny, dice-sized box that came with it into his pocket. The two had descended down into the vaults, riding on a cart of sorts; Harry had stared at it for some time, saying something about a roller-coaster, before jumping in and grinning, telling Griphook he was ready for the ride of his life, asking for more speed when the cart started up, pouting when Griphook announced that it was 'one speed only.' They descended further and further into the vacuous caverns below Gringotts, Harry continuously prying for knowledge of the magic that secured Gringotts, Griphook having to reiterate several times that it was, in fact, a goblin secret. When Harry asked if Griphook was willing to turn traitor for him, the goblin only looked at him oddly.

Upon arriving at his vault, Harry was overtaken with ecstasy when he saw his very own mountain of gold, and had leapt upon the hitherto neatly stacked pile, relishing the feel of the cold, glittering metal on his skin, and tasting the gold for good measure. Patiently, Griphook had waited for Harry to fill the provided bag with his gold, which took a good half hour, as Harry had insisted on playing with the gold for quite some time, before returning him to the surface, bidding him a fond farewell.

Finding himself back in Diagon Alley, Harry pulled out the list from his pocket, scanning it and soon deciding that before purchasing anything on the list, he needed something to carry it all in. Fortunately, he almost immediately stumbled upon a cheery old woman selling sachets at a nearby corner in the alley – but they were not just any sachets, but bottomless ones, with feather-light charms on them. Harry was thrilled with the concept of a bag that expanded with the entrance of more mass into it, and even more so with the fact that it was made to not weigh anything, enthusiastically informing the amused woman that he was sure that her products were the most brilliant things wizards had invented, and dubbing his newly-purchased item as his 'Brilliant Boundless Bag,' or B3. Now, Harry realized that owning only a simple bag could be quite inconvenient for storing his things at school; but, he reminded himself, Jean had supplied him with a trunk, which could be enlarged once he got there.

After finding his B3, Harry's next stroke of luck became evident when he stumbled across a shop labeled Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Upon spotting several other children inside being fitted with dark, robe-like clothes, Harry postulated that he could purchase his school robes inside. As it turned out, he was right. The fitting took quite some time, however, and Harry had to try quite hard to hide his fidgety boredom. He rushed anxiously out of the shop after purchasing his school apparel and stuffing them in B3, bidding a flustered Madame Malkin farewell. Upon barreling out of Madame Malkin's, skillfully avoiding any collisions, he managed to spot what looked like books in a window nearby. Trotting over, he was pleased to find himself in front of a busy bookshop going by the name Flourish and Blotts.

Once inside, Harry was hard pressed not to let out a squeal of glee – he was surrounded, nigh suffocated in mountains, thousands of books. Responsibly, Harry diligently retrieved all his school books first, and left his fun for after. But skillful as he was at locating books, he was left to explore the bookshop without restriction in no time at all. He spent almost an hour, he estimated, weaving his way through stacks and stacks of books, adding several titles to his pile of school texts, including Hogwarts, a History, which looked quite informative, and a book he assumed was on divination called The Inner Eye by Cassandra Trelawny. He was also quite pleased to find a book entitled, 1001 Ways to Get Revenge without Landing Yourself in Azkaban: a Comprehensive Dictionary of Hexes and Curses, and another called Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian. Only when Harry's arms became quite sore did he make his way to the counter, gladly parting with the appropriate amount of Galleons. Harry left Flourish and Blotts quite satisfied – not only had his personal library grown by a factor of twelve, but he had all his books in B3, which didn't weigh anything at all - it was like an ice cream float, but instead of gaining the ability to eat ice cream and drink soda at the same time, he could buy anything he wanted and refrain from any unwanted muscle-building.

As he made his way down Diagon Alley, Harry resolved to look for a wand next. At first, he was a bit unsure on what to do about that; books are found in bookshops, and clothes are found in clothes shops, but where does one find wands? His question was answered when he stumbled across a shop labeled in letters of peeling gold over stained oak wood; Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.. Now, Harry knew absolutely nothing about wands, but he figured that if a store had been in business since 382 B.C., their products must have been of decent quality. And that was what led Harry to enter the narrow, dark, tiny shop, blinking as he hit a substantial layer of dust upon his entrance. Boxes containing what Harry assumed were wands lined the walls, thousands of them piled at unsteady heights. Harry's eyes traced them high up to as second story of the shop, finding piles of other boxes above - all of them tingling with magic, causing Harry to feel faint as he observed the jumbled myriad.

"Good afternoon," a soft voice said suddenly.

Harry jumped, spinning about sharply, finding before him an old man, his wide, pale eyes seeming to shimmer in the darkness of the shop as they stared piercingly at Harry.

Harry recovered, and nodded. "Good afternoon."

The man tilted his head slightly in thought, and for reasons unknown to Harry, a comparison between the man and Jean flashed through his mind. "Ah yes," the man began, "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question, but a statement of sure fact. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry, and Harry wanted to respond, he really did, but he couldn't help but wonder what sort of magical eye drops the man used to keep from blinking for so long.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it — it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Mr. Ollivander had stalked so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes – and a strange connection between the two seemed to form, Harry unable to blink or look away.

"And that's where…"

Mr. Ollivander brushed Harry's long bangs away from his forehead, touching the lightning bolt scar on Harry's forehead with a slender, pallid finger.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly, sadly; the slightest visage of guilt crossing his features. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

Something jolted in Harry's mind - the man was about to lie. But lie about what? Ah... "But you did, didn't you?"

Mr. Ollivander recoiled from Harry, eying him with a calm expression that was yet akin to shock.

"I'll keep your secret if you keep mine."

The elderly man gasped. "A true Seer…never in my life did I think I'd meet one…"

"But you're pretty close to one yourself, aren't you?" Harry asked confusedly.

At this Ollivander lurched forward, seizing Harry's shoulders. "Perhaps, but there is a vast difference between the two, Mr. Potter. Tell me, is it like they say? Can you hear his voice?"

"Wh-whose voice?" Harry was suddenly shaken by the man's forceful, close proximity.

"Our Lord Apollo's!"

Was that who the voice was that echoed in his head? Was it Apollo, the god, speaking to him? "S-sometimes, I think."

"Marvelous, simply marvelous," Mr. Ollivander muttered, slowly drawing away.

But Harry cleared his throat. "I am here to buy a wand, though, sir."

"Yes, yes," said Mr. Ollivander, seemingly snapping to attention. "Of course, Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"Er — well, I'm right-handed," Harry replied.

"Then hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

It was then that Harry realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own, whilst Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, retrieving several boxes.

"That will do," he said, and the tape measure obediently crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."

Harry gulped quite audibly and took the wand, waving it around with no small amount of embarrassment, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try —"

Harry tried — but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no — here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."

CRASH!

The shelves shook slightly, and Harry was quite sure he had just blown something up in the back of the store.

"Well, it's certainly not that one. Here, try this…"

Harry tried. And tried. And tried some more, beginning to feel quite defective. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for – and, of course, Mr. Ollivander wouldn't tell him. The pile of useless wands - oak and heartstrings, birch and heartstrings, willow and unicorn hair, phoenix feather and apple wood - was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair in the corner, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the more scarily gleeful he seemed to become, as though he had been presented with a brilliant challenge, a puzzle to be solved.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder, now — yes, why not — unusual combination — holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers – different from when he first held the Tarot cards, and yet the same; it was familiar, comfortable, and yet exciting: downright intoxicating.

He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of sparks of every colour imaginable shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls.

Mr. Ollivander smiled fully for the first time since Harry had met him, crying out , "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"

He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering absently, "Curious… curious…"

"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his blank, pallid stare.

"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother — why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry sucked in a sharp breath.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…after all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great."

Harry shivered at the man's smoothly expectant, fascinated tone.

Together, the two walked over to the counter, Harry handing over the requested seven Galleons, Ollivander muttering a fond farewell. Harry was about to leave, but curiously, his gaze remained fixed on the elderly man, not able to help but asking, "You don't have many friends, do you, Mr. Ollivander?"

The man only quirked an eyebrow.

"You're quite misunderstood, aren't you?"

"I suppose I am, Mr. Potter, I suppose I am."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. "So am I. Well, Mr. Ollivander, next time someone looks at you like you're crazy, just tell them that they're the crazy ones. It always makes me feel better."

Harry smiled and nodded respectfully, leaving a very perplexed Mr. Ollivander behind.


The rest of Harry's shopping trip was largely uneventful, save for the fact that he was able to garner some useful information: there was a magical form of transportation available even in muggle areas for otherwise stranded witches and wizards – the Knight Bus, a relatively cheap, efficient method of travelling. Cheered by the information and its potential usefulness, Harry made his way back to Gingotts with a smile on his face, gathering his new key from Griphook in a friendly manner and exchanging half of his remaining withdrawn funds to muggle pounds, casually suggesting that the goblin would look rather cool in a red bowtie. Griphook looked rather confused by the statement, but nodded gratefully nonetheless.

Finding his way back through the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had made it back to the street corner where the Dursley's had dropped him off by two thirty in the afternoon – it was quarter after three when the Dursleys finally showed up, their expressions darkening when they saw him. Perhaps they thought he would get lost, murdered or kidnapped? Their sour countenances, however, could not dampen Harry's cheer as he jumped into the car and smiled at all of them.

"Thanks for the ride."

He could see Vernon's face twisting furiously, turning a blotchy crimson-purple, in the mirror as the car took off. "Boy," he spat, "If I find out you've been up to any freakish nonsense…"

"Oh, Uncle Vernon, of course I have. I told you, I had freakish business to take care of – I'll be off to magic school soon, you see."

The car screeched to a stop, other cars veering about it to avoid a collision and honking angrily.

"WHAT!" Vernon practically screamed, whilst Petunia seemed to be having a panic attack beside him, murmuring, "No, no, no, it can't be…Lily, Lily, why are you doing this to me? Why me? Why did my sister have to be a freak?"

"Uncle Vernon, you had best get going, we're stalling traffic."

Vernon growled, slamming his foot down on the gas, yelling at Harry through the rear view mirror, "You will not be going to any freaky schools full of other little freaks! I will not pay for-"

"But you won't have to," Harry interrupted stiffly, "My parents already paid. The parents who didn't die in a car crash, I might add."

Petunia gasped.

"That doesn't matter!" cried Vernon, "You will not, under any circumstances-"

At that moment, the back window of the car shattered, causing Dudley to squeal and curl up in a ball, whilst Vernon swerved the car violently, Petunia shrieking and going deathly pale. As Vernon managed to shakily straighten the car out, all eyes turned to a scowling Harry with varying degrees of fear and horror.

"It's already done. I've been invited, I accepted, and I've bought my things. I can get there on my own, and you'll be rid of me for most of the year. If that doesn't appeal to you, remember that they'll come looking for me, if you don't let me go, and they will not be very happy," stated Harry lowly, darkly.

Vernon cast a quick glance at Petunia, who, even in her frozen state, managed to nod stiffly. He gulped quite audibly and nodded, fear still evident in his eyes.

Harry may have felt bad about frightening Dudley, and even Petunia, but he felt no sympathy for Vernon; for the icing on the cake, he smirked at the older man quite maliciously, saying, "I'm glad we've come to an agreement."

Vernon nodded once more, wiping the sweat from his brow as he turned back toward the road.

The rest of the drive was quite peaceful, save for Harry's repetitive belting out of 'Trampled Underfoot.' He sat back comfortably into his seat, savouring Vernon and Petunia's beet-red faces and Dudley's dumbly confused expression as he sang vivaciously, ending with a flourish and a loud, slightly off-tune cadence as they drove into the driveway of Number 4 Privet Drive.


The next day, Harry retrieved the mail once again – though Vernon made sure to ask very politely – pleased to find a reply from Minerva McGonagall. Enclosed was a ticket for a train leaving from Platform 9 ¾ at King's Cross station in London – apparently, it was located through a portal between platforms 9 and 10. The Deputy Headmistress also inquired as to whether Harry needed someone to take him to buy school supplies and the like – the entire tone of the letter, in fact, seemed to suggest the woman was surprised about Harry's quick acceptance of magic. Harry penned a brief reply, thanking her and saying that he had already bought everything he needed, and was eagerly awaiting the start of term.

As the summer passed, Harry spent most of his time at Jean's Hollow, reading his school books. He no longer had to rely on Dudley for excuses to leave the house, and had far less chores after the trip to London – whenever Vernon forgot himself and lost his temper with Harry or threatened him, Harry was happy to provide a demonstration of just how talented he was. When Harry was alone with his books and the record player at Jean's Hollow, the guilt of frightening his relatives to get what he wanted would often creep up on him – he wasn't a bad person for it, was he? His actions seemed cruel, even to him, but he didn't know what else to do, and even though Jean had warned him about using his talents for less that honourable purposes, Vernon deserved it, he told himself, pushing it to the back of his mind. If he couldn't use his magic to make his life better, then what use was it?

Meanwhile, Harry was becoming nigh unbearably excited for the start of term, and had even started to compile a list of things he wanted to do at Hogwarts:

'-Raid the library
-Curse someone
-Find out how the hell I survived the Killing Curse
-Find out more about my parents
-Find out more about Sirius Black and Death Eaters
-Find out the Dark Lord's real name'

It was a humble list, sure enough, but it would grow, no doubt, once he actually got to the school, he expected. The mere thought made him jump for joy. Oh yes, Harry was very, very excited to attend Hogwarts.

By the time his birthday, July 31st rolled around, Harry decided that it was high time he tried out the Knight bus. Holding his wand out at Privet Drive early in the warm, humid morning of the thirty-first, Harry was pleasantly surprised when a tall, narrow triple-decker bus that appeared anything but aerodynamic screeched to a halt in front of the Dursley residence, a young cockney man who Harry thought had a fantastic fashion sense and went by the name Stan Shunpike greeting him. When Stan looked around at the tidy street and asked him how he got stranded in such a friendly-looking place, Harry had replied that he was stranded at home, that is, suburban hell – Stan seemed to accept the answer. The bus was driven by a rather owlish elderly man, Ernie Prang, who Harry believed was named quite appropriately, after he had (barely) reached his destination and paid his fare.

The first thing Harry did to celebrate his birthday was buy himself some ice cream for breakfast, and afterward decided to buy himself some clothes that actually fit him. He couldn't be going to magical boarding school in his cousin's hand-me-downs, after all. At first it was only a few t-shirts and some jeans (complete with a red bowtie, just in case), but then he remembered that it was his birthday, the first birthday he had ever truly celebrated at that, and spent the remainder of his muggle money on a rather smashing leather jacket which he thought made him look very much like a rock star. All in all, Harry's birthday was the best he ever had, and that afternoon he returned to Number 4 Privet Drive a very happy eleven-year-old boy.


September the first rose bright and beautiful, the crisp autumn air ushering in the start of the school term with a fresh visage of hope. Birds were twittering cheerfully, their songs melting smoothly with the smell of late summer herbs in the morning air. Harry had made sure the day before that everything he would need was packed in his Brilliant Boundless Bag, and waking up at a pleasant time of nine 'o clock, Harry dressed himself quickly in his new clothes, rushed into the kitchen and downed a piece of toast and a glass of milk, and left Number 4, completely ignored by the Dursleys.

Standing at the edge of the street and holding his polished holly wand out, watching the burgundy wood glisten in the sunlight, Harry smiled with hopeful anticipation as he sang softly into the crisp morning breeze,

"Leaves are falling all around, It's time I was on my way.
Thanks to you, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay.
But now it's time for me to go. The autumn moon lights my way..."

The Knight bus screeched to a halt right in front of him, Stan Shunpike poking his head out and grinning at Harry. "Yeh called, 'Arry?"

Harry grinned back at him. "That's right, I'm off to school, Stan."

"Blimey! Tha' time already, is it? Be'er hop right in, then, wo' wanna be late!"

Harry strode up to the bus with a skip to his step, only looking back at Number 4 Privet Drive to shout, "See you on the dark side of the moon, suckers!"


Hogwarts next chapter! And it was indeed very fun to write.

Let me know what you think!