Chapter 4: Paper Cannot Wrap Up a Fire

"A letter, for me?"

A very surprised almost eleven years old child stood behind the closed main door of an impeccably indistinct house in Surrey. Addressed to a Harry J. Potter, The Cupboard Under the Stairs, he was unmistakeably the intended recipient yet he couldn't for the life of him think of anyone who would even consider writing him a letter, a realization that added to Harry's already bipolar mood swings that summer. He had suffered deep grief when a lying thief he had once respected as a teacher betrayed his trust, turning what had been his only pathway to overcome worthlessness into a twisted, shattered maze of doubt and uncertainty. Was he truly a talented musician or was it all a charade? Could he ever find something to replace the freedom he experienced when letting his hands roam over a keyboard? "That's what music's about," Harry contemplated with a true smile, "it can't be imposed or squeezed out of you, it has to flow freely from the deepest... Well deepest magic is a good word."

He was brought back to reality by his aunt Petunia's calls for him to start preparing breakfast, while she counted and registered every single can and box in the pantry. Harry had enough of adults and their lies, this letter was surely someone's idea of a joke, or perhaps Mr Harper trying to apologize. Either way, he ignored it and threw the unopened envelope inside his cupboard, where it landed neatly over the very stiff piece of foam that was his bed.

"What's taking you so long, boy?" uncle Vernon asked, waddling down the stairs and straightening his tie, "I'm a very important man at Grunnings, don't you dare make me arrive late, you hear?"

"Yes uncle Vernon," came Harry's reply as he cracked a few eggs.

His uncle took his customary seat, unfolded his newspaper as he always did, and suddenly ceased to breathe. That, was not part of uncle Vernon's usual routine.

"Petunia!" he screamed after a large gasp, "O-Ow... Ow..."

"Out?" his aunt asked, " Awful? Outraging? Ou--"

"Owl, woman! Owl!" he finished, waving his meaty hand at the window, "They've found him!"

If Harry ever had doubts regarding his relatives' sanity they were certainly dispelled after today. He could resist the abusive and rough treatment, he could withstand the constant demeaning remarks about his parents, he could even enjoy his time alone while locked inside the cupboard. What he couldn't begin to understand was uncle Vernon's unexpected invitation to sit and have breakfast.

"I said, sit and eat, boy!"


Yet another child received a similarly addressed letter that morning, as have around forty others in Great Britain, a very pleasant arrival for most, an unexpected surprise to some, and a simple procedure for a few. One particular bushy-haired girl in South London was quite awestruck by it.

"Hermione J. Granger, The East Wing Attic? What... Who... What?"

The brown owl that had delivered the letter tried twice to untangle its feet from Hermione's hair, only managing to complete the impossible task with the small human girl's help, before drinking some water and flying out through the round window.

She read the address again, turned the envelope and traced the wax seal with a finger. She ran the back of her hand over the rough parchment surface, smelled the edges and weighed it on her open palm, she then picked an utility knife and carefully separated the seal from the backside, keeping it intact. If the envelope itself and the postman, well "post owl" in this case, were unusual, the written contents denied any possible classification.

"Uncle Charles?" she yelled while descending the stairs, two steps at a time, "Are you there?"

Her uncles replied from the kitchen, yet another floor down, and upon seeing her bewildered look asked what was wrong.

"This-this... Letter, this letter's wrong..." she said, presenting it for her aunt Claire to read.

"Hermione, there's no need to go to such lengths to try to explain what keeps hap--"

"I haven't made this letter up, if that's what you mean aunt Claire," she interrupted, "in fact I thought it was a prank of some kind?"

Uncle Charles took the odd letter in his hand and looked through it, holding it against the morning sun on the kitchen windows. He nodded approvingly and then picked the envelope, lit a match and briefly ran it under the red seal, then waved the letter itself over it. He let a small yelp as the fire reached his thumb and swiftly blew the burnt match before turning to Hermione.

"It looks genuine enough to me," he said while placing a hand on his wife's arm, "and neither Claire nor I would make a joke about your, your... The strange things that happen around you..."

At the moment Bernadette was descending the stairs for breakfast someone rapped the main door, Hermione heard her cousin yelling she would attend to it and watched as the young girl pushed a decorative curtain aside and looked outside, finding an old lady dressed in unusual dark clothes on their front yard. Bernadette waved for them to approach and pointed at the door, silently mouthing for them to "take a look" out the window.

The woman was playing with a wind-chime, using a long wooden stick to poke at it. She kept a stern face and turned her attention to the first of four garden gnomes aunt Claire had named Brian, Peter, Albert and, much her uncle's displeasure, Charles. It was a plaster figurine of a typical gnome, wearing a blue pointed cap, sporting a long white beard and half-moon spectacles on his face, holding a bundle of tiny logs under his arm. For some reason it made the old lady laugh and she faced the main door again, just in time to see four faces quickly vanishing from the side window.

"I'll greet her and ask her purpose here, you girls go have your breakfast," Charles said before unfastening the lock and drawing the woman's attention.

Hermione kept glancing at the odd letter over the counter, she had taken her usual seat by the corner of the room but was visibly stalling for time, her tea already too cold to drink. The woman outside had looked so familiar, she also wore similar albeit even more unusual clothes than Mrs Morewitt. Her musings were interrupted by uncle Charles, who stood by the doorway and called for her to join them in the drawing room. "What? He invited her in?" she wondered.


One more feathered courier strived to perform what would be a very difficult task, if the initial reaction and following dismissal of the original messages was any indication. It pulled yet another sealed parchment envelope through the doorplate and joined its four kindred avians by the smooth, pristine yard fence.

"Oh, bother," Harry said while watching over his shoulder to make sure neither Dudley nor any of his uncles were nearby, he quickly picked the fifth green ink addressed letter of the day and brought it inside his cupboard under the stairs. He was hiding there of his own freewill and desire, because if sharing a true breakfast with his uncles was a shock, being dismissed from any house chores for the day almost made him cataleptic.

"And where are these letters coming from?" he asked a long-legged spider that was repairing a web by the corner, "It can't be real, this must be a dream," Harry repeated while keeping an attentive ear for the doorplate, and hoping the little girl from his dreams would soon come to bring him back to reality. A female did come to drag him out of the cupboard, but not the one he was wishing for.

"Out!" aunt Petunia shouted, "Gather everything you want to take away with you!"

Harry paled immediately, fearing he was being sent to an orphanage as he had been threatened with all the time. He tried to remain calm and picked his sheet music books, a small box filled with pencil stubs and, despite hesitating at first, the five strange envelopes which he hid between some loose music scores he had been writing and his few Dudley-sized clothes.

"Has the world gone mad?" Harry thought while standing in the middle of his new bedroom. His new room, formerly known as Dudley's second room, with a real bed and a real window! Uncle Vernon had called Grunnings and decided to skip a day's work, woke Dudley up and together with aunt Petunia cleared the discarded, repeated, broken or simply never desired toys, electronic equipment and other things belonging to his cousin within the hour, despite the same cousin's fake tears, serious screams and childish tantrums. It was almost ten in the morning and Harry had yet to be called either worthless or freak. Yes, the world had gone mad.

Still dazed, he jumped on his feet when a bird, a large bird hit the closed window. "Poor thing must've been disoriented," he thought and ran to push the window open and check on it. The animal he now identified as an owl was shaking its head while sprawled over a large shrub, it rustled its feathers and took flight again, aiming for the same window but luckily finding it fully ajar.

Harry ducked and then waved both his arms, trying to shoo the owl before anyone noticed it, but the bird swirled in the air and dived at him, throwing a now recognizable yellow envelope on his face. Apparently satisfied with the delivery, the white-faced owl flew away leaving Harry on the floor to straighten his askew spectacles and wonder if he had better close window, curtains and shutters, lest a whole flock of birds delivering thick envelopes invaded his new bedroom! This was becoming a very weird day indeed.


"Hermione, bring the letter with you, if you please?" uncle Charles asked.

She entered the parlour to find the older woman browsing the tall oak bookcases, she scoffed upon some titles, then paused briefly over others as if committing them to memory. Pulling The Nature of Space and Time by Hawking and Penrose, she flipped through it and sighed; only Hermione heard her whisper "soon, very soon" before returning the book to its place.

"Mrs McGonagall, this is Hermione Granger, my niece."

Hermione watched the lady turn and bend to greet her, surprised at the recognition look in her eyes. "Yes, indeed she is," Mrs McGonagall said, before extending her hand.

"Did you send me this letter, Mrs McGonagall?"

"One such letter has been sent to every witch and wizard turning eleven years old by the thirty first of August this year."

The room fell silent as the words were absorbed by children and adults. Aunt Claire was the first to interject, rather agitated, "You must be joking! Witches and wizards?"

"Quite certainly," Mrs McGonagall answered, as if used to such reactions, "and this letter is an invitation to attend the finest school of magic in the world, if you can excuse my favouritism, since I am the Deputy Headmistress."

"Magic?" Hermione whispered.

"Yes, magic, Ms Granger. May I ask whether you have witnessed, shall we say, unusual events happening around your niece?" she asked aunt Claire.

All four heads bobbed up and down in unison, lips tightly pressed. Mrs McGonagall motioned for them to seat and began to explain, as she always did in these situations, that magic was a real part of the world around them, and that certain people were gifted with it and lived hidden from the wider part of society.

Hermione noticed aunt Claire looking at her, the fear in her eyes clearly visible as she asked, "Is t-this magic, or whatever this is, d-dangerous?"

"Is your modern technology not dangerous?" the older woman, witch rather, asked in return.

"Technology? Not by itself, only if misused..."

"Exactly! Magic simply is, until people like myself or Ms Hermione Granger use it for a purpose, it is then that magic can be dangerous, or helpful, or simply entertaining."

"Forgive my bluntness, Mrs McGonagall," Charles Granger spoke using his most professional solicitor voice, "but how, may we ask, can you expect us to concede that first, strange events might be caused by my niece, which we are certainly not confirming, and that such magic exists?"

"Oh! Oh! Hold on!" Bernadette yelled, before rushing up the stairs, visibly annoying both her parents. She returned in less than a minute, panting and holding a dusty children's book on her hand.

Hermione looked at the book and gasped, she pushed herself even further against the wall and stared at the floor. Bernadette hesitated, looking at her mother before handing the book to the strange lady, with a trembling hand. Mrs McGonagall raised her eyebrows in question, before receiving an answer from Bernadette herself.

"My cousin, she... She was about five, a-and we were playing in our room, mum had brought us these books as gifts and Hermione was so happy with it... Until t-these b-birds came, I dunno, alive?" she finished lamely, Hermione could tell her cousin was feeling uncomfortable from the memory of that day, and from trying to accept something impossible had actually happened.

Holding the dusty children's pop-up book by her fingertips, Mrs McGonagall retrieved the same wooden stick she had used to poke the wind-chimes before and somehow wiped it absolutely clean, where had all the dust gone to, Hermione couldn't fathom. Her surprise would double as the book hung on the air by itself and flipped the first pages without anyone actually touching it! Mrs McGonagall reached the page where an illustration of a pair of songbirds popped-up from the page in a clever three-dimensional reproduction, and looked briefly at Hermione for confirmation.

"Yes madam, that's the one... I'd not seen that book ever since..." Hermione answered.

Mrs McGonagall waved her baton, for lack of a better word, and soon enough the cardboard birds began to move and chirp in their illustrated tree branch. If a hovering book wasn't enough to bring a reaction out of Mr and Mrs Granger, chirping and flapping pop-up birds were.

"Oh. My. Goodness." aunt Claire managed to stutter.

"Actually, Mrs McGonagall, they were like, real birds flying around my room? I sort of panicked and hid under my bed that day..." Bernadette commented, earning a glare from her father.

"Real songbirds? And you were five years of age as these little birds flew around your bedroom?" Mrs McGonagall asked her newest would-be student, producing a feeble smile with her thin lips, "Like these?"

The witch moved her hand and waved her wooden stick in a complicated fashion, she muttered something under her breath and the faux-songbirds took flight from their stationary place, this time as real, feathered birds, a deep red cardinal and a plump brown sparrow that fluttered around the ceiling before resting on top of a bookcase and the chandelier.

Hermione was transfixed by the winged animals and only turned her attention back to her relatives once the birds perched themselves back on their cardboard branch in the book, resuming their original positions and fusing back into it. She looked at her uncle and noticed something she had not seen before for as long as she remembered, except once from a little boy with messy hair and jade coloured eyes behind thick glass in the British Library: Acceptance.


Inside a darkened bedroom, a young boy stared at a neatly organized series of envelopes. Five were placed on the left of his new bed, arranged in two rows, three of the letters on top and two below. On the other side of the bed Harry placed the latest, more dangerous one. It was delivered by owl feet instead of by human hands, and the afore mentioned bird species had slapped him on the face with it and almost knocked his eyeglasses away; he sighed remembering how difficult it was to tape them the last time they broke, and didn't need any further damage done to them.

He read the addresses again, the first ones to a Mr H. Potter, The Cupboard under the Stairs, could only be for Harry himself, but the odd thing was that the sixth letter, the one he had been attacked with, was addressed to Mr H. Potter, Smallest Bedroom on the Second Floor! Someone was watching him, probably inside the very house! Harry was used to hiding and dodging his aunt Marge's bulldogs, uncle Vernon himself in his foul mood days, Duddleykins and his gang, and aunt Petunia's sharp scissors when she had enough of his long hair, and it had given him extensive knowledge of every space in the house, as well as the ability to walk around silently without drawing anyone's attention.

The first floor was clear, he had found Dudley nurturing his intellect by drooling in front of the telly and moved stealthily towards the kitchen, in order to check the pantry and the utility rooms. He even pried the icebox open, just in case. The dining room was empty as well, the chipwood table fashioned to resemble solid oak with its fake plastic texture devoid of a single dust particle, or feather, and the chairs were still perfectly aligned as was aunt Petunia's liking.

Moving to the drawing room, Harry found both his uncles looking out the window, "There, do you see that? Six of them ruddy birds!" uncle Vernon said before sending Petunia outside to shoo the birds. He covered his mouth with both hands and snickered, thinking of what the owls might do to his aunt, and sure enough a minute later a very dishevelled, feathered and bitten Petunia came back inside yelling about "filthy animals".

He moved his search upstairs, bypassing his new bedroom and peeking inside Dudley's chaotic sleeping quarters. Tiptoeing over innumerable toys and things, he reached for the closet and, in a swift controlled motion, pulled the door to find wrinkled clothes littered with comic books, candy bar wrappers, unopened candy and half-eaten candy; odd toys and mutilated stuffed animals were mixed with Dudders' undergarments and a pair of trembling pointy ears were peeking out of a large box of socks. "I wonder how many of those comics are stolen..." he whispered, before closing the door.

Harry heard a muffled crack and then heavy tapping coming from the window, he ran as quietly as possible to peek out of his cousin's glass pane and made the same mistake twice: he pushed it open.

No sooner had he allowed enough space, three slick and extremely fast hawk-owls dove through, barely an inch behind each other, zooming out of the room, pulling a figure of eight to the left and barrelling downstairs.

"Ah! Vernon, help!"

"Owls! Ruddy owls inside my house?"

"Mum, there's a bird on my telly!"

"Don't worry Dudders, mum's coming for you!"

Running downstairs and hiding in the dining room, Harry poked his head out the door and witnessed uncle Vernon speeding by with a golf club in his hand, waving it at the birds of prey.

Crash!

"My telly!" Dudley cried.

Crash!

"Vernon, my china! No, not the Queen's Anniversary Plate!"

Crash!

The avian trio flew back to the drawing room in wing formation, followed by a golf-club-armed Vernon whose temple vein was about to burst, and cut to the right in a sharp forty five degree angle. Uncle Vernon's inherently huge inertia made him continue forward in a straight line, toppling over the coffee table and smashing a large Ming Dynasty replica vase; aunt Petunia could be heard sobbing in the corridor, mourning her precious china.

Harry chanced a step out of his hiding place, he was looking upstairs, believing the owls had found their way outside, when three consecutive hard thumps on the back of his head made him shout and lose his round-framed spectacles. "Not again," he complained, squinting his eyes and quickly picking and stuffing the three thick envelopes inside his pockets.

"Boy!" his uncle asked between deep breaths, "Did you... Let those... Ruddy owls... Inside?"

"Er..."

"I give you... Free... Food and... New bedroom... For this?"

"I'm sorry, I just opened the window," Harry defended himself.

"Sorry? Sorry? I've told you... No funny business!" Vernon sputtered straight to his face, "Owls are funny business! Now get rid of them you freak!"

Now that the hawk-owls had delivered their messages they were likely already outside, Harry concluded after running upstairs and throwing the new letters next to the other ones. At the very least something was back to normal, his relatives still hated him and he continued to be known as the freak.


Charles Granger was a gifted man when it came to words, yet he remained speechless after witnessing the impossible become possible, fear becoming understanding, and his heart sank upon the painful realization he was faced with. He looked at his niece Hermione with tears in his eyes and moved to kneel before her. "I'm so sorry," he said, "I'm so sorry for being frightened, f-for being a fool..." They hugged each other in silence, seeking and giving forgiveness for falling apart, for wasting so much time.

"Sooo... She's not possessed or something like that?"

"Bernadette! Where are your manners!" Claire chided.

"Goodness, no! Your younger cousin was born with magic inside her, that's the only difference between her and you," the witch that had come to their home then closed the book and set it aside, looking at the heartfelt embrace between uncle and niece beside her, "this year alone we are expecting around forty new students from all over Great Britain."

"Oh! Oh! Can you teach me magic too? Can you make dandelions rain like my dorky... I mean witch cousin did? And the butterflies move in the kitchen curt--"

"Bernadette that's enough! I'm so sorry Mrs McGonagall, my daughter can be quite, er..."

"Chipper and nosy?" proposed Hermione, looking up from her uncle's shoulder where she had been silently crying.

"Enthusiastic and inquisitive would be a good choice of words, Ms Granger," her soon to be Deputy Headmistress interjected, "and I'm afraid, Ms Bernadette Granger, that one cannot learn magic itself when one's a Muggle, as in a non-magical person?"

"But how can this be? My brother never had any of these abilities you've just demonstrated." Aunt Claire added she had never heard of Jane, Hermione's mother, doing anything remarkably frightening as this; she immediately corrected herself to say "anything remarkably interesting, that is."

"Magic can be peculiar in many ways. Muggle-born wizards are not uncommon, in fact I have a few more visits to fulfil today, explaining our world to other confused families."

"The letter says I should reply within the week, and visit Diagon Alley?" Hermione asked.

"I think you may find someone to--" Mrs McGonagall was interrupted by another owl, smaller than the one that delivered Hermione's Hogwarts letter, brown as well with large reddish-brown irises and a very small beak. It glided graciously and landed softly on the coffee table, extending its leg at Hermione.

She removed the rolled parchment and read out loud, "Dearest Hermione, my good friend Minerva can bring me to visit you and your family if you wish, so that we can further discuss your magic, and all it entails. Miranda Morewitt," Hermione looked at her future Deputy Headmistress and asked, "Is she a witch too?"

"Yes, indeed. I would like your permission to apparate from inside your home, it's a very rude thing to do in a wizard household but I cannot perform apparition outside in a Muggle neighbourhood."

The lack of responses and blank faces in front of Mrs McGonagall reminded her of the lack of wizard vocabulary the Granger family suffered from. "I will vanish and reappear a few moments later with Miranda, if you allow me?" she rephrased, obtaining a series of unsynchronized nods in reply.

Pop!

The space previously occupied by the strangely dressed witch, or perhaps appropriately dressed witch, Hermione considered, was now as empty as if she had never been there at all.

"Oh. My. Goodness."

"Where did she--"

Crack!

Four Grangers jumped on their feet when two women appeared out of thin air in their drawing room. Hermione smiled at Mrs Morewitt and she replied in kind.

"Cool! Hermy can you do that? C'mon, do it please?" Bernadette pleaded while holding Hermione's hand with both of hers. The younger Granger cousin looked down at their joined hands and gasped; she could hardly remember an instance where they had touched, even accidentally in a cramped space or when meeting on the stairs going up and down.

"I'm afraid she's not going to be able to apparate until she comes of age, at seventeen," Mrs Morewitt said, before greeting aunt Claire and being introduced to uncle Charles and Bernadette.

"When did you know, Mrs Morewitt?" Hermione asked after the formal introductions.

"You saw two Hogwarts professors through the door leading to what you would call the back-room of The Earmarked Parlour," Mrs Morewitt explained.

"But there's no back-room there," aunt Claire said, clearly remembering her visit from when she allowed her niece to spend the summer helping in the bookshop.

"That particular door has a Muggle-repealing charm on it, cast by professor Flitwick himself," Miranda and Minerva shared a look and a smile at that, "and only a wizard could have seen it."

"I knew you looked familiar to me, Mrs McGonagall, I mean Deputy Headmistress!"

The older witch nodded then and excused herself, expecting a reply soon and leaving by way of the front door this time, to visit the Finch-Fletchley family whose son had just opened and read his invitation to Hogwarts.

"Do witches have lunch at noon, Mrs Morewitt?"


"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," he read out loud, and then read the full contents again, scanning the pages for a third time. Harry fought a massive headache, a will to tear the prank letters apart and a burning desire that this could be proof that real magic exists; he was overjoyed and depressed. His uncles would never, absolutely never ever believe he has been invited to attend a school that teaches magic, and he was absolutely devastated and angry at himself for believing stupid words in odd looking letters, even if they were delivered by owl feet instead of by human hands, and yet every single cell, bone, organ, thought, breath and heartbeat in him screamed "I believe and this is who I am!"

Harry had opened a second, then a third envelope before tearing the other six to see if they all bore the same contents. They were all identical, down to the supplied list of necessary materials and the need for a reply within a week, signed by Harry's legal guardian.

Flashes of magical events travelled around his overloaded mind, a bone-crushing case bouncing on a translucent shield of sorts, ink and graphite vanishing from written notebooks, Harry himself popping from the ground to the roof in the blink of an eye. He was magic, not only could he tap into the magic within music, he had been doing real magic for years!

As lunch time drew nearer, a sudden loud bang followed by a deep thump, hurried footsteps and screams prompted Harry to investigate. Hopefully it wasn't yet another flock of owls, he had already opened the letters after all. He peeked over the stair balustrade and had to look twice before actually understanding what he saw. The front door was tumbled on the floor, its very hinges had come clean off the door frame, and the single biggest man he had ever seen in his life was mumbling a series of apologies while trying to fit through the door-less entrance.

"Who're you and what are you doing in my house?" uncle Vernon demanded to know.

"Terribly sorry 'bout yer door ma'am, name's Rubeus Hagrid. I'm 'ere ter talk ter Harry?" the huge bearded man boomed, making Dudley cower behind aunt Petunia, who was herself cowering behind Vernon.

"Y-You need to talk with me, Mr Hagrid?" Harry said, making his presence known.

"Harry! Ain't yeh a big boy now! Yeh've finally read 'em letters, I'd think I was gunna have ter send yeh a hundred o' them, an' maybe rescue yeh from some abandoned lighthouse sumwhere 'cause yeh kept hiding!" he added with a chuckle.

"Letters? You've received letters?" aunt Petunia shouted.

"Too right, Harry's going ter Hogwarts to learn magic just like his mum an' dad, bless 'em they'd be proud o' yeh..."

"Mr Hagrid, are you saying you knew my parents?" Harry asked the oversized man while walking down the stairs.

"Call me Hagrid, Harry, yeh sure know 'bout me an' your parents, don't yeh?"

"Well..." Harry said, he was standing in front of Hagrid and had to bend his neck backwards until it actually hurt in order to see his face. This man was big! "My parents were useless drunkards who died in a car crash, were you there when it happened?"

The enormous man had a pair very dark brown eyes, small for his huge bearded face, and they became practically horizontal slits as he glared aunt Petunia and uncle Vernon. "Useless drunkards? Car crash? Ye've sullied Lily an' James' memory by insulting them an' telling their son they'd died in a Muggle accident!?"

"Freaks! All of you worthless--"

Uncle Vernon didn't manage to continue his tirade, in a striking resemblance to what happened to Dudley a few years ago inside an storage room, a golden blur flew right into his moustached mouth, effectively silencing the red-faced man. Harry stared at the unusually large pink umbrella in Hagrid's hand, though expected for a man of this size since a regular umbrella would barely double as a funny hat for his head, and was sure he had used it to remove the brass doorknob and send it flying into his uncle's open mouth.

"Vernon! Stay calm and breathe!" aunt Petunia said, standing on her toes and patting his head as if comforting a large walrus.

"No Harry, yer mum an' dad died protecting yeh, they fou-- They loved yeh so much..." the oversized stranger then lowered himself to be closer to Harry, "Yer a wizard Harry, and yeh've got magic in yeh just like yer parents. Wunderful people they were, honest loving an' caring people!"

Harry could take no more of this, he ran for the place where he could try to reconcile the last few tumultuous hours of his life, his bedroom. His former bedroom, the cupboard under the stairs. As he was running away, he saw Hagrid tried to follow him but stopped when he pried open the very small door just below the staircase and hid inside.

"Yeh all right, Harry?" the bearded giant asked, "I'm sorry if I scared yeh, I'd thought--"

"You didn't scare me," Harry answered from behind the tiny door, "it's only... I'll be out in a few minutes..."

The world was a lie, this man Hagrid had told him the exact opposite of what his relatives had always been telling him about his mother and father, but how could he be sure this wasn't yet another falsehood? Until that moment Harry had only three certainties in life, the first being that there might be another child like him out there in the world, an equal, a girl who gave him hope and comfort in dreams, that allowed him to believe the day would come when someone arrived to rescue him from the dark and oppressive cupboard. Another, now shattered and torn, was that he had overcome his parents' sins by doing something worthy, by expressing the musical talent he was led to believe he had. The third was that no matter how much his relatives hated him, they had never lied about who he was.

But they did lie, they denied the very existence of magic even when it happened right in their faces! He wanted to lock himself in that cupboard and throw the key away until he died, for the pain of hating his own parents over a lie was too big, but Harry wouldn't give his uncles that satisfaction, absolutely not, because he chose to believe the wonderful tale of magical, loving fathers who had once befriended a closet-sized man named Rubeus Hagrid.


Having a witch, pointed hat and all, sharing the table for lunch was as foreign for the Grangers as sharing a wildlife hunt with the chief-warrior of a Xhosa tribe, no matter how much fun Hermione's grandparents insisted it was, they would never do it, period. Alas, never say never.

"If I understand this correctly," uncle Charles said after taking another piece of chicken breast, "Hermione needed to express her magic abilities in order to cope with her natural development?"

"Indeed, whenever her emotions would rise beyond normal levels, as in exhilarating happiness or a sudden panic, the magic will flare and be released. It's normal for all young wizards, including babies..."

"And once I get my... Wand is the correct term? I'll be able to control the magic at will?"

Mrs Morewitt nodded and produced her own wand, "Because of the secrecy laws I cannot perform magic here, else Hermione could be charged with under-age magic use, or they could press charges against me for use of magic in front of Muggles."

"But that McGonagall lady did some stuff here!" her cousin said.

"Minerva has a special dispensation for this occasions, no Auror would bother her for it."

"Auror?"

Mrs Morewitt tapped her chin for a second, "Law enforcer, similar to your policeman?"

The table fell silent for a few minutes, until Mrs Morewitt herself spoke again, "Back to the matter at hand, are you Mr and Mrs Granger willing to allow Hermione to attend Hogwarts?"

"What could happen if we do not?" Charles asked and Hermione gasped, "Hypothetically speaking pumpkin, I'm sure your aunt and I already agree on this," he added.

The witch sighed and answered directly at Hermione, "Your magic would continue to develop until a mature level when reaching adulthood. Random events would continue to happen around you if you had a very basic level of magical strength, but from what you have described regarding your accidental magic, yours would be an impossible flame to contain."

"Oh... I think I better reply with my intention to assist Hogwarts School then."

At that very moment the sound of flapping wings distracted them, a large raven glided graciously through the open double french doors leading to the dinning room and landed on Hermione's right shoulder.

"Kettle! I've told you, no flying inside the house!"

Wide open pale-blue eyes denounced Mrs Morewitt's surprise at seeing the large bird. "Is this your familiar?"

"Familiar? I'm not sure of the word's meaning, but Kettle's been living with me in the attic since I was five," Hermione answered, immediately regretting mentioning the attic and hoping she wouldn't make a scandal out of it.

The older witch, however, deserved more credit than that and simply nodded, dismissing that information and explaining she had asked her owl Scriptor to remain nearby and use him to send the reply to Hogwarts. If Hermione didn't know better, she would have been sure Kettle had sniffed at that and was extending his leg, as if asking her to give him the important task.

"I think he wants to be the one to carry my reply!"

"Quite right you are... Darling, you're full of surprises," Mrs Morewitt said after fighting her initial stupor. She then picked a sheet of parchment, a feather quill and ink bottle from inside her robe, handing everything to Hermione.

"Quills?"

"Wizards have used quills for thousands of years, it would require a very dramatic change in the wizarding world for us to use a Muggle pen."

Hermione wrote a very polite affirmative reply, huffed a little while fighting the ink blotches her inexperience with quills left on the parchment, and then rolled it together with her uncle Charles' signed form. She remembered the twine she had saved from Mrs Morewitt's birthday presents and used a string of it to tie them to Kettle's foot. "Could you please deliver this to Deputy Headmistress McGonagall, at Hogwarts School?"

The large raven nodded and took flight under the amazed gaze of his human companion as she ran to open the windows for him. Hermione turned to her uncles and asked them if they were willing to visit this place called Diagon Alley with her; she didn't even have to ask Bernadette, it was like asking whether there is water in the oceans, a simple and resounding yes.

So it was that the spacious second row seats in uncle Charles' Silver Spur sedan were occupied by an excited witch wearing a pointed hat sitting next to two young girls, whilst Claire busied herself chiding her daughter about proper behaviour and Charles himself concentrated in driving them all safely to The Earmarked Parlour.


Aptly described as a tense meeting of warring parties, the gathering currently held in the antiseptic kitchen of the Dursley home slowly deteriorated by means of grunts, growls and deep, nostril flaring breaths. Harry had exited the cupboard to find the kitchen table being used as a bench by Hagrid, who was entranced in a staring contest against uncle Vernon, who sat in front of him. He still had a brass doorknob stuck in his mouth. Aunt Petunia kept glaring at the giant while mopping and wiping the two-feet-long footprints he had left on the tiled floor, and Dudley could be found stuffing his mouth with cold pizza slices right out of the icebox, with his round bottom sticking out.

"My parents names, James and...?"

"Lily," Hagrid answered and Harry noticed his aunt gasping and tightening the grip on the plastic handle of the mop she was using, "I can't believe yeh didn't even tell Harry his mother's name! Shame on yeh, Petunia!"

Another tense string of minutes passed as Harry sat on one the kitchen chairs, looking down at his clenched hands. He rummaged inside his large handed-down trousers and produced one of the letters those persistent owls had delivered.

"Did they go to this school called Hogwarts?" he asked after reading the letter one more time, choosing to ignore aunt Petunia's shriek and head shaking.

Hagrid nodded and asked for it, "Letter ain't changed a bit since my time, it ain't."

Soon Harry noticed his uncle trying to scream, he was waving his bulky arms around unsuccessfully reaching for someone's attention, but he stopped when Harry stood up and positioned himself in front of him. "You made me hate them. I hated them for leaving me alone, I hated them for learning to drive a car, and I hated them for being worthless people... But I was hating a lie, wasn't I? My mum, Lily, I bet she'd be ashamed of me..."

"Don't you dare mention my s-sister, boy! She was a freak like you!"

Harry turned to face his aunt, she was still holding the mop and trying to push Dudley away from the open icebox to clean the crumbs and food debris the whale calf left on the floor. "Why aunt Petunia? Because she could do magic?"

"There's no such thing as--"

"Magic!" Harry repeated, and his aunt jumped on her feet. Dudley finally emptied the edible contents of the icebox and walked away, mourning the destroyed telly in the kitchen and seating himself in front of the other television set in the drawing room. For his part, uncle Vernon looked livid, his purple face compensating for the lack of speech and clearly expressing his ultimate annoyance.

"Magic, magic, magic, magic, magic!" he yelled while running and jumping around like a kangaroo on a sugar rush, making his formerly huge uncle fall off his chair. The once large man who now looked like an overweight garden gnome next to Hagrid scrunched his eyes and glared at him, while Petunia ran to comfort her Duddleykins, who simply pushed her away to the floor and returned to his most interesting televised show.

"Harry come 'ere," Hagrid said while holding him by the top of his messy-haired head, "it's past lunch time an' yeh'd better not eat what they feed that poor boy there, I'll show yeh what a proper wizard's meal is!" the gigantic man added, standing up to his full height and patting the small child on the back, unwillingly thrusting him forward a few yards.

The enormous man needed to have an appropriately sized means of transportation of course, but Harry was doubly surprised when he saw the black motorcycle parked by the end of the lane. He knew this massive mechanical machine, he had dreamt of it and when Hagrid used his foot to bring the engine to life, he was absolutely certain of it. Harry's musical training so far had the intriguing side-effect of sharply increasing his hearing abilities, not that he could hear better than others, he could hear and discriminate more within the sounds around him.

"I know this bike, I-I've dreamt of it, no I actually remember it and the rumble a-and flying with... Flying with you!" he bent his neck up to look at the big man and found him looking back with a sad look in his rough, bearded face.

"Ow, Harry! I knew yeh'd remember yer old friend Hagrid, though yeh were wee small an' all..." the enormous man picked an equally large handkerchief and blew his nose, apologizing between sobs, "Yeh look so much like yer dad, same hair an' face, but yeh've got yer mum's eyes..."

"Really? Can you tell me about them? Does the bike really fly? D'you know if I've got any other relatives? How can I do magic? Where are we going now? What's--"

"Yeh've got lotta questions, Harry!" he laughed and then added, "I'm sorry yer aunt's like that, she'd never accept yer mum fer who she was, an' she'd better be ashamed fer never telling yeh the truth!"

Hagrid forced a large pink helmet on top of his tiny head and pulled him over with one giant hand to sit in the side-car before sprinting away. The open-face helmet obscured half his vision and pushed Harry's eyeglasses down his nose, but he didn't mind the uncomfortable accessory nor its ghastly colour as long as he got a chance to know the truth he had chosen to believe about his parents, and ultimately about himself. Besides, a "proper wizard's meal" sounded like a delicious and tempting offer after a summer of food scraps and one unexpected breakfast this morning.


"See? I told you Charlie, there's no back-room in this... This quaint bookshop!"

"It's right there, aunt Claire!" Hermione pointed, and then dragged her uncle through it again. The moment they crossed Charles began looking around, completely confused.

"How... How did I get here?"

"We walked through the door!" she answered, now completely exasperated at the ridiculous situation, for as soon as she pulled one Muggle through, he or she would forget how they had arrived on the other side, and start demanding to know where the others were!

Mrs Morewitt had excused herself for a minute and crossed the wizard visible doorway first to arrange some undisclosed business, leaving Hermione to deal with her baffled relatives. She decided best to have everyone hold hands and literally pushed them over using her small but strong body.

"Hey! How'd we get here?" Bernadette asked, and Hermione slapped her forehead one more time, before rounding the table where she had once seen a pair of witches having tea and finding, well, the very same bookshop. She had imagined a big magical shop as large as Kyles, the Muggle bookshop her aunt managed, but here she was facing an exact replica of the narrow space The Earmarked Parlour offered on the other side.

The bookcases and couches were set in different arrangements however, but it was when she began to scan the titles that the fact they were in a magical bookshop really hit her. Hermione was about to pull a book called "Geese to Gargoyle Transfigurations that give you Goosebumps" when Mrs Morewitt returned.

"Welcome to The Earmarked Parlour," she said, waving her arms around, "you may find many second-hand titles, unpublished manuscripts and overstocked editions like these," she pointed to a gaily decorated book cover bearing the title "Remarkable Rhododendrons, Roots and Ramblings".

"Why does it have the same name?"

"Why not? It is the same shop, only the books are different," Mrs Morewitt answered with a wink. She invited the Granger family to seat themselves on the couches and, now free to use her magic, levitated a tea tray to them, followed by four folded pastel coloured fabric bundles.

"I have taken the liberty to bring these cloaks for you to wear, they were... They'll allow you to be, how can I phrase this, less conspicuous? Wearing part of a proper wizard attire can help you avoid the more discriminatory aspects of our society," she added with a sad look, before quickly wiping it from her face, "and it can turn a dismissive clerk into an attentive employee!"

The group donned the unfamiliar garments, with a little help from Hermione's witch friend, and marvelling at the comfortably low temperature delivered by the cloaks' cooling charms followed her out the glass panelled door into Diagon Alley itself. The high two o'clock sun cast shapely shadows beneath brightly coloured shop awnings, centuries old sprawling trees and under overhead walkways richly decorated with intricate designs. A wide cobblestone pathway weaved between the stone cornered buildings, allowing the witches and wizards to browse, purchase and barter this and that, or simply to rest on an ornate bench below a gracious tree for idle chatter among friends and family.

Reaching a wide, beautiful water fountain whose centrepiece depicted a bearded man holding a staff in his left hand and proudly galloping on an unicorn, truly galloping since the life-size pair was actually prancing around the fountain itself and splashing water on nearby distracted wizards, they circled the fountain, escaped a water jet and filed towards a large building dominating one part of the alley whose faade was heavily guarded by blinding white crooked columns.

Bernadette pointed to the air, drawing Hermione's attention to the owl filled skies, of all colours and sizes, some even carrying large packages. She nodded and noticed that the closer they were to the glistening building, the larger amount of little people there were among the regular size wizards. As she was about to ask Mrs Morewitt about them, one small little man exited the bronze doors beneath the sign reading Gringotts and descended the white steps as they climbed up.

They were definitely not human, the being was looking around and Hermione caught his eyes for a second. Being the polite girl, or witch, that she was Hermione greeted it with a "good afternoon, sir," eliciting a gasp and a subsequent pointy-toothed grin from the strange creature. It stood still for a few seconds and she felt as if under a microscope while the being analysed her from head to toe.

"Come now, pumpkin, Mrs Morewitt says the goblins can exchange our Pounds for gold inside the bank," uncle Charles said before pulling her through the tarnished doors.

Dozens of goblins could be seen behind counters, some weighing gemstones and gold, others dealing coins and stuffing full piles of them inside a pouch the size of a tea-bag! A few goblins, probably higher level employees given their older faces and larger tables, sat on tall stools tending to some business or another with wizards wearing all sorts of different coloured hats. They approached one goblin while he looked for flaws inside the largest cut diamond any of the Grangers had ever seen or heard about in their lives.

"We'll exchange Muggle Pounds for Galleons," Mrs Morewitt told the goblin in a brisk voice, and the goblin put the gem aside, snapped his fingers and a thick, leather-bound book appeared floating in front of him. He opened it and found the page corresponding to today's date, using a long finger sporting an even longer fingernail to scan the columns until reaching the one marked as "XIV:XXIII g.u.t.k. - XIV:XXXIV g.u.k.t." and asking how many Pounds would be exchanged.

"I'll be paying the Hogwarts tuition fees using my account, uncle Charles," Hermione said before her uncle could reply to the goblin's question.

"Absolutely not, pumpkin, we'll take care of your education needs until--"

"You weren't expecting to pay for this type of education, therefore I'll be the one to fund it!"

Uncle and niece stared unblinking at each other; her cousin Bernadette and aunt Claire were already used to this situations, it was the same every time they had to purchase start of term materials for school, even buying clothes with Hermione was a battle of wills. They pulled Mrs Morewitt away and used to time to continue asking questions regarding everything they had seen so far.

"I'm your legal guardian, therefore it's my responsibility to care for your needs!"

"Fine! Then I'll just return all you've paid for my schooling since I was too young to protest, and I'll give it back plus interests! Six years of inflated interest rates!"

The goblin almost fainted, were it not for holding to the heavy diamond on the table he would have fallen backwards on the bank floor. Another hairy goblin carrying a taller-than-him pile of folders was eavesdropping and dropped the pile to the ground, climbing to the top in order to have a better view of the discussion.

"Sometimes you're as stubborn as your mother was, Hermione! Don't you want to pay me back rental and boarding as well?" he asked sarcastically.

"That's right! And I'll throw in all the money the Foundation's been depositing in my account for whatever little work I do! I'd do it for free anyway!"

That last statement was too much for the poor goblin to handle, he collapsed on the table head first and then landed on the cold marble with a thump while the hairy goblin stared at Hermione as if she had sprouted a second head. She startled and looked around the counter to see the fallen being and bent down to poke him.

"Sir? Are you all right?" she asked out of concern, while uncle Charles looked over the counter.

"Gantfreck Nose-picker, provide service!" a commanding albeit shrilly voice came from an elegantly dressed goblin behind them, who upon seeing Gantfreck unconscious said, "We apologize for this goblin's failure, please allow Griphook to finish your business and compensate accordingly."

"That won't be necessary, mister...?"

"Ragnok," the smartly dressed goblin answered.

"Thank you Mr Ragnok, but I'll wait for Mr Gantfreck to recover himself and continue my exchange with him, if that's agreeable to you," Hermione stated, "and this way the bank needs not compensate for any lack of service. In fact, I'd pay a reasonable fee for my Galleons to be delivered in a carrying pouch like that one?" she finished by pointing to the tiny bags that could hold heaps of coins inside.

A couple of goblins were whispering around them, she managed to hear references to "a witch calling him by name", and another comment regarding her "fair business practices" before the one named Ragnok glared and silenced them. Gantfreck Nose-picker stirred and with agility beyond that expected of a goblin, although Hermione couldn't be quite sure if goblins were supposed to be agile or not, stood up and offered his apologies.

"No apology required, Mr Gantfreck, I believe my uncle and I can reach an agreement?"

Charles sighed and rolled his eyes while she nervously bit her lip, "Fine, I'll let you purchase all your required materials and books, even your wand," he said and she squealed with joy, "but only that!"

"Thanks uncle Charles!"

Hermione took the chance to hug her uncle again. It felt good to be accepted.


"This, is a dragon steak Harry, yeh'd never find a better steak than Tom's," Hagrid boomed with a ravenous look in his eyes.

Harry however, was having a little bit of a twisted stomach problem with the green and smelly piece of dragon meat. Yes, dragon meat! A piece of flesh from a dragon, ordered to Hagrid's taste, meaning body-temperature-warm, raw and bloody.

They had arrived in London in well under a quarter of an hour, the flying motorcycle Hagrid had explained was invisible to Muggles made the journey effortlessly and he enjoyed every second of it. After leaving the machine in an alley, they had walked to Charing Cross Road and Harry began to scratch his leg and lower back a little while Hagrid escorted him inside a place called The Leaky Cauldron, where he was promptly introduced to Tom the bartender and, upon learning of Harry Potter in their midst, to a couple dozen witches and wizards before his huge new friend ordered two "special dragon ones" and guided him to a booth.

"How come they all know me?" Harry asked, "And what'd they mean by the-boy-who-lived?"

Although reluctant at first, Hagrid finally answered, "Yeh're the boy who lived when yer parents didn't, Harry..."

He nodded and, while pushing the escaping side dish back into his plate, asked the inevitable follow-up question, "H-How did they d-die?"

"Yeh aren't eatin' yer steak, Harry, it's gonna get cold an' th--"

"How did it happen, Mr Hagrid?" he repeated.

"It's Hagrid, yeh can call me Hag--"

"How'd they die?"

Harry didn't regret the yelling. He didn't regret the look of sadness in the large man's face. He didn't regret the pointing and whispering around them. Harry wanted answers, truths, a cornerstone upon which to build his new life as a wizard.

"A very bad wizard murdered them, he... He came to yer home an'--"

"Did they like me?" Harry asked, interrupting the explanation and scratching his lower back again. There would be time to know more details, but not now, not just yet.

"Yer mum an' dad loved yeh Harry! They loved yeh more than anythin'!"

Harry graced his lips with a smile, and then changed the subject to another grim question that was bothering him, "What if I can't go to Hogwarts, I've got no money to pay for--"

"Yer dad's left yeh gold fer school, don't yeh worry 'bout it," Hagrid answered with a wave of his hand, before gulping the last of his greenish steak.

"But my uncles, they'll never allow me to go!" he said, already making secret plans to escape his relatives house somehow.

"That's why Dumbledore asked me ter come an' fetch yeh, great man Dumbledore!" the bearded man stated, "Dumbledore's the Headmaster at Hogwarts, he is."

"But--"

"I've got yer key to Gringotts an' we'd better buy yeh a wand right now," Hagrid interrupted, eyeing the untouched steak with a heartbreaking longing. Harry noticed it and asked him if he wanted to have it, since he had a full breakfast at home and wasn't hungry. His new big friend didn't need to know that raw green meat was not very appetizing for him.

Finishing his butterbeer at the same time as Hagrid swallowed his moving side dish, which Harry didn't need to know what it was exactly, they stood and walked to the end of the dingy building, reached a brick wall and he looked up questioningly. Hagrid used his big pink umbrella to tap a few of the bricks and, with a rasping sound, they began to recede and form a wide and tall archway for them to cross.

"Welcome ter Diagon Alley!" he said with a chuckle, noticing Harry's awestruck face.

The alley before him was a row of ancient looking buildings adorned with colourful awnings, expertly crafted signs and people coming and going, levitating their purchases next to them or popping in and out of thin air! Harry looked up to see more owls similar to the ones that had attacked him and ducked, fearing they would deliver heavier packages this time. All around him witches and wizards wearing colourful clothing and pointed hats walked and talked about whatever was their fancy.

He approached a wall plastered with posters, the images on them actually moved of their own accord! He saw an offer for joining an expedition to find the crumple-horned snorkack, whatever that was, then an official looking poster regarding new regulations for the proper use of keys for making portkeys bluntly covered by another highly decorated one of a smiling blonde man with perfect teeth announcing his latest book, "Holidays with Hags".

Pulled by Hagrid towards a large towering white building, Harry barely had the time to register or understand things, everything was new or twisted in some way, there was a whole world he had been denied! He had even forgotten about the itching until it spread to his left arm, and then forced his small legs to keep up with Hagrid's long strides, resting a little after entering the building he now recognized as a bank.

The warning written on the silver doors beyond the larger, bronze ones was quite puzzling and certainly threatening enough to discourage any would-be thieves. While Harry stood reading he heard a group of witches walk behind him discussing the exchange rate between Pounds and Galleons, and how sorry one of them was to have made a goblin faint. He only turned his attention away from the writing and the red and gold uniformed goblin standing guard when Hagrid pushed him inside the bank's main hall.

"Come now Harry, let's ask fer sumeone to take yeh ter yer vault," he said and approached an unoccupied goblin.

Harry's emotional roller-coaster was beginning to drag him back into a grim mood, he briefly wondered if the H.J. Granger Foundation could ask these goblins to hunt Mr Harper and Mr Bullion and have them return the stolen money, and then he wondered if his own parents had been murdered for gold, to satisfy greed and envy. Another question burning in his mind was what might have happened to the bad wizard Hagrid had mentioned.

He was jolted out of his reverie when a goblin Hagrid addressed as Griphook jumped down from his stool and led them away through a door on the back. They walked into a fire-lit tunnel, hard rock surrounded them and he could feel the steep angle at which they were descending, to what Hagrid commented that the goblin vaults were thousands of miles below the surface.

Soon they arrived at a station of sorts, were several mining carts waited for passengers to board. The rickety cart creaked under Hagrid's considerable frame and the goblin seemed to hesitate for a second, but boarded and snapped his fingers, putting the wheeled ore cart in motion on the tracks.

If the flying motorcycle was fun, this was amazing. Harry held back a loud "whoo-hoo" he wanted to shout at the top of his lungs as the cart twisted and turned, negotiated steep curves and sometimes travelled upside down, until braking suddenly in front of a tall and wide heavy bolted door, with hundreds of latches, wheels and keyholes on it.

"Mr Potter, if you please?" the goblin asked.

"Just Harry, Mr Griphook," he answered, already amazed at how many times he had replied the same thing today. It seemed wizards, and goblins, really respected him for some unfathomable reason.

He stood there, slightly puzzled at the goblin's expression, then Hagrid exclaimed something and pulled a golden key from around his large neck, handing it to Harry. He looked at the goblin in confusion and asked what was he supposed to do with it.

"Most irregular," Griphook grunted, before guiding his hand to the vault door and asking him to insert it at the same time as he inserted a key of his own, made of obsidian. "Turn it left, now hold and turn right twice if you please, Mr Potter."

Harry's itching left arm almost ruined the intended motions but he managed to turn as directed, just before removing the key and scratching heavily until the skin of his arm turned red. He was about to return the key to his new friend but, remembering the goblin words, preferred to ask, "Why would you say it was irregular for Hagrid to give me that gold key, Mr Griphook?"

The goblin looked up at the giant first, then at him and back at Hagrid who suddenly looked quite uncomfortable. "We must abide to the consultations made by our client," Griphook explained, "Mr Potter either you or your legal guardian must be the custodians of the Potter family vault, nobody else should."

"But... But that means Hagrid's my legal guardian then?"

"Guardianship was bestowed upon your nearest kin, Mr Potter. It was uncontested and therefore remains in the person of one Petunia Dorothea Dursley, ne Evans, and her husband Vernon Louis Dursley."

Harry snorted and held a laugh, "Dorothea? That's priceless..." he said, "Does that mean they can come here and remove any amount of, er... What's the name of the wizard currency again?"

"Galleons, Mr Potter, Sickles and Knuts being the lower value coins, and no, only Mrs Dursley can come and prove by key and by blood who she is before accessing the vault contents."

"Blood?"

"The key will not turn if the blood is not recognized, Mr Potter."

"It's Harry, just Ha-- Oh, forget it..."

Hagrid was nervously fidgeting with his moleskin coat, trying to interrupt but Harry had enough bad experience with adults to know nothing is as it seems. He thought about his new-found situation and wondered if there was any way for him to stop his uncles from having access to his school money.

"Why did Hagrid have my key then?"

The goblin looked up and tensed, but as he had explained before, Griphook seemed to be compelled to answer any and every question the legitimate owner of a vault asked, "That particular key was last used while in possession of your father, James Horatio Potter. It had not been seen again until today, Mr Potter, and because Gringotts was unable to locate your person, its whereabouts remained unknown to us."

"Hagrid found me though."

"Indeed, Mr Potter."

This made no sense, why would a wizard be able to find him but not a goblin? And why did they never look for him earlier in life if he was so well-known in this world?

"We'd better go now, Harry, yeh've asked enough haven't yeh?"

Having acquired a few concepts based on the financial news bulletins his uncle used to watch late at night, Harry believed he understood enough to chance a question regarding his assets. He felt proud for using the word "assets" and repeated it twice.

"Of my inherited assets, how many are available to me and how many assets other than Galleons do I have, Mr Griphook?"

"Being an under-age wizard, Mr Potter, you are allowed to remove a limited annual amount of Galleons from this vault. Majority is considered at seventeen, unless special circ--"

"All right Harry, time ter go, we'd better go now!"

"No! I've had enough of people making a fool out of me," Harry replied, "I'm sorry Hagrid, if you'd found me a couple of months ago I'd be obeying you in a heartbeat... But not today..."

Hagrid the giant stood dumbfounded before him, Harry could see the large man's confusion and pain, it seemed he wanted to care and support him but at the same time was bound by some other obligation. He also knew this man could use a simple finger, or his ridiculously pink and frilly magical umbrella to knock him unconscious on the floor and drag him outside, but the fact he had not done so meant the friendship and caring he offered was real.

"Do I get any interests from the rest of my assets?" Harry smiled to himself for using two financial words in one phrase.

"Of course not Mr Potter, that's a Muggle concept of no consequence for magical beings, although we goblins abide by it in Muggle entrepreneurship. You do have investments and participation in several wizard businesses, however."

He though for a few seconds before turning to the goblin again, "Mr Griphook, I want to take all I'm allowed for the year now."

"That's a considerable amount, Mr Potter," Griphook answered with a greedy grin while Hagrid gasped behind him.

"Then give me a third in Pounds, I heard someone talking about an exchange rate before?"

"Harry, please, I'm supposed ter hold to those Galleons meself, an' then buy yer things fer yeh... It's what Dumbledore asked me ter do, yeh see?"

The nervous look in his friend's face made Harry decide to instruct Griphook so that he handed Hagrid enough Galleons to pay for Hogwarts and for the purchases he was asked to do by his future Headmaster. He thanked Griphook again and hung the gold key on his own neck, scratching his lower back, while the goblin looked at him with another piercing gaze, as if he was studying the young boy.

As the cart started moving again towards a vault Hagrid needed to visit, he kept looking at Harry opening and closing his mouth thrice before finally shaking his massive bearded head and saying "Yeh're a fire we can't hold back, ain't yeh Harry? A magic flame nuthin' can contain..."


"I love magic," Hermione said while holding her tiny pouch full of Galleons.

Uncle Charles and her had approached aunt Claire, Bernadette and Mrs Morewitt by the ornate couches found in the middle of the enormous main hall and explained their agreement. Her cousin teased her for being such a dork, yet she simply shrugged and walked outside explaining the exchange rates between Pounds and Galleons, as well as expressing how sorry she was for unwillingly making the poor creature faint.

As they reached the bank's outer doors she stared in awe at a gigantic man that was walking inside, he was the largest man she had ever seen, even the pictures of people afflicted by gigantism or any degree of acromegaly didn't do justice to this huge bearded figure. Hermione found herself descending the white stairs and focused on avoiding tripping instead, when Mrs Morewitt suggested a visit to Ollivander's first, then they could fetch the rest of the required course books in The Earmarked Parlour. She sensed another difficult discussion coming soon, the older witch had become very fond of her and would try to give her a discount, or worse, present her with the books as a gift!

Ollivander's was a shabby and narrow shop with two panelled leaded glass windows in front and an unremarkable simple door in between, a second and third row of simpler plain glass windows served the rooms above the sign reading Ollivander's, Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

"In we go," Mrs Morewitt indicated, "let's find out how many tries it takes for Mr Ollivander to provide you with a suita--"

"Miranda Isis Greymoth, walnut, ten and a half inches, springy, unicorn hair," said an old man with pale silver eyes and a white tuft of hair, "I'm glad to meet you again, Mrs Morewitt," he finished while stepping out of the shadows cast by endless piles of boxes.

"Good afternoon, Mr Ollivander, we--"

"You sir, I do not remember ever selling a wand to, and I have been selling them for quite some time, you see?" the old man stated while looking at uncle Charles, "nor do I remember you, milady, or any of the young misses..."

"I'm here for my first wand!" Hermione answered.

The man raised a snow-white eyebrow and looked straight at her, "Your first wand, is it? I sincerely hope carelessness will not be the cause of you needing a second or third wand, young miss...?"

"Hermione Granger, pleased to meet you Mr Ollivander," she answered and extended her hand.

"Please allow me," he said and turned her right hand over, measuring the width of the thumb, before picking an old wooden ruler and holding it by one end while dropping it flat over her hair. He seemed to nod in approval after the ruler bounced thrice. "Only a few more measurements and I can proceed with your older sister," Mr Ollivander explained.

"Oh, I'm not a witch, and she's actually my cousin," said Bernadette who was opening a series of wand boxes and playing with them.

"Very well, now let's try this--"

Tapping on the front windows interrupted him, Hermione turned to see who might be calling for attention instead of opening the door and gasped. Precariously perched on the slim windowsill was her black feathered friend Kettle, tapping the leaded glass behind which a very ancient looking wand rested over a faded purple cushion.

"Kettle!" Hermione excused herself and opened the door to allow the large raven inside, "Come with me, I'm about to purchase my wand!" she told the bird, and Kettle flapped a little to set himself on her shoulder.

"Interesting," mumbled Mr Ollivander, "now try this one, oak, nine inches, dragon heartstring..."

Hermione took it in her hand and looked back at the wandmaker, wondering what was she supposed to do.

"Swish and flick, Hermione," Mrs Morewitt instructed.

She did as told, but the resulting bang and very noticeable burn mark on Mr Ollivander's counter made her turn scarlet red. Kettle had flown away to perch himself by the front of the shop and her relatives had jumped almost three feet on the air.

"I'm sorry! I didn't--"

"No harm done, Ms Granger, this is how it goes," the old man said, "now try this wand, cherry with unicorn hair..."

No scorch marks, no loud bangs. She swished again, but no sparks came out, nothing seemed to have happened. Hermione looked questioningly at Mr Ollivander, who scratched his chin and looked around, finally pointing towards his chandelier on the ceiling, a once simple brass lighting fixture now the size of an ox cart wheel and candles as thick as tree trunks. It creaked ominously and the Grangers plus Mrs Morewitt moved to the sides just in time before the weight brought the enlarged chandelier down.

"Not the right wand either, I guess?"

"I'm sorry..." Hermione said morosely, sidestepping the now shrinking chandelier and returning the cherry wand to its box. She noticed Kettle cawing and intently eyeing the displayed wand by the window-shop, and fearing he was about to pick it she shook her finger negatively at him before calling the raven back to her shoulder.

"Nothing a simple reparo and a new sticking charm cannot fix," the wandmaker yelled from behind a tall cabinet. He came back a minute later holding two new boxes, which Hermione observed cautiously. She picked the one on the right.

"This one feels different, Mr Ollivander."

"Ah... Give it a swish, then."

Golden sparks showered through the air as she swished and flicked, the wand fit her hand quite comfortably, its length, weight and girth seemed to be made exactly for her. Hermione jumped on her feet and looked at a satisfied Mr Ollivander, who approved of the match and charged her eleven Galleons and seven Sickles in total, including a safety wooden box that only opened upon her touch and password, and a wand maintenance kit.

They were shown outside with a bow from the wandmaker and followed Mrs Morewitt to the Magical Menagerie. As soon as they entered the shop, a large cage filled with ordinary sized ravens fell silent and seemed to have bowed their heads. She dismissed it thinking it was just her imagination and Hermione allowed Kettle to choose an enclosure he felt comfortable with. Bernadette commented he was pickier than a girl, and she thoroughly agreed; it was only after getting in and out of half a dozen cages that the raven cawed a happy caw from within a cylindrical cage that consisted of two levels, a side door, several golden perches and a swivelling dome top.

Because of her embarrassing first experience writing with a quill, she insisted in purchasing a calligraphy set and a huge amount of parchment and ink to train her hand. It would also serve to hold her summaries and planning for the coming year, with so many new subjects and a new world she was entering on September the first but had little to no information about, she needed to update her knowledge as quickly as possible.

Cauldrons and potions ingredients were next, both Granger girls gagged at the slimy, nondescript and foul-smelling things in jars and barrels at Slug&Jiggers Apothecary but marvelled at the assortment of cauldron sizes, shapes and materials available in the anonymous cauldron shop.

"Vine wood, with a dragon heartstring core," Hermione repeated dreamily as they walked back to The Earmarked Parlour with all her purchases, including robes, a cauldron and a set of quills.

"Yeah, yeah, we were there too, remember Hermy?"

"I'm sorry to bother you, Berny!" she replied and stuck her tongue at her cousin.

They continued to bicker with each other until entering the bookshop that would eventually lead them back to the non-magical world, where they accepted yet another cup of tea and removed the comfortable cloaks. Mrs Morewitt allowed Kettle to share her owl's water and then turned to the list of required books for first-year Hogwarts students.

"Now, I've observed enough to know you will never accept these as a gift, therefore I'm going to let you pay for them. However, these items do have a twelve Sickle discount each, over the regular Flourish&Blotts prices," the bookshop owner explained before Hermione could protest.

They spent another fifteen minutes together, inquiring this and that about the magical world before saying their goodbyes and, after pushing the Grangers through the door they couldn't see nor remember having crossed, walked to uncle Charles parked sedan. She allowed her raven to fly home and put her purchases in the luggage compartment, before climbing to the comfortable back seat and falling asleep, dreaming of wands, broomsticks and dragons.


Harry exited the bank whistling Pennies from Heaven, a Muggle tune he had listened to while escaping Dudley on the school kitchen's roof. Someone inside the kitchen had the radio on, tuned to a jazz oriented station and started singing along that particular song, he had liked it and asked the Music teacher Mr Harper to record a tape for him to listen.

As it turned out, Griphook wasn't his goblin vault manager. Baprak the Furious had been the goblin assigned to care for the Potter family vault since his great-grandfather's time, however he had passed away, well the goblins said "fed the hydra's hungry mouths" but he really didn't have the stomach to ask for details.

Griphook had been promoted as soon as he demanded him to be his vault keeper, Hagrid was given twice as many Galleons as he would need to purchase Harry's school materials and he was presented with a silver card holder that would grow to the size of a businessman's briefcase full of Pounds when the correct runes were drawn with his finger on the lid. It took him a couple of minutes to learn the phonetic equivalent of Potter in runes, but he finally memorized it. His remaining Galleons were distributed in three pouches tied together with an snap-resistant rope of goblin weaved hag hair. Again, Harry didn't really care to ask for details.

"What's yeh gonna do with so much Galleons, Harry?" his huge companion asked.

"Nothing," he answered and Hagrid made a confused face, "I mean I'll buy a fitting and comfortable pair of shoes, and real bed covers as well, but that's all since you'll be purchasing my things for school..."

"Why'd yeh say real bed covers?"

Harry winced and regretted mentioning that, but changed the subject to wizard clothing instead. "I'll need wizard clothes too, right?"

"Merlin's beard, I'd forgotten 'bout that... Madam Malkin's that way," the giant said while pulling him along, "and then we'll find yeh yer wand!"

Watching a measuring tape going about his body was hilarious until it slipped inside his oversized pants, at which time Madam Malkin herself had entered the booth to find a half-naked boy wrestling with her charmed seamstress gear. Harry tried to apologize and pull his trousers back up, but the witch laughed heartily and called the measurements enough for creating a fitting attire.

He chose a quality but not fancy fabric, magically woven in Egypt from moonlight harvested gossypium sternutatiae, or simply put the sneezing cotton, as Madam Malkin explained. The squat witch really knew her trade and took her time to walk him through every kind of material and the standard self-ironing and self-repairing characteristics of her robes and cloaks. She asked about the redness on his arms and lower back too, and after learning it was an itch recommended some essence of Murtlap, which she kindly provided in a half-full bottle of her own.

A very relieved Harry exited the booth half an hour later to find Hagrid sitting on a bench, knitting a yellow cap the size of a circus tent. He stifled a laugh and asked him if he could stop by to fetch the finished clothes when he visited Diagon Alley again. His new friend agreed with a smile and they continued to talk on their way to Ollivander's, the wand shop.

"Why did that bad wizard kill my parents, Hagrid?"

"He turned up in the place yeh was livin', on Halloween some ten years ago, an' killed yer mum an' dad... All 'cause they'd never join him in the Dark Side," he explained, "an' then, fer some mysterious reason he tried ter kill yeh too!"

Harry winced and snapped his neck up at that, waiting for Hagrid to continue his tale. "No one ever lived after he decided ter kill, no one except yeh, Harry! That dark evil curse he'd use on yer parents destroyed yer home, but yeh survived without a scratch, save for--"

"For this scar on my forehead," Harry interrupted, rubbing the lightning bolt shaped mark. "What happened to him?"

"No one knows, he just vanished after that, all we know's that sumething happened to him..."

"Hasn't anyone tried to find this murderer? What's his name anyway?"

The big man winced and bent over to whisper, "Harry, we don't speak his name."

"Well I want to know his name, can't you spell it at least?"

"I'm sorry but--"

"Tell me!"

"Voldemort! There, don't yeh ever make me say it again," Hagrid shuddered, huffed and stopped in front of a narrow, simple shop.

With wands being so important for wizards, Harry was a little bit disappointed at the shabby looking shop they entered. A tall old wizard was levitating a brass chandelier to the ceiling and muttering about double sticking charms, standing among hundreds, no, thousands of boxes containing what he assumed were wands of all kinds and sizes.

"Good evening Rubeus Hagrid," the old wizard said, "pity about that wand, very strong oak and sixteen inches long it was... And who might you--"

"This, is my friend Harry Potter, Mr Ollivander!"

Harry grinned at being called friend and noticed Mr Ollivander snap his pale grey eyes to his scar, making him feel self-conscious again, before smiling for a brief moment. "You bring me a challenge, Mr Hagrid!"

Several minutes, a half-burnt wandmaker, toppled piles of wand boxes, a broken window and a dozen tried and failed wands later, Harry was beginning to doubt his wizard status. When the old wizard had returned with yet another pair of wands, they were startled by a very loud boom that shook the shop and rattled the cabinets, toppling even more boxes.

"Fabrius! How many times must I tell you, twist the heartstring clockwise and then bathe it!" he screamed while climbing a ladder leading to the upper floors. Harry was relieved to know he had not been the cause of this last disaster, and briefly glanced at Hagrid before deciding to try yet another one. Mr Ollivander would have to replace one of his chairs, lost to magical fire when he flicked the dark mahogany wand.

"Mr Ollivander, I'm so sorry, I owe you a new chair, sir..."

"No harm done, Mr Potter, this is how it goes," he said, and then apologized for his apprentice's blunder upstairs, "Fabrius is still a novice apprentice, barely thirty one years of study under me."

Harry wondered how old exactly this wizard could be, when a sudden twinkle crossed Mr Ollivander's eyes. He walked back to the shadows of his wand-box-filled-cabinets and returned carefully carrying a single box.

"Could it be?" he wondered out loud, "Please try this one, Mr Potter."

Having already ruined the shop, Harry made a small swish avoiding any chairs, windows and people. The golden shower of sparks the wand tip expelled surprised him but seemed to confirm Mr Ollivander's earlier question.

"Yes, holly, eleven inches, a supple wand with a single phoenix feather at its core. One very impressive wizard was chosen by a wand whose core is the only other donated feather from that same phoenix. This wizard's name, was Lord Voldemort."

"What?" Harry needed to sit but the chair had gone up in smoke earlier, "I don't want anything that links me to my parent's murderer!"

"Oh, he did terrible things I tell you Mr Potter, but wonderful too," he expressed, "we can expect great things from you as well..."

"No, you must be wrong, the--"

"The wand chooses the wizard, and the wizard chooses the magic. Think about it, Mr Potter," Mr Ollivander said. He then summed up seven Galleons and fifteen Sickles for adding a wand care kit containing a polishing chamois and the appropriate holly sap extract. Harry had, albeit reluctantly, embraced the feeling of his wand and wished to care for it correctly after all.

Mr Ollivander bowed as they left and Harry pulled some hair forward to cover his forehead, he had enough of the constant embarrassing recognition and wished to return to his uncles' house to tackle yet another problem, how to convince them to sign the Hogwarts letter.

They exited The Leaky Cauldron and mounted the motorcycle again, Harry noticed some details like the faded Triumph brand and a space in front where a mascot figurine probably stood at one time. The leather seats were peeling as was some of the paint from the sidecar itself, and he wondered how the engine itself could run with all that rust. He picked the pink helmet and sighed, securing it over his head and telling Hagrid he was ready.

Twenty minutes later as he knocked on the replaced door of number four Privet Drive, Harry began to scratch his legs and lower back again. He was twitching a little when aunt Petunia, or Dorothea as he would enjoy calling her, opened the door.

"You!" she screamed, and closed the door on his face.

"Allow me, Harry," his friend Hagrid said, waving his frilly umbrella and knocking the door to the floor again.

They didn't find aunt Petunia nor uncle Vernon, but rather a very busy Dudley. Busy chewing on two chocolate bars, one in each thick hand, as he walked downstairs. He screamed and ran to the kitchen bumping into his father who, judging by the bandages on his face, had suffered an intervention to remove the doorknob.

"I've got a gun!" came uncle Vernon's hysterical voice, who was brandishing a long shotgun, "Try something, freak, and I'll shoot!"

Hagrid sighed and moved his umbrella again, and Harry watched fascinated as the shotgun knotted itself around. "Harry's going to Hogwarts like his parents, he's a wizard no matter what yeh've told him--"

"Absolutely not! The boy's going to Stonewall and my Dudders will be attending Smeltings, a normal school for regular, honourable people!"

"Hogwarts is the best school of magic in the world! Headmaster Dumbledore himself asked me to come an' see that Harry received his letter!"

"I don't care for some freak Headmaster Doubledoor, whatever you--"

Harry knew his new friend Hagrid had a very frustrating day, he had been quite demanding of him and sometimes even rude to the giant man, and he understood he was only trying his best to do as instructed by the Hogwarts' Headmaster but also had deep feelings for him because he had been a good friend of his mum and dad, which complicated matters. It wasn't so unexpected then to see him lose his temper for the first time. Hagrid pointed his pink umbrella and a loud purple cracker flew from it, hitting Dudley who was finishing his candy while hiding behind the kitchen table. He squealed and ran around holding his bottom, from where a very curled pink tail hung.

"An' that's fer turning yer own child into a pig, Dursley! Don't tempt me or I'll turn yeh into a walrus... Well even more of a walrus than yeh already are!"

"We only need my aunt Petunia Dorothea to sign my Hogwarts letter," Harry said, emphasising her name. His aunt gasped at her middle name and quietly muttered something about how could the freak know. "Because of my parents you're not required to pay anything, but since you're my legal guardians and I live here, and I hope you won't send me to an orphanage like you've threatened me so many times..." Harry heard Hagrid gasp and feared his aunt would sprout a horse tail, "Besides, it's a boarding school so you'll only get to see me in the summer!"

"You mean this freak school of m--" he couldn't say the word, "School of m-m--" uncle Vernon tried again, "School of you-know-what is already paid for? And he'll be away for nine months of the year?" Hagrid grunted and nodded, so his uncle simply stated "I'll sign it!" before hunching over the parchment form.

"Vernon, no!" aunt Petunia Dorothea shouted, "He'll be back doing ma-- Doing weird things like turning all my cups into rats!"

"Harry yeh can't turn cups into rats. Not yet anyway, 'cause yeh're under-age an' yeh can't do magic out o' Hogwarts 'til yeh're seventeen," he explained.

"What!?" Harry yelled, "But, but--"

"I'm sorry Harry, I'd think yeh'd now that..." Hagrid apologized.

"Ah, the irony," uncle Vernon gloated, "did you hear that boy? That means no funny business for you!" he then moaned in pain and gingerly touched his bandaged jaw.

Harry also moaned and looked at the wand in his pocket, it was so close, yet so faraway. He said goodbye to Hagrid and walked to his new bedroom, scratching his arms and wondering how many chores he would have to perform until September the first.


Notes:

(out of chronological order)
1.- Sounds can trigger buried memories related to them, as can smells, tastes and images because they reactivate the pathways in the brain leading to those relationships within our memory centre.
2.- "XIV:XXIII g.u.t.k. - XIV:XXXIV g.u.k.t."; 14:23 and 14:34 in Roman numerals; "g.u.t.k." is Goblin Universal Time-Keeper, upon which the Greenwich Mean Time was established for time keeping purposes by a neurotic wizard named Willem von Orloge whose greatest ambition was to dominate Muggles by controlling time. I'd say he has partly succeeded.
3.- "Working for free" like Hermione mentioned in the bank is as terrible for a goblin as being thrown in Azkaban for life, or maybe worse!
4.- I understand it's more widely accepted that Hagrid arrived by thestral to look for Harry in the hut by the sea, but since Harry followed a different path regarding the Hogwarts letters, he arrived on a classic Triumph T120 motorcycle fitted with a Watsonian sidecar.
5.- The Potter vault at Gringotts and its security process is made up, I've completely forgotten the canon version of Harry's first visit to the goblin bank, and I don't have the books with me. Also I apologise if it's too convenient for Harry to be able to draw all the Galleons he can, I hope it's believable enough.
6.- "Paper cannot wrap up a fire" is a Chinese proverb.