A/N: Well, I'm not so sure what I think of this chapter, but it had to be done. I tried to change things around, even if it didn't work. Longer than I expected; I don't know how it got to be nigh-on 7500 words, but there we are.

Chapter IV
A Whole New World

In the days that followed, Rapunzel was able to return to Mr. Lowe's house. If it weren't for the Dursleys' complete intolerance for her during the month of August (likely having come from holding her captive for seven weeks) she'd have still been stuck there doing everything under the Sun.

The adults were sick of the sight of her. After all, they were old-fashioned in certain values and rather set in their ways, and she defied what they otherwise might have perceived as 'normal' had she been born as a product of her parents' marriage.

Her parents had married, of course, though not until a year after her birth. They were still attending 'that freak school,' as the Dursleys called it, when she was conceived, and in their minds it was enough to consider her filthy, repulsive and completely worthless (or, at least, they seemed to treat her as though she were all three, and worse.)

Dudley himself was rather put-out when his mother released his cousin at eight o'clock every morning. He didn't know where she went and, as much as he and his friends would have loved to chase and taunt her, they couldn't find her anywhere, within their own travel boundaries; not that boundaries ever meant much to Dudley or his Bully Brigade to start with.

"Out!" Aunt Petunia seethed, pushing her niece through the front door. "Back by eight." With that, the door slammed and Rapunzel heard the lock click.

Once more, she was locked out. She had no chores, which she should have been glad of, but she was locked out. Every day since her initial release she had been thrown out in the morning and let back in at night. She was like a cat living its days back-to-front.

She had been in a rather low mood ever since her first day imprisoned in the cupboard, but the more she saw Mr. Lowe, the better she felt. He made her feel wanted; appreciated. In his presence, it was like she was a person rather than an object to be taken for granted.

As she took her route to Wisteria Walk, she began to think about Hogwarts. What was it really like? She'd read the books (or at least extracts Mr. Lowe had pointed out to her) but she was excited to see how it really looked. Until the First of September, however, she could only dream.

As she made her way down the street lined with outwardly-appearing Dursley-esque homes, she surveyed the people who were already getting ready to start their days.

A little old lady on the end bringing her milk in, an older gent pottering about in his garden; a youngish man in a business suit rather miserably washing his car.

He looked rather disappointed, as he glanced out at the rest of the street, his eyes meeting hers. They exchanged smiles, neither one particularly bright.

"Good morning, sir," Rapunzel said, politely, not quite so willing to mention the impracticality of performing such a task when he appeared as though he should remain presentable for work.

"'Morning, little one. Nice day, isn't it?" Small talk mightn't have appealed to either of them, but given the seemingly-ordinary looking day it wasn't so unpleasant.

Rapunzel nodded her agreement and turned left towards Number Seven.

Reaching a hand out to knock, she called to the man opposite. "Excuse me, sir, do you think he might be up?" She wouldn't like to disturb him. In truth, she'd be surprised if he wasn't sick of the sight of her like the Dursleys were.

"Oh, I think you'll be fine," he smiled, before groaning at the fresh splat of excrement that had fallen from the sky and landed right on his nice clean car.

Rapunzel shot him an apologetic look before turning back to knock on Mr. Lowe's door.

She wasn't to be waiting long, as, not ten seconds later, the door opened.

"Hi, sweetheart," he smiled. "Do come in." Standing aside, he permitted her entry.

"Thank you, Mr. Lowe. How are you?" she smiled in return.

"Well, nothing much has changed in the last thirteen hours," he said. "You're looking better everyday, though. See; there's life in the old girl yet," he teased.

Rapunzel bowed her head, rather embarrassed at the compliment. "What will I be reading today?"

"Reading? Well, you could read if you want to," he began, "or we could go to Diagon Alley and purchase your school supplies. You'll be at Hogwarts in less than a month. Just think of that."

"How?" she asked, a somewhat perplexed expression on her face.

"'How' what?"

"I haven't any money."

"Ah!" he exclaimed, striding over to the sideboard, before spinning around dramatically, wielding the key he'd spoken of a few days earlier as though it were some sort of enchanted sword. "Lest ye forget, Child of Ye Olde Tower, I have here a weapon that doth decide your fate. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it is a key — the Key of Destiny!" This seemed to illicit a somewhat joyful response from the child before him. "Do you remember me telling you I have the key to your bank vault?"

Now that he mentioned it, she did, as she nodded slowly.

"Well, what do you want to do? You could stay here and read or you could go on an adventure?"

"Reading is always an adventure," she said.

"That's very true, my dear, but a mental adventure or a physical one?"

Rapunzel was rather unsure if she agreed to his offer. "Do you mind—?"

"'Mind?' Why should I mind? I've been meaning to go there anyway. I know — you're probably thinking I've got some sort of hidden agenda," he joked.

"I wasn't thinking that," she replied, honestly.

"Well, then that was a fairly inaccurate assumption and it never does to assume, for it makes an 'ass' of 'u' and 'me.' Shall we?" he offered, pointing her in the general direction of the fireplace.

He had told her about different forms of transportation, the fireplace (or Floo Network, as it was called) being one of the them.

"Do you remember what to do?" he asked, removing a pot of what looked rather like ash from his mantelpiece, and offering it to her.

"I think so," she said, though there was no disguising the dread in her voice. If it went wrong, she didn't know what she'd do.

"Just speak loud and clear and you should be fine," he smiled, as she reached for a handful of dust. "I'll follow you through, honey. Don't worry."

With a shaky breath, she stood rigid, desperate to succeed. Knowing her luck she'd end up in a little hut in Jamaica. Still, at least it would be warm. "Diagonally!" she shouted, dropping the contents of her hand in panic, as green flames enveloped her and she disappeared from view.

"'Diagonally?'" Alan repeated, now cradling his head in his free hand. "Should have practiced with her, you dolt," he admonished himself, before sighing, taking a handful of floo powder himself and stepping into the fireplace. In a weary voice, he enunciated "Knockturn Alley."

Rapunzel wasn't usually one for screaming, but somehow the unknown was more frightening to her than anything the Dursleys could physically do.

Where she was heading, she didn't know, but it felt as though she were being sucked into a black hole. Something told her she'd have been better off leaning into Mr. Lowe's squishy couch instead; at least it would be a comfortable death.

She didn't have too long to ponder her fate, however, as she landed harshly on a dark floor in a dimly-lit room. So she was back at the Dursleys' then?

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lowe," she sighed, tentatively getting up, expecting to hit her head on the low ceiling, though no impact came.

In fact, as she moved around cautiously she realised it was infinitely-more spacious than the cupboard at the Dursleys'. It wasn't nearly as bare either, she noted, as she squinted in the darkness, just about able to see shapes protruding from the walls. She could really use a pair of glasses right now, or a torch or something.

Keeping close to the walls, she stretched an arm out, hoping she might somehow be able to guide herself in the darkness.

It didn't feel like the most pleasant place to be, wherever she was. The walls were cold; the cabinets damp and sticky with who-knows-what that dribbled down from the top shelves, perhaps from leaky jars.

Soon, she came to a (rather short-lived) gap. Following that gap, she felt her hand brush something soft. A cushion? Then a piece of paper or parchment; a note? As low as she could get without touching it, she read: "The Hand of Glory."

To its left was a bony, gnarled, severed hand and she jumped back in fright, straight into a cabinet, accidentally knocking off its contents which smashed the ground releasing a never-ending stream of unpleasant smells and different coloured smoke.

"Oi!" sounded a voice, or rather screeched in such a manner that Rapunzel might almost have thought Aunt Petunia had found her way there.

Before she could even contemplate getting to her feet, an old man appeared before her. She could barely see him, though she knew he was not to be trifled with. "What are you doing in here?" he demanded. "Answer me!"

"I—" she could scarcely talk, as he hauled her to her feet, his hands almost around her throat.

"This is not a playground. Little girls should be seen and not heard… and, for the love of Merlin, never seen. Get out!" With that, he pulled her towards the door and all but threw her to the cobbled ground outside. "And stay out!"

There was no time to even consider what just happened; Rapunzel just heard the door slam so hard that the bell above fell to the ground with a morose 'jingle.'

"It was an accident," she said, quietly. Sighing, she got to her feet, dusted herself off and turned to walk to where the sunlight was, stopping to nurse a sprained ankle from her fall. "I'm sorry, sir."

She knew he couldn't hear her and would have shown little willingness to listen anyway, but to apologise made her feel a bit better within herself.

As she hobbled along the cobbles she was stopped in her tracks by an angry shriek. Slowly turning around, she found the source — a giant spider, which looked infinitely-stronger than the cage it resided in.

Rapunzel sank backwards towards the wall. Compared to what she'd been used to at Privet Drive this thing was a monster.

"Come," it said, in a hungry tone. "Don't bite."

She tried her best to strafe along the wall, as far away from the beast as possible. She didn't like this one bit.

"Y-Y-You t-t-t-talk," she stammered, green eyes wide with fright.

"Talk," it repeated. "Want to play."

Rapunzel didn't really fancy playing with this thing. It couldn't be a giant puppy, kitten or rabbit that wanted to stop for a chat, could it? Of course it couldn't — she'd be a fool to think that in the magical world spiders could just be spiders and content to live their own lives without wanting to gobble children up like some sort of evil old hag from a fairytale.

"Spiders shouldn't talk." She wanted so desperately to tear her eyes away from the arachnid, but she was so struck with the fear of what it might do if she glanced away only for a second.

As though it sensed her distress, the eight-legged, eight-eyed monster rattled its cage and screeched once more.

"Please leave me alone." By this point, she was close to tears.

"Not lost are you, my dear?"

Rapunzel didn't like that voice either. Any attention that had been focused on the spider was now focused on a crooked-nosed old woman with a stereotypical wart on her face. (At least those who weren't quite so blessed with magic got one thing right — the appearance of witches.)

"Come with us. We'll 'elp you find your way back."

She was surrounded by others of a similar ilk to the woman and Rapunzel now backed, unwittingly, into the direction of the spider, stopping dead when she heard the snapping of fangs. "Please go," she begged, somewhat tearfully.

"Ow!"

That solitary exclamation of pain brought forth a chorus, as the old woman's crowd began to dissipate, paving the way for a visitor.

With a loud CRUNCH, she spun around to find the spider's cage in a heap on the ground.

"Now I eat."

Completely cornered, she prayed that perhaps the hag might be merciful and wring her neck. She'd just as soon not get mauled to death by a giant spider on her first time in the Wizarding World. She could see her own headstone now:

Here Lies Rapunzel
1978-1989
Gone and Thankfully Forgotten

"Arania Exumai!" cried a voice over the dissipating crowd and the hungry spider flew, squealing, out of the alley before Rapunzel could even blink.

A man strode forward as though nothing had happened, forcing the old woman out of the way; holding aloft a black cane adorned with a silver serpent head. He looked as though he wasn't one to be messed with either, with his head held high and a somewhat haughty expression on his face. With his long blond hair tied low in a ponytail he looked like a gentleman from the Georgian Era. With a sneer in her general direction (likely at her state of upset — or, perhaps, her attire) he strode forward without a second glance and she looked out on to the street instead.

"Mr. Lowe!" she exclaimed, almost running to meet the man now returning his wand to his pocket, completely forgetting about her ankle and taking a tumble, grazing her knee on the stone steps.

"Diagonally?" he said, kindly, though he was somewhat shaken from the experience himself.

"I'm sorry," she wept.

"It's alright," he smiled, leaning to help her off the floor and pulling her into his arms. "You had to turn up somewhere, didn't you? Just so happened to be Knockturn Alley. Try not to do that again, honey. Are you okay?"

"I hurt my ankle… and nearly got eaten by a giant spider."

He almost laughed. "So I saw. I've always hated spiders." Gently pushing her away from him, he tried to get her into as comfortable a position as possible despite the sensation of concrete. "Come on. Let's have a look at that ankle."

The journey through Gringotts had been both enlightening and nauseating.

Run by goblins, Rapunzel found the bank, its history and, indeed, its security techniques rather fascinating. In her wildest dreams she'd never have imagined that dragons might be used as security, though until quite recently dragons had only existed in her dreams anyway.

Her own vault hadn't been guarded by dragons, but she supposed they likely protected artefacts of more value than gold, or that only the most wealthy or noble of witches and wizards used them for protection.

The trip down to her vault had been fraught with a tidal wave of nausea for both herself and Mr. Lowe, and had ceased only momentarily until they returned to ground level.

What she was expecting from the vault she didn't know but it certainly wasn't what she'd seen. She felt like the richest girl in the world and wondered if the Dursleys had known about this fortune, though she hoped they were at least getting paid for having her under their roof. She was enough of a burden as it was; it was only fair they were rewarded, if not for their behaviour toward her, but for not throwing her into an orphanage or out onto the streets.

A few handfuls of gold, silver and bronze coins had migrated into a small bag Mr. Lowe had given her. Just before leaving, her eyes fell on an old chest. It looked rather like a pirate's treasure trove, though, contrary to what the novels suggested, 'X' didn't mark the spot. She didn't look, but she supposed she might one day find out what was in there.

"Where would you like to go first?" Mr. Lowe asked.

Rapunzel didn't mind where she went, for she was so awe-struck at her surroundings she could scarcely ponder just choosing one location. "I don't know," she whispered, as she surveyed Diagon Alley, mesmerised by the sights and sounds that surrounded her.

"Well," Mr. Lowe suggested, "how about Madam Malkin's for your school robes first? She'll have to measure you, so while they're being made we can shop elsewhere."

Nodding her agreement, the pair entered a shop decorated in shades of pink and purple, a large pair of scissors in action above the bay window, inside which were advertised dress robes and attire non-magical persons would consider day-wear for the upper-class elite.

"Mr. Lowe, is there another name for people who don't have the gift of magic?"

"Alan," he corrected. "No, we don't call them 'Alan,' Rapunzel. There are two types of humans without magic. Squibs, who are born to magical parents, and muggles who are as ordinary as anyone in Little Whinging… except perhaps Mrs. Figg," he added as an aside.

"Mrs. Figg?" the girl questioned, looking curiously at him.

"Yes, Mrs. Figg is a squib. I don't like that term, 'squib.' I don't really like 'muggle' either. People tend to use those words more as insults rather than what such people actually are. I didn't like it in the seventies and I still don't like it now."

"Hogwarts, dear?" a kindly voice called, looking to Rapunzel. A short witch in mauve robes beckoned her over to a stool, next to a boy with dark hair and grey eyes. "Up you get, dear," she encouraged, offering her a helping hand onto the stool, before summoning her tape measure, which proceeded to cuddle Rapunzel in a few rather strange places. She'd never before considered that such an object could caress a person.

"Hello," the boy smiled, turning to her. "Are you starting Hogwarts this year as well?"

"Yes," Rapunzel replied, looking down. There was a playful spark in his eyes that made her blush.

"I'm Cedric."

"Well… it's nice to meet you, Cedric." She didn't really know where to put her face; anywhere except at him, most likely. "I'm Rapunzel."

"Rapunzel?" There was something in his voice hinting towards familiarity at hearing her name, though a woman who might be assumed to be his mother gave him a soft, warning look. "That's a nice name." If he was going to say anything previously, he wasn't now.

"Thank you," the girl replied, quietly, head still bowed.

"Do you know much about Hogwarts? Do you know what House you might like to be in?"

Although Rapunzel wasn't feeling very talkative, she could appreciate the boy trying to make friends, something she'd never had before. The only person she would call friend as of yet would be Mr. Lowe himself.

"I've read a bit," she admitted. "I don't mind where I go."

"A wise answer if I do say so myself, Rapunzel," Mr. Lowe grinned.

In that moment, Rapunzel realised. She'd never asked him which House he had gone to. She really liked him. Funny and kind, he always made her feel good about herself.

"Where were you sorted, Mr. Lowe?"

Head hitting the wall behind him in mock-exasperation, he laughed. "How many times, Rapunzel? It's Alan. My name is Alan. Please use it. I was sorted into Hufflepuff… and a lot of fun that was… sneaking off to the kitchens for a midnight feast. If you ever wonder why Hufflepuffs are so happy it's because we've spent the best part of our education gorging on biscuits, cake and chocolate after curfew."

"Did you do it too, Mum?" the boy, now known to Rapunzel as Cedric, asked, as the woman did her best, albeit unsuccessfully, to hide her embarrassment by hanging her own head.

"Regrettably, darling, yes."

Mr. Lowe turned to the source of the voice. "Judy Turner." There was a definite hint of amusement in his voice. "'Regrettably,' she says. You didn't seem to regret it much at the time."

Pitifully, the woman looked up to her right, only to bow her head once more. "Hello, Alan," she sighed. "You don't always consider the consequences at fifteen."

She said it so quietly it was a wonder anyone heard it, but they did, as Mr. Lowe burst into laughter.

"This woman had such a sweet tooth I'm surprised she has any left now," he joked.

"What makes you think I have?" she challenged, rather pathetically.

"You did at least look after them."

As the bell above the door jingled, more merrily than the one in Knockturn Alley, a jovial-looking pudgy man entered.

"Ced!" he exclaimed, proudly. "Hi, love," he smiled at his wife, who stood up to embrace him.

"Amos," Mr. Lowe said, rather slowly, in a playful tone.

Turning to the voice, Amos spoke. "Oh, hello, Alan. New robes?" It was evident that Amos was rather oblivious to the tone of his old friend's voice.

"Not for me, Amos, no," he replied, as he indicated the unfortunate-looking girl still being measured on the stool.

"Oh, and who might you be?" Amos queried.

"Amos," his wife (Judy, was it?) whispered warningly.

"I'm Rapunzel, sir. Rapunzel Potter."

The man's eyes went wide, though neither his son's nor his wife's did. Cedric had taken the look his mother gave him previously as a message to not make the girl anymore uncomfortable than she already appeared to be. "Really?" he asked. "Well, you'd best do well in your studies, Ced. Can't have you being beaten by a girl now, can we, no matter how famous she is?"

Rapunzel never saw the look of subtle anger cross Alan's face, as she looked at the floor. It were as though any hope she'd had of making a friend her own age was dashed; as though she simply wasn't good enough for this man's son. With such words, any desire she had to make the best of herself at Hogwarts diminished. Right now, she'd just as soon spend the rest of her life in the cupboard than disappoint this boy's father by earning a magical education.

And fame? What fame? She wasn't famous. She was just an 'insignificant little bastard of no importance.' She was really starting to think all the things the Dursleys reiterated so frequently to her face about her was the truth.

"Amos," Judy warned again.

"You're done, dear," the proprietor said once more, as Cedric hopped off the stool. "They'll be ready shortly. Will you wait or—?"

"We've a little shopping to do first, Madam Malkin," Judy said. "We'll be back around two."

"Oh, that's fine," she replied. "I'll see you then."

"I'll see you at Hogwarts then?" Cedric said, smiling back at Rapunzel, as he and his parents made to leave.

She wasn't paying too much attention anymore, lost in her thoughts. "Goodbye," she whispered, distantly, barely hearing the door close.

Alan looked at her, shaking his head. "There's no excuse for that. Don't listen to him, sweetheart. Perhaps a bit of healthy competition for his son might deflate his head a bit."

"He's right. I'm not good enough."

"You? Not good enough? I wouldn't be so sure about that, Punzie. He never used to be like that, you know. People change, I suppose." There was an almost-undetectable hint of disgust in his tone, as though he were angry that a friend could say such a thing to a child.

"Maybe I should just go home," the child sighed.

"No you aren't," he said. "Without control magic can be incredibly dangerous, to both yourself and other people. It'll be different when you get to Hogwarts." He sighed. "Don't let the words of another diminish your sense of self. It doesn't matter what Amos Diggory thinks. If he's worried about his son getting beaten in any way by you, just because you're female, well that's his problem, Punzie; not yours. Don't transmogrify yourself into a lesser human being just to boost someone else's ego. Be the best you can be for you."

"You're done," Madam Malkin, exclaimed, almost triumphantly. "Will you be returning?"

"Naturally," Alan said, as he offered Rapunzel a hand to get off the stool. "Thank you very much." As Rapunzel stepped towards the wall, he discretely handed a slip of parchment to the seamstress. "Could we have some of these as well, please?" he asked, so only she could hear.

"Certainly." She didn't look at the list until her customers were out of the door.

A short while later and Rapunzel now had a generous amount of goods to see her through the year.

They had gone to Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment, where she had bought a dual-purpose telescope, operating as both reflecting and refracting, and also came with an assortment of different filters. She had been informed by the owner that it could see not only infinitely-farther than the standard brass telescopes so many students bought, but was also able to show what was otherwise usually hidden in plain sight and even offered views to astronomical objects obscured by the Sun and other planets or what might only normally be seen in the Southern Hemisphere.

The filters themselves, as she was told, came in a wide range for observation and clarity. One could observe the skies even during the day as long as you weren't daft enough to look at the Sun. Some could observe the outer planets, or distant supernovae; even detect black holes. The proprietor was a little skeptical of the black hole filter, considering it to be some bright spark somewhere trying to be clever. "It'll never catch on," he had said.

Astronomy wasn't something usually touched on in primary school, but she knew a few of the basics and had always wanted to learn more. Now was the perfect opportunity.

She had also bought a lunascope to study moon phases, though as fascinated as she was by both the globe of the moon and the orrery (which was the centrepiece of the shop) she could hardly buy those, unless she had a rucksack fit for a giant.

She had also purchased her brass scales and phials for her Potions classes there and, if she were quite honest, she was surprised she had any money left over by the time she left the shop.

She had purchased her Size 2 Pewter cauldron, as her list dictated, and had also bought a basic potion making kit from the apothecary, containing, among other things, a mortar and pestle, cutting knife, burner and stand for her cauldron and stirring rod.

Despite the comment she had received from Mr. Diggory earlier, with Alan's support she was starting to feel a little more confident again and was now looking forward to her first Potions class. Even if it seemed a little disgusting, she was used to getting her hands dirty.

Alan led her to Flourish and Blotts to purchase her books and almost lost her between the shelves. She might have sworn she heard him scream in panic, for fear she'd been swallowed whole. One thing Rapunzel had to learn was that everything was alive in this world. Whether it was animate or inanimate, she'd be lucky if she got away with life.

She had struggled to find the books on her list, not only for the fact she couldn't see too well, but there wasn't much organisation.

"Someone really needs to sort this place out," Alan said, in a rather exasperated manner. "How can a person possibly find anything?" And that was the moment he feared he lost his young charge.

They had left that particular shop with Alan in something of a daze, and he had to sit down before he fell down. Flopping to the floor, Rapunzel kneeled beside him.

"Are you alright, Alan?"

"I'd be more comfortable if everything wasn't trying to kill you." At this, she laughed; the sweetest laugh he'd ever heard, for it meant she was truly happy. "Spiders, bookcases, Merlin-knows-what…"

She sat on the pavement beside him, leaning against the cool metal railing behind her. "Thank you for casting that charm on my books, Alan," she smiled, flipping through the first book she could grab hold of. "The bigger font really helps."

Wearily, he turned his head towards her. "Why don't you wear glasses, Rapunzel?"

"I don't need them," she replied, perhaps too quickly, as she instantly fell silent. Alan didn't say much either, merely calmed himself down and stood up again, gently pulling her with him. "Have you considered getting a pet?"

"Erm," she hesitated. "Well, my Aunt and Uncle don't really like animals. I think I'll be fine on my own."

"A wand it is then," he said, permitting her entry into Ollivander's Wand Shop.

There was no one at the front desk and Alan took it upon himself to sit by the window, folding his arms.

Rapunzel might have thought he was planning to have a snooze, though a loud thud brought her attention to a man on a ladder just behind the counter.

"I wondered when I'd be seeing you, Miss Potter," the man said, silvery eyes glistening. "I see you've brought a friend. Alan Lowe, isn't it?"

"Hmm?" Shooting up as if trying to prove he wasn't falling asleep, Alan stood to attention. "Yes, sir. That's correct, sir." Bringing himself back from his daydreams, he relaxed.

"Were you in the RAF, Alan?" Rapunzel asked, curiously.

"Funnily enough, no," he replied, with a chuckle.

"Yes, I remember you," the man Rapunzel could only assume to be Ollivander himself said. "Fourteen inches, wasn't it? Pear wood; unicorn tail hair. Rather pliable."

Somewhat surprised that he could still remember, even twenty-odd years later, Alan's eyes went quite wide. "I believe that's correct. Immaculate memory you have, Mr. Ollivander."

"Yes, pear," Ollivander mused, somewhat distantly. "Never known pear to choose a dark wizard."

"Haven't you? You've clearly yet to see me tumble from a fireplace. Fine dark wizard I make, sir."

Rapunzel giggled, trying to imagine Alan covered head to toe in soot.

Ollivander turned his attention back to the dark-haired girl in front of the counter. "Yes, Miss Potter. I sold your parents their wands as well. Seems like only yesterday they were both in here themselves. Mahogany and willow, if memory serves. Left or right-handed?"

"Left," she said, sounding quite unsure. As far as she was aware the only things that were generally left-handed in terms of tools were scissors.

"Let's see…" Examining the contents of his shelves, not all of them stacked quite so neatly, he cautiously retrieved a dusty box. Opening it, he handed the delicate tool to the girl, handle-first. "Perhaps you might like to try this."

Taking it in her hand, rather tentatively, she gave it a slow wave, jumping back in fright when the entire contents of one shelf flew out in all directions, prompting her to all but throw the wand on the counter.

"Apparently not," Ollvander said, digging through the boxes now strewn all over the floor. "Ah, perhaps this?" Again, he offered the wand.

This wand was just as damaging, if not more so, than its predecessor, as a spark of energy flew at a vase just behind the desk, completely shattering it and prompting both herself and Alan to duck. Suddenly the flowers previously contained in it looked remarkably sad lying on the floor.

"I'm sorry about your flowers, sir."

"No!" the wand maker declared with little hesitation. "No! Definitely not! No matter," he said, bending down to pick up the mournful tulips.

"Reparo," Alan muttered, as the glass reformed itself to its former glory.

"Thank you," Ollivander said, returning the tulips to the vase, and filing it with a brief jet of water from the tip of his own wand.

"I'm rather fond of tulips myself," Alan admitted, before bringing himself from his reverie. "May I make a suggestion, sir?"

"By all means, Alan," the proprietor offered, as he scrutinised the shelves that were still in one piece.

"Well, Rapunzel has cast a spell with my own wand before. Jets of ribbons flying through the air in my own office. Perhaps one similar to my own might favour her?" he suggested.

Alan's suggestion went unnoticed as Ollivander's eyes glazed over with distraction. He hadn't heard a word Alan had said. "I wonder."

With a third wand in her hand, Rapunzel felt a warmth wash over her; similar to the warmth Alan's own had provided her, though her memory of this was somewhat vague.

Gold and silver sparks burst forth from the tip of the wand lighting the shop with the same fireworks Alan's wand had done eight weeks previously.

"Curious," Ollivander exclaimed, mesmerised. "Very curious. I remember every wand I've ever sold, Miss Potter," he said, looking deep into her eyes as he said it. It was hardly a threatening look, though it did make her feel uncomfortable all the same. "It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather, just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when it's brother…" his eyes left hers and slowly fell on a gap in her fringe; a gap hosting a red gash she had had as long as she could remember. "Why, it's brother gave you that scar."

Alan was beginning to get uncomfortable. He had yet to tell her about her true heritage. He would much rather have never said anything, but it had to come out eventually. It wouldn't be pretty, but it was far better for her to know the truth than to live with ignorant lies.

"I'm sorry, sir, I think you're mistaken," Rapunzel said. "I got this scar in a car accident years ago. My Dad drove it off a cliff when he was drunk. I know about it, but I don't remember anything about it."

Dejectedly, Alan leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Don't believe everything you hear. I'll tell you later," he added, in a sad tone.

Rapunzel felt herself turn as cold as the conversation, and, with the knowledge (however disturbing it was) that the wand had, indeed, chosen her, Ollivander rang up her purchase.

Alan and Rapunzel left the shop in an awkward silence, her wand (along with her numerous other supplies) shrunk down and currently in his pocket.

Heading back towards the robe shop, he noticed Scrivenshaft's — a stationery shop. Perhaps the only things on the list she hadn't yet bought.

"This'll cheer you up, Punzie. I know you enjoy writing."

In all honesty, Rapunzel had a field day in there. She was fascinated by the different kinds and colours of ink and wondered if she could get away with buying a couple of each colour to put towards writing her stories (or, primarily, making a work of art out of a drop-cap.)

"I'll get you a couple of brushes for drop-caps," Alan told her, as though he'd read her mind.

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" she asked, slightly unnerved.

"Intuition, Punzie," he replied with a goofy grin, as he stuck his tongue out. "I wouldn't go using drop-caps on any of your essays though. I don't think your teachers would appreciate it."

That was a little disappointing to Rapunzel. They could have made her essays look so interesting, but it was hardly practical for serious subjects. Still, she could do so for her stories and even articles if she fancied. She'd often pondered a great deal on life in general and could now see herself writing articles, even if only for fun.

The quills were an even bigger kettle of fish. There were so many lovely varieties, though she had to go for practicality. Jobberknoll feather quills, she thought, were both pretty and practical, so she bought a couple of those, along with two ostrich feather quills for writing her stories.

Parchment was questionable. One-foot? Two-foot? Three? Five? The parchment had numerous lengths she might have gone for, but that wasn't the only problem. Just how much would she need?

"Alan, can you help me please?"

"Ah, parchment," he said. "I know what you're thinking and I have absolutely no idea." He looked down at her with complete honesty. "Hmm… I wouldn't go for five-foot; at least not until you get to your fifth or sixth year. Stick to one and two for now, Punzie."

"How many rolls?"

"Beats me. Twenty of each maybe; I don't know. It's been donkeys' years since I was a student, and I can't remember from teaching." He hadn't intended to say that, if the expression on his face was anything to go by.

"Teaching? You taught at Hogwarts?" Rapunzel was excited.

"Yes, I did," he replied, reluctantly. "I taught Muggle Studies. I always wished they'd changed the name to 'Non-Magical' but you can't have everything."

"So when did you transfer to St. Grogory's?"

He hadn't been anticipating such a conversation and wasn't overly-keen on talking about it. "Eight years ago." His voice was somewhat distant and Rapunzel got the impression he was hiding something, though didn't say anymore on the matter, as she allowed Alan to pile up her arms with reams upon reams of rolled up parchment and staggered to the counter to purchase.

They returned to Madam Malkin's to pick up her new school robes and Rapunzel got the surprise of her life when she was handed three additional day robes in cornflower blue, peppermint green and violet, along with an embroidered black fleece cloak, hooded and lined with fur.

"Why?" she asked the man beside her.

"Felt like it," he grinned, in a cat-like manner.

"You didn't have to do this. I feel so guilty, Alan."

"Who else am I gonna spend my money on? I live alone and I have an owl."

They began to have a silent argument, staring each other down. Five minutes they stood there before a victorious Alan paid for the three sets of robes and cloak, while Rapunzel paid only for her school ones.

Robes shrunk, the pair went off to the final location; a location Alan wished he'd thought of sooner. He might have saved himself an unnecessary amount of wandwork if he had, as he enlarged the contents of his pockets and organised it in her new trunk, charmed so that only she would have access to it.

"Are you ready?" he asked, having now shrunk the trunk and put it into his pocket.

"Ready for what?" Rapunzel wasn't really sure about this, considering the trouble she had with the Floo Network earlier in the day.

"Apparition. Just hold on tight and you get to keep all your limbs. You might feel a bit sick."

With precious little time to comprehend her imminent fate, she felt herself being whisked away and, no sooner had they left Diagon Alley that she felt herself landing with a hard thud in Alan's back garden. Doubled over, she fought the uncontrollable urge to throw up. She lost her fight.

"I'm sorry," she said, not for the first time that day.

"Don't worry," he laughed, holding her hair from her face. "I'd be surprised if you weren't sick on your first try."

Leading her into his home, he enlarged the trunk previously situated in his pocket.

"Alan," she started, tentatively, somewhat fearful that she was asking too much of the man, "could you—? I mean, could I leave my things here with you please? Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon don't know."

Attempting to hide behind her long, wild hair, Alan lifted her chin up. "Of course I will. You should probably tell them though. I don't think they'd appreciate it if you didn't."

Rapunzel sighed. This was what she had been dreading all day. Despite the good and bad she'd experienced throughout the course of the day, there had been that nagging feeling; the inevitability that she'd have to tell her relatives. She wouldn't allow Alan to intervene; she'd already asked a lot of him and he had more than gone out of his way to appease her. No, she'd do it herself and take the consequences. "Yes, sir," she said, quietly.

"'Sir,' is it? Why so formal all of a sudden?" There was a smile in his voice.

"Thank you, Alan." With that, she did something he wasn't quite expecting — she initiated a cuddle.

"Oh, you're welcome," he replied, returning the affection. "Would you like something to eat? Tell you what, let's have a pizza. We'll celebrate."

To Alan it appeared as though the child who had just left him had never been happier; even more content than she had been all those weeks earlier when he first introduced her to the world of magic.

Watching her skip down the street without a care in the world lightened his heart, as he smiled over at Ben who had just returned from walking his dog, and retreated to his house.

Seating himself at his kitchen table he surveyed the letter before him, head in hands.

"This is what you get, you idiot," he admonished himself, as he looked over the bold, capitalised red font. "Well, you'll never work in a school again, will you? 'Course you won't."

For a few moments he sat in silence, pondering his fate, before his eyes fell on the fireplace and then to the newspaper on the coffee table.

No, he couldn't ask that. That would be both selfish and unfair.

Approaching the coffee table, he seized the paper opening it to the Job section.

WANTED
 Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor
 Contact: Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland

There was no description, but after the countless times the Daily Prophet had printed that advert over the last few decades he supposed everyone knew what the job entailed.

Would it hurt if he took it? It had been posted there every day since June; unchanging. Clearly, people had given it little consideration, otherwise they'd already done the job before and hadn't had much luck, having failed to exceed a year teaching the subject.

That said, Defence Against the Dark Arts hadn't been his favourite subject as a student, though he wasn't especially terrible at it. The dark magic side of things had put him off long ago and he didn't enjoy using jinxes or hexes, but that wasn't to say they were simply offensive spells. If he considered the spell he'd used on that spider earlier in the day, such magic could even save someone's life.

With an irate sigh, he abandoned the paper and made his way to the fireplace.

Floo powder in one hand, he stepped under the mantel and into the grate. "Albus Dumbledore's Office."