Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter

Chapter 3: A Trip to the Alley

The owl flew on and on, crossing rivers, going over mountains, plains and trees with the same equal ease. His path was unvaried, no matter the obstacle; he flew unhurried over mountains with the same ease he did while flying over plains. Other than this, there was nothing to mark it as strange or out of the ordinary other than the fact that this owl was carrying something: a letter to be precise, one addressed to a Mr. H Potter.

The owl himself wasn't totally aware of the importance of the letter he carried; though he knew something was up. The lady who sent these letters had been too anxious, had dithered over too many owls before picking himself to deliver this particular letter. She had even told him to be careful, as if he would be anything but careful when doing his duty.

Ahead he could see a vast body of water, which he somehow knew, though he never seen it before, was the ocean. As he came closer, he could tell, in the way all letter delivering owls could, that the person to whom the letter belonged was somewhere out in the ocean. For a moment, the owl hesitated, balking at the fact that he would have to fly an unknown distance over the ocean, where he would have no way to rest if his wings faltered. Then he remembered his duty, and pressed onwards. However, as he passed over the last stand of trees before the ocean, he decided that if he was going to risk the flight over the ocean, he'd better rest a bit first.

Later, the owl decided that the idea to rest had probably been one of his best ideas throughout his years of letter delivering. Not only had the flight been considerably longer than he had expected, but, judging by the menacing black thundercloud, the going was about to get very rough. For a moment, the owl faltered; he could still turn back... Shaking his head to remove the traitorous thought, the owl swept on. The letter delivering owls had, since the wizards had selected them for duty, delivered letters without fail, no matter the conditions. He wasn't about to tarnish that reputation.

So, on he went into the very teeth of the growing storm. A couple of minutes later, through the pouring sheets of rain and against the bright light of the lightning bolts, the owl noticed the dark form of an island. He turned a little and made his way towards the island, eyes wide for any sign of the person he was delivering to. Seconds later, he was rewarded with the orange-reddish light of a fire. In the time honored way of owls everywhere, he folded his wings and dove towards the flickering light. Mere moments before he would have hit the relentless waves, he straightened out and shot for the light, waiting for just the perfect moment to release his burden.

Harry Potter had gotten up just a few minutes ago and was trying to decide whether it was worth the trouble of going out into the storm to grab some crabs for his breakfast when the letter arrived. He was standing near the entrance, staring into the rather unappetizing mess of moss, when something white and small shot into the cave and right at him. Instinctively, he ducked and was 

rewarded with a small wind as it shot overhead. After eyeing the cave entrance for a moment, to see if it was going to shoot anything else at him, he turned around to get a better look at the object.

It was a letter; a letter addressed to him! For a moment, Harry stood in shock; who would write to him? Who even knew he existed? Then curiosity overwhelmed shock, and he stumbled forward, one trembling hand going to pick up the letter. Once it was in his grasp he brought it up, tightening his grip so that his still trembling hand wouldn't drop it back on the floor. Then, just to be certain that this wasn't some sort of mistake, he read the address on the back again.

Mr. H. Potter

The Cave on the North Side

Storm Island

Harry stumbled back a little, and sat down, still holding the letter in one hand. It wasn't a mistake after all; someone really had written to him; someone did know he existed. Another wave of curiosity swept through him and he flipped the letter over and opened it. In the letter were a couple pieces of paper as well as some sort of key. Harry reached in and grabbed the closest piece. On the paper, written in the same spidery handwriting as the address, he read:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc Chr. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

Dear Mr. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on 1 September.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress

Harry read it over again, half thinking it was some kind of huge joke, but the facts were there. Who would go to all the trouble of writing a letter to him, let alone delivering it in this weather, all just to play a prank on him? Which left only one logical option: it was real. Harry felt like a balloon was being blown up in him; he wasn't a freak after all; he was a wizard. Suddenly, the balloon popped; he may not be a freak in the sense that Uncle had told him, but he still was a monster. Did he dare to step out of his safe place, here on the island? For a moment, he dithered; stay here, where it was safe, or try and make a better life for himself? Then he realized that this was what he had been waiting for, without even knowing; the chance to leave this island, even for a short while, with a purpose. Besides, if he didn't go, 

he would never be able stop wondering what would have happened had he gone. So, it was settled in his mind; Harry Potter, monster and former freak, was going to Hogwarts.

Tom the Barman (even he had long since forgotten his last name) was washing glasses while he waited for customers or perhaps a Hogwarts bound Muggle-born (he did love showing them the alley). It wasn't a particularly hard job, being made easier by years of practice. But it was time consuming and he needed to pay close attention to the job so the glasses would be entirely clean; it wouldn't do for someone to get sick.

For that reason, he didn't glance up immediately when the door leading to the Muggle world opened and somebody came through. In fact, he didn't know somebody was in the room until a polite cough drew his attention away from the glass he was cleaning. Shoving the minor annoyance at being interrupted into the back of his mind, he looked up and put a friendly smile on his face. Or rather looked down; his customer was, without a doubt, one of the shortest children he had ever met. The boy, besides his size, was somewhat unremarkable, dressed in clothing that, while somewhat shabby and considerably too big for him, was at least very well cared for. As for physical features, a mop of unruly black hair that made Tom want to reach for a comb, and almost startlingly green eyes behind a pair of hideous glasses was all that truly stood out about him.

Inwardly, Tom smiled; judging by the way the boy seemed comfortable in the muggle clothing (a sure sign that he wasn't of wizarding stock) he was Muggle-born and Tom would get to do the honors of welcoming him into the wizarding world. "Where are your parents?" he questioned, looking around.

For a moment, a simmer of grief showed in those eyes. "Oops" thought Tom, wincing inwardly. The boy, glancing down towards his shoes, "They, um," he stammered, "They're dead."

To cover the awkward moment, Tom changed the subject. "I image you want into the alley then?"

The boy glanced back up at Tom, "yes, please".

"Follow me then" said Tom, getting out from behind the bar and heading for the door leading to the alley. After tapping the bricks in the required order, slowly enough that the boy could see and remember the pattern, Tom turned around, just in time to see awe spread across the boy's face. Despite himself, Tom smiled; he did so like introducing Muggle-borns to the Wizarding world; it was one of the reasons he enjoyed working here.

Coughing a little to cover his amusement, Tom told the boy to first stop by Gringotts, where he could get money, which was followed by a brief discussion on wizard money. Then, a small bell went off and Tom hurried the boy through. Once through, the boy turned around, presumably to say thank you, but even if he had been audible over the roar of the bricks reforming the wall, Tom likely wouldn't have heard him anyways. He was too busy staring at the boy's forehead, where, when he turned around, his bangs had been swept to the side, revealing the lightning bolt shaped scar that made him one of the Wizarding World's most famous people still alive: Harry Potter, The Boy who Lived!



Tom just stood there and gaped for a couple of minutes, thinking absently that if, by some chance, a muggle had seen him, he would look rather silly standing here staring open-mouthed at a blank wall. Then something nagged at the back of his mind, and he remembered. Close to two weeks ago, Albus Dumbledore had dropped by, and told Tom to notify himself immediately if Harry Potter came through the Leaky Cauldron. Tom turned, and bolted into the Cauldron, shot like a bullet across the room, and grabbed some Floo power from the bowl on the mantel piece. He threw it into the fire, yelling "Hogwarts" as he did so.

Goblins were usually very hard to intimidate or scare. For this reason, Griphook found himself unsure exactly why he wanted to cringe before the small, fragile looking boy currently standing before his desk. It certainly had nothing to do with his physical appearance; the boy looked as if a strong wind could carry him away with no trouble at all. He didn't even seem to give off any sense of danger, but nevertheless, Griphook's instincts were all saying to get away from the boy as fast as possible. And after nearly fifty years of working topside, Griphook had learned to trust his instincts.

Unfortunately, Griphook couldn't follow his first impulse of getting up and running away; like it or not, the boy was a customer, and in Gringotts, you got in very hot water if the customer wasn't served quickly. So, Griphook gulped, and in his best please-the-customer voice said "May I help you, Sir?"

The boy looked up "Eer, yes, do you have a vault that matches this key, please?" he reached up and put a key on the desk (Griphook did his best not to flinch). Griphook picked the key and exclaimed it for a moment. He had recognized it the moment the boy put it on the desk, but it never hurt to be careful (and it gave him an excuse to think for a moment.) Fact one: this was the key to the Potter vault, which meant that the boy could only be Harry Potter, the only survivor of that line. Fact two: the fact the boy was famous did nothing to explain why his nerves were screaming at him. Fact three: Since it had nothing to do with fame, the boy probably had some sort of dark secret, and judging by his instincts, Griphook probably didn't want to know what that secret was.

So, Griphook decided, it probably would be best to do nothing out of the ordinarily and hope this didn't come back to bite him later. "Yes, we have a vault that this key goes to. Keephold!" Keephold, one of his better subordinates, strode over from where he had been standing against the wall. He bowed, and save for a sudden stiffness, showed all most no reaction to the boy as he led him out of the room. As he watched them go, Griphook found he was quite thankful that he wasn't a cart goblin anymore.



Harry Potter sat down on the other side of the cart from his goblin guide, and tried not to start when the cart suddenly began moving without a single movement from the goblin. They shot down the track, turning every couple seconds or so it seemed to Harry (he lost count after about thirty seconds). Harry, whose eyes were being to sting a little from the speed, wondered how the cart worked; Keephold didn't seem to be driving. Down and down they went, (once, Harry thought he saw a burst of fire), passing a huge underground lake, cave openings, and occasionally, other carts. They came into a door lined passage, and Harry gaped as the largest man he had ever seen came out of an open vault stuffing something small and wrapped into his coat. As they passed, Harry twisted in his seat to keep the giant in view and was rewarded with the number on the vault: seven hundred and thirteen. Then they turned a corner, and the giant was gone. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, they came to a stop, next to a small door in the wall.

Keephold jumped out of the cart, and, after requesting the key from Harry, opened the door. As it swung open, Harry felt as if his heart had skipped a beat; beyond that simple wooden door, lay a pile of treasure right out of those pirate movies Dudley had liked so much. Gold and silver coins were stacked in vast heaps, and everywhere he looked, were vast qualities of smaller bronze coins. Moving forward, Harry pulled a small bag out of his pocket (he had made it himself, with a particularly tough batch of moss) and began to fill it with coins. A few minutes later, he blinked in the sudden light as he came out of the first set of doors. After adjusting, he walked over and leaned against a pillar. Still holding on to the moneybag, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. After a bit of rummaging he found the list:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY

Uniform First-year students will require

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)

2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

Set Books

All students should have a copy of each of the following

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch



One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

Other Equipment





1 wand

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

Harry looked up from the list and glanced around. After a moment, a sign caught his eye. Well, not actually a sign, just some peeling letters over the wall; at any rate, the letters read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. In the window of the shop, Harry saw, as he moved closer, was a stick that he assumed was a wand on a faded looking purple cushion.

When he opened the door and stepped into the shop, a small bell above the door rang and Harry looked around, suddenly nervous. Inside the shop, it was like he had stepped into another world entirely; a world that had no part of the busy, crowded, noisy alley outside. In here, silence ruled. However, under the silence and the dust, Harry could feel a strange sense of power; it seemed to be coming from the many narrow boxes stacked on each shelve. Suddenly, from right behind himself, a voice spoke "I did wonder when I would be seeing you, Mr. Potter."

Harry jumped and tried to turn, at the same time, with the predictable effect of nearly losing his balance. Once he had regained his balance, he completed his turn to find that an old man had come, seemingly out of nowhere, to stand behind him. Harry stared for a long moment, (those silvery eyes were quite creepy), before managing to gasp out "How did you know my name?"

The man smiled, which made Harry feel a little better, and said "You are almost the perfect image of your father, Mr. Potter, except for your eyes; you have your mother's eyes."

Feeling a little self-conscious, Harry whispered "My mother?"



The man's smile only widened, and he continued, "Yes, Mr. Potter, I remember them both quite well. Your mother came here first; her wand was willow, ten and a quarter inches, very suitable for Charms. Your father on the other hand, preferred transfiguration and as such, got a mahogany wand; Eleven inches, a little more powerful, and, of course, very suitable for transfiguration. Unfortunately," here the man's smile disappeared and he pointed at the lighting scar on Harry's forehead, "I also sold the wand that did that; most powerful wand, that one: Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. If I had known what that wand was going to do, I might not have made it, let alone let it go into the world. Sadly, there is no way to turn the past around; on the other hand, it's no use thinking about what-might-beens; I believe you want your own wand now, Mr. Potter?" Not quite trusting himself to speak, Harry nodded.

"Very good, then; tell me, which is your wand-hand?" Harry blinked and thought for a moment; "Err, I'm right-handed, sir." The man's smile reappeared, and he said, "No need to call me sir, Mr. Potter; now, try this one: Beachwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible." Harry took the wand and suddenly realized that he didn't have the slightest idea of what to do with it. Mr. Ollivander (at least, Harry assumed it was him) seemed to sense Harry's confusion, because he snapped, "Well; give it a wave." Feeling quite silly, Harry complied, only to have the wand snatched out of his hand before he had even completed the movement. Next instant, however, Mr. Ollivander placed another one in his hand. Harry waved it, and Mr. Ollivander grabbed it again. This pattern went on and on for what seemed like hours, before Mr. Ollivander disappeared into one of the back rows, only to reappear with an another wand cradled in his hand. Harry took the wand, wishing he knew what Mr. Ollivander was looking for; then he felt it: warmth shot through his hand from the wand. He gave the wand a quick, side to side wave. Instantly, the shop seemed to darken a little, and a not-quite solid sense of menace filled the air. Mr. Ollivander clapped, but his smile suddenly seemed false, and Harry heard him mutter under his breath something about how curious it was. "Err, what's so curious, sir?"

Mr. Ollivander turned, and gave him a curious stare. "Mr. Potter, I remember every wand I sell, and it just so happens that the phoenix that gave the feather currently residing in your wand gave just one other; I find it very curious indeed that you should destined for this wand, when its brother gave your scar."

"My scar? But I got it in a …." Mr. Ollivander interrupted before he could get any further "As curious as I find it, Mr. Potter, I think this means that we can expect great things from you. After all, He Who Must Not Be Named did great things; terrible, yes, but great just the same." Harry felt like he was bursting with questions, but, judging by the grave look on Mr. Ollivander's face, now wasn't the time. So, he paid for his wand (seven Galleons) and left the wand shop. Once out, he studied the list again and decided, since he could see some sort of clothing store, that he would get his robes next.

The Leaky Cauldron was empty (not a common occurrence during the daytime). However, that changed when the fire turned green, and Albus Dumbledore, followed by his Heads of Houses, stepped through. Tom's attempt to warn him had been hopelessly delayed by a series of unfortunate events. First, when Tom first arrived at Hogwarts, Albus had been at the Ministry of Magic, sorting out a paperwork problem (Professor Spout really needed to start washing her hands before signing any 

papers), and hadn't gotten back for fifteen minutes after Tom arrived. Next, it had taken Albus nearly five minutes to calm down the excited barkeeper, who had been nearly bouncing off the walls of his office. Finally, it took another five minutes to gather his Heads, and get a detailed description out of the barkeeper. And now they were here, almost twenty-five minutes later than Albus had hoped for.

He strode out of the bar and into Diagon Alley, planning as he went. First, they would stop at Gringotts; it might take awhile for Harry to get money out of the goblins. If he wasn't there, they would break up and search the alley, shop by shop. However, several minutes later, Albus began to think going to Gringotts was a waste of time. For some reason, the senior manger goblin was acting very oddly. When they had first asked, the manger had started, and for a moment, Albus saw something that he had only seen once before on a goblin: Stark terror.

After that, the investigation took on the feel of a Muggle root canal with no pain killer. The goblin refused to answer any of their questions, and finally gave them the boot. After that, Albus and Snape visited Ollivander's. There, Ollivander greeted them with the news that Harry Potter had been and gone, and that, as Dumbledore had thought it might, the brother wand of Voldemort's wand had chosen him. Shortly afterwards, they met up with the rest of the group, who had the same amount of success: zero. However, there was one more place to check: Flourish and Blotts. So, organizing themselves behind Albus again, they shot off towards the bookstore.

Harry Potter stepped out of the bookstore, shifting his load of clothing, wrapped books and equipment so that they didn't dig into his body. He never had been on a shopping trip before, but he believed that, for a first-timer, he had done rather well. When he had entered the robe shop, the proprietor, a tall and haughty looking elderly witch, had taken one look at his frayed clothing and stalked into the back room, muttering something about riffraff; Harry might have been insulted, but he had been called far worse, and her assumption did have some truth to it.

Shortly afterwards, the woman had come back with a bundle of clothing. Based on the woman's impression of him, Harry wasn't surprised to see that the clothing was quite well used, and probably too big for him, if the way they easily stretched around his purchases was any clue. The stop by the apothecary had gone much better; the owner was much friendlier, and hadn't even blinked an eye at Harry's ragged condition. The owner, once he had seen that Harry didn't know the difference between a cauldron and a cook pot, had even pointed what Harry should get; a plain pewter cauldron, a stirring rod with a leather handle, and a few glass vials.

Harry's stops at the few animal stores, however, were completely fruitless. The moment he had stepped into the owl shop, which had been filled with soft hooting, and the ruffling of feathers, the shop instantly froze as if Harry was some sort of owl-eating monster. For all he knew about his other form, he 

could be. Looking around, he had realized that, in the couple of seconds he had been in the owlery, he was the focus of every single eye in the room (except the human ones). Needless to say, the experience was most unnerving. The other shops had similar reactions. The cats, being predators themselves, acted much like the owls; they had gone stiff and silent, and watched his every movement like they might do for another, bigger predator. The rats on the other hand, had huddled in the corners of their cages, and started squealing when he got too close. The toads, oddly enough, showed no reaction beyond a few croaks, but Harry, not liking the slimy look of their skin, refused to get one. So, he had journeyed on, petless.

The bookstore had been mostly uneventful; except when he had nearly crashed into another boy. Once they had both recovered from the near crash, the boy (about his own age, taller, of course, and possessing strangely colored hair, a sort of silvery blond) examined him from head to toe, sneered, and walked off saying something about Mudbloods, whatever those were. So, here he was, standing on the steps with all his shopping done.

Now, he had nothing to but wait and read all his school books in preparation for this school, and hope that he could keep his secret safe. He was about to descend the steps and find a dark alley when someone to his right yelled, "There he is!"

Harry's head shot up just in time to see the man who had shouted lift his arm and point; directly at him! Harry shot down the steps and took off running. Fortunately for him, the crowd both was loose enough for him to get through and seemed to not have paid any attention to the man's shouting. Ahead of him, he could see an alley; if he could get in there, it might be dark enough for him to escape. It was three shops ahead of him… two shops… one shop…. He was in the side ally, and he could escape. He threw himself into the waiting shadows, and was gone.

bold writing is taken directly from the Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone c.1996 by J.K. Rowling