Hello and welcome to chapter seven of The Memento, where a great deal shall be revealed and Harry has at least one hilariously literal one-liner!

I wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who favourited or followed this story, and to MintMousse, In the Darkest of Nights, Trougue, Gime'SS, Darkstar-ranger, Iesh, Mask of Melpomene, and Cat Beats for all your kind reviews! You guys are awesome! :D

Also, since I anticipate this throwing some people for a loop when they get to it - in this story Ollivander doesn't stain any of his creations. That's all I'll say for now. :)

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, nor do I own approximately 1/3 of Ollivander's dialogue - because let's face it, he wouldn't be Ollivander without that initial wand speech.

~Chapter Seven: The Wand Chooses~

When Harry stole out of the house that morning he had three goals set for the day: get to London, find the alley, and buy his supplies. The minutiae of actual shopping had evaded him until he stepped out of Gringotts and was faced with scores of stores battling for his attention. He froze on the top step, unsure where to go first. The contents of his supply list jumbled together in his head. He needed books, and clothes, and... and... His eyes skated up and down the street.

Finding Diagon Alley was only the first step, it seemed. Finding everything he needed inside the alley would be a quest wholly unto itself.

Beside him, Neville looked far more concerned with keeping his breakfast down than the daunting task of finding his school supplies. Though he was less green now that his feet were back on solid ground, he continued to clutch his stomach as though it were trying to jump free of his body and scamper away.

A moment later Harry discovered why Neville could afford to be so calm.

"Robes are first on your list," Mrs Longbottom said, taking the situation firmly in hand. "Come along, it's already well past midday."

Neville hobbled after his grandmother as she swept down the stairs. They paused at the bottom, just before vanishing into the crowd of witches and wizards passing in front of the bank, and looked up at Harry.

"You're free to join us if you wish," Mrs Longbottom said, her voice carrying over the clamour of the alley. Neville nodded, a hopeful light chasing the remnants of discomfort from his face.

Happiness burgeoned in Harry's chest. He could hardly believe his luck as he bounded down the stairs to join them. By all rights the Longbottoms should have abandoned him. He was imposing on their trip after all, and as Mrs Longbottom had pointed out, the day would soon give way to evening. They didn't have time to worry about him, yet they were. From the genuine smile shining on Neville's face, Harry could almost believe they were happy to have him along. As though he wasn't a nuisance.

It was bizarre, but he didn't want to question it and risk shattering the illusion, so he kept his doubts quiet.

Mrs Longbottom led them to a shop with Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions written in cursive on a sign above the door. The mannikins in the window were striking casual poses, one in a plain black robe and the other in a muted green. For a moment Harry thought the one in black winked at him as he entered the shop, but quickly decided it was nothing but a trick of the light.

Madam Malkin's was packed with racks of robes, shelves of soft-looking boots, and ledges lined with pointed hats. Everything was organized by colour. While blacks took up most of the floorspace, the edges of the shop were lined with robes in every hue of the rainbow. The shoes and hats were as colourful as the robes, though he noted with a little relief that none of the latter came equipped with taxidermy animals. The only colour that didn't exist anywhere in the store was pure white. Harry took a moment to ponder this as a squat witch dressed all in mauve popped out from behind a rack to the right of the door.

"Hogwarts?" she asked, looking Harry and Neville over.

"Yes," replied Mrs Longbottom. "And I'm in need of a new summer shawl. My last one got caught in a little potions mishap."

As Mrs Longbottom vanished off to their left to look at shawls, the mauve witch led Harry and Neville to the back of the store where several footstools stood in a row. It looked like they were the only two there.

"Up you get if you please, young sirs," the witch said. She pulled out a stick of wood resembling Mrs Longbottom's and gave it a flick. Two tape measures soared across the room and began to dance around them, calling out numbers in squeaky voices.

Harry had a sudden realization that what he'd mistaken for a piece of wood was probably a wand, and he felt very silly for not figuring it out earlier.

"So, that's three sets of inner and outer robes each," the witch said to herself as she pulled out oversized black robes. "One hat. A pair of gloves, and a cloak."

"I already have a good pair of gloves," Neville said.

"Good, good," said the witch. There were sewing mannequins set in front of the stools, and she draped a robe over each. To Harry's delight the robes began to shrink and taper all on their own. For once, it seemed, he wouldn't be going to school in clothes four times too big.

"Do you sell clothes other than robes?" Harry asked the witch as she bustled about fetching their hats. He didn't want to admit it out loud, but he could use pants that hadn't once belonged to Dudley. If the rest of his clothes were going to fit, he'd like his undergarments to as well. "Jeans? Or jumpers?"

"Muggle clothing?" she asked.

"Um," he caught Neville's eye, bewildered.

"Muggles are what we call non-magic folk," Neville explained.

Harry mouthed the word, testing it out. Muggles. He liked it. It sounded stifling, like his relatives.

"Yes," he said to the witch. "Muggle clothing."

She flicked her wand again and a brochure soared over to him accompanied by a feather quill pen. "Put a tick next to the items you wish to buy," she instructed. "It will use the same measurements as your robes."

While Harry had fun choosing clothes for the first time in his life, Neville gave him a crash course on the wizarding world. Harry absorbed it ravenously; from the names and weights of the coins in his pouch, to a sport called Quidditch that was played on flying broomsticks.

In turn, Harry told Neville a heavily edited version of life with the Dursleys, and about attending primary school.

"You've already been to a school?" Neville looked stunned.

"You haven't?" asked Harry, equally stunned.

"No. I don't know anyone from a pureblood family who went somewhere before Hogwarts. We have tutors though," he added at the end.

That was another thing Neville told Harry about: bloodlines. Apparently, Neville was from one of those old families, much like the Potters.

"Am I a pureblood?" Harry asked. He had finally found the section of the brochure dealing with undergarments and was trying to decide between trunks and briefs. Dudley had always worn briefs, so he decided to be contrary and go with the trunks.

Neville scrunched up his face in thought. "No, I don't think so. If you have a muggle aunt then your mother must have been muggleborn. That would make you half-blood at least."

"Oh," said Harry, unable to hide his disappointment.

"Don't worry," Neville said, trying to cheer him up. "There are plenty of half-blood witches and wizards and no one thinks any worse of them. Or, at least decent people don't."

Harry hoped most of the people he met were decent.

He managed to convince the witch, who he learned was none other than Mme Malkin herself, to let him wear some of his new muggle clothing out of the store. So, by the time they were leaving with all their purchases paid for and tucked away in charmed bags, Harry was wearing a pair of soft ankle boots, jeans, and a black t-shirt. None of which made him look like he was drowning in fabric.

He kept his kerchief on. Basil had confided to him that being around so many humans and owls made her nervous. As comfortable as she was with him, she had spent most of her life in the wild, where humans were as likely to kill her as let her go on her way. Out of respect for her, he kept her presence a secret, even though he was bursting to share all the strange and wonderful things he saw in passing.

"Now than I can see you properly, you're quite scrawny," Mrs. Longbottom remarked, looking him over critically. Harry shrugged. There was nothing he could do about his size

"And we'll need to do something about those eyeglasses," she continued. "I'd fix them myself but… well, charms were never my strong suit. And I expect you like your nose where it is."

Neville was far more cheerful now that he'd gotten over his initial shyness, and he almost talked Harry's ear off as they bought their stationary, telescopes, and cauldrons. They spent over half-an-hour in the apothecary — which reeked of bad eggs — where Neville rambled off the names and properties of nearly every plant in the store. Some of these Harry recognized from his aunt's garden, but most had strange, exotic names like Chinese Chomping Cabbage and Mimbulus Mimbletonia.

Harry didn't retain much of the impromptu lesson, but he made a mental note to partner with Neville in Herbology — the class the other boy was most looking forward to. From Neville's quick descriptions Harry thought he'd enjoy learning transfiguration, the art of turning one thing into another. He grinned whenever he imagined turning the Dursleys into fat, croaking toads.

Speaking of toads: "My uncle Algie gave me one as a present," Neville told him as they finally got down to locating their potions supplies. "I've named him Trevor. What about you? What kind of pet do you want?"

"I was thinking about a snake," Harry said. "But the letter doesn't list them."

Mrs Longbottom, who had been standing silently next to the check out as they shopped, snorted. "I should think not!" she said. "Serpents have been associated with Dark Magic for centuries now."

Harry abandoned his search for a vial of frog spawn and looked over at her. "Dark magic?" he asked, puzzled. "Is that magic you can only use at night?"

"Only use at— goodness child, where did you get that idea?" Mrs Longbottom asked. "It is the most foul force in this world! Dark Magic will corrupt your heart and soul until you are nothing but a shell of a human being. A creature without pity or remorse that is only capable of spreading fear, pain, and death!"

"So… the magic is bad?" He hadn't known there were different kinds of magic. Magic was a part of him, but it didn't control his thoughts and actions. Or at least he didn't think it did. What Mrs Longbottom described sounded frightening, like the magic was alive. Like it wanted to cause harm, and bent the people born with it into monsters.

It must be terrible, he thought, to be born with magic like that.

She gave him a sharp look. "Bad is an understatement! The most evil witches and wizards in history have all used Dark Magic to its fullest potential. Torture! Disfigurement! Murder!" Her expression softened. "To take another human life… such things cannot be countenanced!"

"But what if it's necessary?" he asked.

"Necessary!" Mrs Longbottom's face flushed and she got a steely glint in her eyes. "And when, pray tell, would you say it's necessary?"

Harry cringed. "It's nothing," he said.

His answer would have been enough for the Dursleys or his teachers, but Mrs Longbottom was neither and she wasn't willing to let it go. "No, young man," she said in a tone that left no space for argument. "I'm sure we'd all like to hear what sort of situation you believe requires the death of another!"

Harry wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. Beneath the kerchief Basil flexed her coils, as though she could sense his anxiety. "Well… what if someone's trying to kill you and the only way to stop them is to kill them first?"

She harrumphed. "Such acts are best left on the battlefield — which I pray you will never again witness. We have ways of dealing with such conflicts without the waste of life."

Again? He didn't think he'd ever seen a battlefield, not unless he counted the playground during lunch hour. "But what does all that have to do with snakes?" he asked, trying to change the subject.

"Parseltongue."

He didn't recognize the word. "Pardon?"

"The language of snakes," she said with a scowl. "The ability to speak it — known as parselmouth — is the mark of a Dark Wizard. You-Know-Who was one, and he wrought such evil upon our community that the aftershocks are still felt today. Historically, serpents are associated with evildoers and are used in the worst kinds of Dark Magic."

Harry felt as though his heart had lurched to a stop. He stumbled back, bouncing against the shelf of vials, which tinkled gaily. His knees wobbled and he would have fallen, but Neville grabbed his arm. Neville's face was pale and worried as he propped him upright, and Harry couldn't find the strength to pull away from the contact.

Parseltongue… The word repeated itself over and over inside his mind. The mark of a Dark Wizard… with magic that corrupts the soul. He bit the inside of his lip hard enough to taste blood.

Does this mean I'm an evil person? he wondered. He didn't feel evil — he wasn't even sure what evil would feel like. Mostly he felt sad, or scared, or angry, and yet… he remembered the thrill when he'd held Dudley immobile. How he'd wanted to hurt his cousin, to make him feel how he felt after each round of Harry Hunting. The magic had come easily to him then, and it had felt right.

Was it wrong to harm someone who'd harmed him? Part of Harry said yes, but the rest of him wasn't sure.

Mrs Longbottom looked pleased at his reaction. Certain of her victory, she turned her attention on the apothecary, who had been watching their exchange with a look of discomfort on her thin face. "Just ask this young lady, I'm sure she could name several pernicious potions that call for snake venom."

The girl jumped, clearly not happy about being drawn into the argument. Her eyes darted between Harry and Mrs Longbottom. "Um, well I— I've never studied such things!"

"As well you shouldn't!" Mrs Longbottom said, nodding her head in approval. The apothecary slumped in relief.

Harry's voice shook as he muttered, "I see." He swallowed hard then straightened and pulled away from Neville. "I didn't know snakes had such a bad reputation."

He turned to the shelf and grabbed the first vial of frog spawn he saw, then wove his way to the far side of the store and slipped behind a display table piled high with baskets of mandrake root, wormwood, and fragrant hellebore.

"You are scared," Basil said, raising her head to rub her nose against his cheek. "What did the Bird-Woman say to make you so scared?"

Harry looked down at her, his first real friend, and the tension in his chest ebbed, flowing away like the tide. He reached up and ran his knuckle tenderly along her jaw. Basil wasn't evil, so why should talking to her be?

"I'll tell you later," he whispered.

She rubbed against his hand and the tip of her tail flicked over his collarbone. "I do not like it when you are scared."

Harry smiled bitterly. "Neither do I."

"I'm sorry about Gran," Neville whispered once they'd purchased their first year potion supplies and were trailing behind Mrs Longbottom to their next destination. "She gets like that sometimes. It's kind of scary."

"She's done that to you as well?" Harry asked.

Neville clutched his shopping bag tight to his chest. "Yes," he admitted, his voice barely audible over the chatter of the crowd around them. "All the time." Then he looked up at Harry with wide eyes. "P-please don't hate me for it. You've been so nice to me, a-and I… I like you. You seem like a good person."

"I wouldn't hate you for something like that," Harry said. "Besides, I like you too. I… I don't have a lot of friends, and you've been really kind. Letting me tag along, and telling me things about this world. If not for you I'd still be wandering around muggle London right now."

Neville's smile lit his entire face, and Harry found himself returning it with a small smile of his own. They continued down the alley with a new spring in their steps, each thinking how nice it was to have found a kindred spirit at last.

With their newfound quiet camaraderie, Harry and Neville enjoyed the next hour of their afternoon.

They went to a shop called Occuvision, where a willowy wizard with a French accent told Harry his prescription had been wrong for years. This didn't surprise Harry. His aunt had chosen him a pair of cheap, generic reading glasses when a note came home from the school saying he was unable to see the board. But he only realized how bad they were when he put on a similar pair of round glasses and the world came into startling focus.

"You 'ave such pretty eyes," the wizard told him as he swapped out the glasses for a pair whose arms connected a little higher on the frame. "Their colour c'est magnifique. It 'tis a pity to cover them up."

Harry's aunt would no doubt disagree with the man. She couldn't stand anything unnatural, and unfortunately for Harry his eyes fell in that category. It wasn't the fact they were green — which was rare, but perfectly normal — but that they were bright green. His aunt called the colour harlequin, which made Harry feel like one of those clowns whose sole purpose in life was to terrorize small children at birthday parties. Regardless of the strange name, he wouldn't give up his eyes for anything. They might be useless for seeing, but they gave him a kind of distinction among his peers. While the children at school might have wonderful clothes, toys, and friends; none of them had eyes as brilliant as Harry's.

Fitted with a new pair of glasses, Harry felt more prepared when they entered Flourish and Blott's, a maze of a bookstore that was far bigger on the inside than the storefront suggested. It was two stories tall, and if Harry hadn't seen the brick and mortar archway above the door he would have sworn the store was built entirely of books. Thick tomes and skinny hardbacks lined every inch of the walls, bringing with them the pleasant scent of vanilla, almonds, and old leather. Excess volumes stood in teetering piles around the floor. They swayed gently as he walked past, as though they were a hair away from toppling over. They didn't, much to his relief. Some of those tomes looked heavy, and he wasn't sure he'd be able to dig himself out if they landed on his head.

Being able to read without squinting was a novelty to Harry, and he took full advantage of it. While Neville was begging his grandmother for a botany book not listed on their school supplies, Harry picked out a few extra volumes of his own. Curses and Counter-Curses sounded promising, as did Shellshocked: A Guide to Defensive Magic.

Dudley wouldn't stand a chance after today.

Laden down with new books, they stopped at Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour for an afternoon snack. The parlour was located in the restaurant district of the alley, where the street was wider to accommodate patios crammed with tables and their vibrant umbrellas. It was well past lunch hour, but the muggy heat ensured the tables were packed with witches and wizards enjoying ice cream cones or sundaes slathered in melted chocolate and caramel.

"Pick whichever you like, Neville," Mrs Longbottom said when they reached the front of the line. She reached into her red handbag and fished out a thin paisley coin pouch. She glanced down at Harry. "And you as well. Consider it a birthday treat."

Harry stared up at her dumbly before turning to Neville. "Is it your birthday?" he asked him.

Neville, who was leaning against the glass display looking at the different ice cream flavours, nodded. "Yeah, Gran promised she'd take me to get my school things today. I'll have a raspberry chocolate fudge, please," he added to the stocky man behind the counter.

"Two scoops, or three?" the man asked with a grin.

Neville sneaked a peek at his grandmother, but she merely raised her eyes to the ceiling and sighed. "Three!" he said, taking her silence as permission.

The man served up Neville's cone, but before handing it over he produced a thin metal stick and stuck it in the topmost scoop. He tapped it with his wand and the tip of the stick began emitting rainbow sparks. "Happy Birthday!" he said, handing the cone over. "You're just turning eleven then? Excited to start your first year at Hogwarts?"

"Yes, sir!"

The man smiled and turned to Harry. "And what about you, young sir? Have a birthday coming up as well?"

"Um…" The only thing Harry knew about his birthday was that it was some time between Dudley's and the end of the year. The Dursleys had never held a party for him, so he couldn't be sure of the exact date, but he liked to say it was on Halloween.

He had opened his mouth to tell the man as much, when Neville piped up. "It's tomorrow, right?"

Harry was struck dumb for the second time in as many minutes, and there was a strange niggling at the back of his mind, the same as when he had first accosted Neville and his grandmother. The feeling that told him they knew more about him than they were letting on. "How did you know?" he asked carefully.

Neville licked his ice cream, the rainbow sparks dancing about his head. "Gran told me," he replied.

Harry turned a questioning gaze on the witch, who grimaced. "Your mother and my daughter-in-law shared the same maternity ward at St. Mungo's. We had your family over to our estate several times before…" she paused, then shook her head. "Never mind. Those times are far behind us. There's no use dwelling on what could have been."

Harry let this new information sink in. He'd been born on July 31st, in the same hospital as Neville. They'd known each other — had playdates. Then his parents had died and cut short his chance at having at least one friend growing up.

There was no way for him to verify any of it, but it was nice to imagine his past hadn't always been the dark, dusty interior of a boot cupboard. At the very least it explained how the Longbottoms knew him.

"Well, young sir?" the ice cream man asked. "Have a preference?"

The people in line behind them were growing restless at the delay, so Harry pulled himself together and chose the first flavour he saw. "Um, a single scoop of salted liquorice, please."

The man gave him two scoops. Harry didn't want to protest and hold up the line yet again, so he accepted it with a small smile and followed Neville to a newly vacated table on the patio as Mrs Longbottom paid.

"Happy Birthday, by the way," he said to Neville. "I'm sorry I don't have a gift for you."

"That's okay," Neville replied. "After all, I don't have a gift for you either."

The ice cream didn't turn runny in the summer heat, so Harry was able to enjoy it at his leisure. He'd never eaten ice cream before. The Dursleys had never allowed it. And even though it left him feeling queasy, he thought it was something he'd like to try again. Though next time, he promised himself, he'd pick a different flavour.

"I suppose you'll need a wand," Mrs Longbottom said as he popped the tip of the cone in his mouth and wiped his fingers on a paper napkin.

"Yes," Harry replied. He wondered if Neville already had a wand. It seemed likely seeing how he'd grown up in a magical household, and Harry was struck by a sudden fear he'd show up to his first class and find he was years behind all his classmates.

Breathe, he told himself firmly. You've used magic plenty of times. This won't be any different.

There was, of course, the new matter of his magic corrupting his soul during the course of his education, but he pushed that fear to the back of his mind, refusing to dwell on it. Mrs Longbottom was wrong about snakes being evil, surely she could be wrong about this as well.

"Ollivanders, then." She pointed down the crowded street, towards where the gleaming white bulk of Gringotts lay basking in the sun. "He's the only real wand maker of note on the Isles."

For being a noted wand maker, the shop was narrow and shabby, with a dark facade and a single wand lying on a purple pillow in the front window. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. It looked like it had been that long since they last dusted, too.

A tinkling bell rang in the depths of the shop as they entered. The walls were crammed from floor to ceiling with thousands and thousands of thin boxes set in narrow cubbies. Filing cabinets, Harry thought as he looked around, must never have caught on in the wizarding world.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry nearly jumped out of his skin, and Neville squeaked in fright from where he was waiting with his grandmother by the door.

An old man drifted out from behind one of the towering stacks, his wide, pale eyes shimmering like moons in the gloom of the shop.

Harry was reminded of a moth. "Hello," he replied.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter. You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday that she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

"I have her eyes?" he asked. He'd never seen photos of his parents, and his relatives never spoke of them except to complain about how they were selfish and lazy to have saddled them with Harry without a single 'by your leave'. Harry didn't even know their names. On the rare occasions he thought of them at all they existed in his mind as indistinct, amorphous shadows.

Mr Ollivander drifted closer and peered at him. Harry wished the man would blink. His own eyes were starting to water in empathy.

"The shape," Mr Ollivander said, and then he frowned. "But her eyes were darker. Bottle green, while yours remind me of…"

But what Harry's eyes reminded the man of, he never found out.

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

Does this mean wands are alive as well? Harry wondered with some trepidation, but he nodded his head as though he'd known it all along.

This seemed to please Mr Ollivander, as he released Harry from his unblinking gaze, turning it onto Neville. "And Mr Longbottom. Here for a wand as well?"

"No," Mrs Longbottom said as she placed a hand on Neville's shoulder. "Neville will be using my son's wand. To honour his memory."

"He isn't dead," Neville murmured.

"Hmm." Mr Ollivander circled around Harry until he stood in front of Neville. "Frank Longbottom. Rowan and unicorn hair. Nine inches. Springy. Good for defensive magic. I must warn you that unicorn wands are very faithful to their first owners. You may find some difficulty in using it to its full potential."

Neville wilted under the wand-maker's scrutiny, but his grandmother didn't bat an eye. They met each other head on, iron clashing with moonlight. Harry felt a ripple of power pass through him, the whisper of veiled magic, and he shivered.

Mrs Longbottom must have won, because without another word on the subject Mr Ollivander turned away and was suddenly back at Harry's side, pulling a tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket.

"Which is your wand hand, Mr Potter?" he asked, the abrupt question catching Harry off guard.

"Er — well, I'm right handed," he replied before raising his arm for Mr Ollivander to measure. It was a repeat of the tailor shop, and Harry wasn't in the least bit surprised when the tape continued its work even after Mr Ollivander let it go. It zipped around him merrily, measuring the strangest places. It seemed especially eager to determine the distance between his nostrils, though what mystical significance that could have was beyond Harry.

Mr Ollivander flitted about the shop, pulling boxes from the stacks. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr Potter," he said. "We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand." He sent a pointed look Neville's way, which wasn't fair as Neville didn't have any say in the matter of his wand.

"That will do," he said to the tape measure, which crumpled on the floor in a heap.

And then it began.

Mr Ollivander would present Harry with a wand, and Harry would wave it around foolishly before it was snatched back and another given in its place. It felt like this continued for hours. The boxes of tried wands were piling up on Mr Ollivander's desk, and Harry felt himself giving up that he'd find a wand at all.

Mr Ollivander wasn't deterred. In fact, he seemed to grow more excited with each rejected wand. "Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere — I wonder now — yes, why not." And with that the old man vanished off somewhere deep in the stacks.

"Are wands even necessary?" Harry asked Neville during this short reprieve. "I mean, if we can do magic without them, then why bother?"

"Without a wand?" Neville looked uncertain. "Wandless magic's really advanced. You need to be a powerful witch or wizard to do that."

Harry wasn't convinced. He knew next to nothing about magic, but that hadn't stopped him from using it. "Haven't you ever made things float?" he asked. Then, thinking back to his first Hogwarts letter, "Or catch fire?"

Neville squirmed and avoided Harry's eyes. "I haven't… I'm not very…"

He was rescued by his grandmother, who cut off his faltering attempt at an explanation with one of her own. "What you're referring to is accidental magic," she said. "True wandless magic is fully under the control of the witch or wizard casting it."

"But I can control it!" Harry protested.

Mrs Longbottom crossed her arms and fixed him with a disapproving look. "Are you implying that you intentionally set something ablaze?" she asked. She didn't look happy, and Harry wisely snapped his mouth shut before he could say anything incriminating.

"I thought not," Mrs Longbottom said, taking his silence as denial.

Mr Ollivander chose that moment to reappear. He shuffled out of the back holding a very old box and looking rather dustier than when he'd gone in. "Try this," he said as he pried off the lid and pulled out a wand as pale as bone. "Unusual combination. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand and gasped as a surge of heat ran down his arm. It reached for the wand, sinking into the white wood, and something in the wand reached back. It embraced him as though he were an old friend and left his entire body feeling warm.

"Avello Vectoris," he whispered. The wand hummed in response and familiar neon streamers erupted from its tip to dance around the store. He flicked the wand and they dissipated.

"Oh, bravo!" Mr Ollivander clapped his hands together. "Yes, indeed, oh, very good. It's been years since I've seen such a good showing on a first wand!" He held out his hand and Harry reluctantly relinquished the wand, which was still sending pleasant waves of warmth up his arm.

Mr Ollivander moved to place it back in the box when his wispy brows furrowed in a frown. "What's this?" he murmured, rotating the wand around to peer down its length. Without so much as a word of warning, he grasped it by its tip and handle, and bent it.

"What are you doing?" Harry cried in horror as the wood strained between the man's spidery fingers. He'd only held the wand for a moment, but the thought of it snapping sent waves of panic racing through his body. The bulb of a lamp on the counter shattered with a bang, casting Mr Ollivander's face into shadow. The wand — his wand — seemed to respond. It wiggled in the wand maker's grip and spat angry red sparks from its tip.

Mr Ollivander blinked and his ghostly eyes found their way back to Harry. "Well, well, well… how curious…" he said, releasing the wand's tip and lowering it into its box. "How very curious…"

"You had best explain, Garrick!" Mrs Longbottom exclaimed, sounding as out of sorts as Harry felt. "Goodness knows you can't do that to a wizard's wand and then pass it off as nothing!"

"Hmm?" Mr Ollivander seemed lost in thought. "Oh, that was merely a rigidity test. I perform it on every wand I create. They may not enjoy it, but there's no real cause for concern."

Harry's skin was still itching with magic, but he forced it down by taking several calming breaths. "What was curious?" he asked from between clenched teeth.

Mr Ollivander fixed him with his pale stare. "Two things," he said. "Two most curious things. Tell me, do you remember your wand's characteristics?"

"Holly wood, phoenix core, nice and supple," Harry replied after a moment.

"Yes, they were," Mr Ollivander said, a strange glimmer in his eyes. "But the wand has changed."

"Changed? Can they do that?"

"Indeed, Mr Potter, though it is very rare. Wands have three characteristics, you see: wood, core, and rigidity. Two of these are immutable. A cherry wand cannot become ash, and a dragon heartstring will never be the hair of a unicorn. Rigidity however will, on rare occasions, change.

"In normal circumstances, if a wand's attributes do not align with a wizard it will reject him. Yet, on rare occasions the wood and core's yearning for a certain wizard's partnership will be so strong that they overpower an incompatible rigidity and mould it to fit their desired partner."

"And that's what happened with me?" Harry asked, looking at the holly wand resting innocently in its box.

Mr Ollivander nodded. "A wand's rigidity or flexibility marks certain of its wielder's personal characteristics. Their adaptability, their willingness to trust, and their resolve. Your wand used to be supple, but it is now quite rigid." He gave a faint smile. "Whatever obstacles life throws in your path, Mr Potter, I feel you will face them with an unyielding resolve to remain true to yourself and your ideals."

Harry ducked his head and tried not to blush. It felt like the wand-maker was praising him. "And the other curious thing?" he asked.

Mr Ollivander's face sobered. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather — just one other. Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. A powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… Well, it is curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother" — he leaned close and pressed one long white finger to Harry's forehead, pushing his fringe aside in the process — "why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry jerked away from Mr Ollivander's hand and brushed his fringe back into place. Behind him, Mrs Longbottom drew in a sharp breath.

"My scar is from the car crash that killed my parents," he said.

"What!" Mrs Longbottom yelped like a dog whose tail had been trodden upon. "A car crash? Who told you that load of tosh?" Then she went very quiet and Harry noticed that everyone was staring at him with that knowing look in their eyes.

"That's what my aunt and uncle told me…" he offered weakly.

"He doesn't know, Augusta?" Mr Ollivander asked, his moon-eyes wide in shock.

"I thought he did," she replied, looking flustered. "I was worried it would be a sensitive subject and never brought it up."

Harry twisted the hem of his new shirt in his hands. It sounded like they were about to consign him to death. "What should I know?" he asked.

"Well…" Mrs Longbottom hesitated. For a moment she looked torn, but then her mask slid back into place and she straightened her shoulders, steeling herself. "You have a right to know."

She pulled out her wand and flicked it several times. A shimmering veil dropped over the four of them and the sound of pedestrians on the street cut off. "Privacy wards," she explained as she tucked her wand away. "Now, listen carefully. Twenty years ago a Dark Wizard rose to power here in England. He built an army of followers, and killed all who opposed him. Your parents, and my son and daughter-in-law, fought against him.

"The war was brutal, and many witches and wizards lost their lives. It seemed like it would never end. But then, just when all hope seemed lost, a prophecy was made." Her eyes locked onto Harry's. "The prophecy's existence and contents were never made public. It spoke of a child born at the end of July to parents who had thrice defied You-Know-Who. The child would hold the power to vanquish him once and for all." She smiled grimly. "There were only two children born that year who fit all the criteria. You were one," she said, "Neville was the other."

Harry felt numb. He looked over at Neville and saw that the boy was trembling. "A prophecy is like a prediction, right?" he asked, groping for an analogy that would help him make sense of the situation. "Like when the weatherman on the telly forecasts if it will rain or not?"

"I don't know about this 'weatherman'," Mrs Longbottom said. "But yes. Prophecies are future events laid out by a Seer."

"Do they always come true?" he asked, thinking again of the weatherman, who was wrong as often as he was right.

"Prophecies," Mr Ollivander said, "are a tricky business. Many go unheard, making it impossible to determine their veracity. Others are self-fulfilling, and may only come into play through the actions of those about whom they have been made. But to answer your question, yes. Those that are activated will always come true, though not always in the way we expect."

His pale gaze turned to Mrs Longbottom. "I am curious how you came to learn so much of it."

"I know because something went wrong," she said, a bitter edge in her voice. "You-Know-Who learned of the prophecy and began hunting for the child destined to defeat him. The affected families were informed and went into hiding. You, Mr Potter, were only a year old at the time. The wards around your house should have been impenetrable, but He found you ten years ago on Samhain. He killed your parents, and then tried to kill you... but prophecies work in strange ways. Instead of dying, your house was torn apart in a magical explosion, and when the dust settled you were the only thing left alive.

"That scar" — she pointed at his forehead — "is a curse scar. Born of the touch of foul magics. No one else has ever survived the curse You-Know-Who used against you. It's just not heard of."

"So my parents... were killed?" Harry thought he should feel sad at this revelation, or at least more sad than when he'd thought they died in an accident, but the emotions wouldn't come.

"Your parents died fighting for what they believed in," Mrs Longbottom said. "You should be proud of them, and their sacrifice."

Harry tried, but he couldn't help wishing they hadn't fought quite so hard. That way they might still be alive, and he wouldn't have spent the last ten years with the Dursleys.

"Your survival has puzzled the wizarding world," Mr Ollivander said in his soft voice. "They claim you are the one who vanquished You-Know-Who. For it's true he vanished that night, at the peak of his power, and has not been seen or heard from since. If the prophecy has come to pass as Augusta believes, then they are correct."

"Did he… die?" Harry asked.

Mr Ollivander nodded solemnly. "He did."

A horrible, cold feeling settled in Harry's stomach like a ball of lead. A man had died because of him. He'd killed him. He wrapped his arms around his body, as though the meagre warmth they provided could melt the ice creeping under his skin.

I had to, he insisted. He killed my parents. He would have killed me. It was necessary!

He should have been happy — he'd saved himself and avenged his parents' deaths all at once. But the gnawing guilt wouldn't leave him, and he realized that he couldn't love what he'd never known, nor hate a man he'd never met.

In the end he was just Harry. Orphan. Wizard. Parselmouth…

He wet his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. "Does that mean I'm a murderer?"

Mrs Longbottom scoffed. "Murderer? No, Mr Potter, far from it. You're a war hero! From the West Country to the Highlands, witches and wizards toast your name."

"They know who I am?" he asked, feeling faint.

Mr Ollivander offered him a wry smile. "They do. Your name is quite well known. You might even say you're famous."

"But I don't want to be famous!"

"I'm sorry, Mr Potter. But I'm afraid that's not up to you."

Harry was subdued as they left the wand shop and crossed the street to pick out sturdy school trunks.

"I'm sorry," Neville said quietly after a few minutes. He looked miserable on Harry's behalf. "That must have been hard to hear."

Harry offered him a weak smile. "It's okay. I would have heard eventually, and at least now I'll have a month to think on it before school starts."

They didn't say anything else until they'd paid for their trunks and packed all their purchases inside.

"Well," Harry said. "I suppose that's everything."

Neville was fidgeting again. "My aunts and uncles are meeting us at the Leaky Cauldron for a birthday supper. Do you want to come? I— I mean, you don't have to. But I'd like it if you came."

Harry looked down at his feet. Part of him wanted to say yes. He'd never been invited to a birthday before, and he was afraid that if he turned Neville down the other boy would be angry with him. The other part was feeling overwhelmed with everything he'd learned and wanted nothing more than to curl up in his cupboard with Basil and sleep.

"I should head back," he said. "It's a long way on the train, and if I'm out too late I'll get locked out."

Neville's shoulders slumped. "Oh, okay."

They hauled their trunks down Diagon Alley. Even though Harry's had wheels on the bottom, he was panting by the time they got back to the Leaky Cauldron and Mrs Longbottom reopened the passage through the wall.

"You're sure you won't stay and eat?" she asked.

Harry's stomach rumbled at the smell of shepherd's pie wafting from the pub's kitchen. The thought of an actual meal and people to share it with tempted him, but when they stepped into the common room they were hit with a wall of sound. Patrons guffawed into their drinks as they recounted tales of the day's adventures, cutlery clinked against pewter plates, and the fiddle in the corner sang a jaunty tune that had those nearby tapping their feet and whistling along.

The inn was packed, and several curious gazes turned in their direction as they emerged with their heavy school trunks. He shook his head. "I really should be going. I don't know how long it will take me to get back to the train station." He had a general idea of the route he'd taken to get here. There was at least one bridge involved, and as long as he kept the ferris wheel in sight he should be able to find his way back.

"The muggle trains?" Mrs Longbottom's nose crinkled as though she'd been presented with something unpleasant.

"Yes."

"My dear boy, there are several much better ways to get around than on those tubes the muggles call transportation. Come." Mrs Longbottom motioned for him to follow as she made for the exit to muggle London. Harry trailed after her, curious.

The streets of London were choked with rush hour traffic and echoed with the blare of horns as taxis jockeyed for positions at the light. Harry wasn't sure what to expect when Mrs Longbottom walked them right up to the curb. Surely wizards didn't have taxis too, he thought. It seemed too… mundane.

"You have your wand?" she asked.

Harry set down his trunk and extracted the wand from the paper wrapped box in his satchel.

"Good. Now, hold it out over the curb, tip pointed up."

Harry looked at the two parked cars in front of him. There was less than a foot between their bumpers. Unsure of what Mrs Longbottom expected to happen, he pointed his wand up and edged it cautiously past the curb.

There was a loud bang and Harry jumped back with a startled squeak. He landed on Neville's foot and nearly sent them both to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs. In front of them a large purple three decker bus appeared out of thin air and squeezed into the space between the cars, pushing them out of the way. Harry expected to hear the crunch of metal as the poor vehicles folded up like accordions, but when he glanced their way they looked as whole and undamaged as before the strange bus's arrival.

The Knight Bus was written across the side of the triple-decker in loopy gold writing.

Mrs Longbottom nodded to herself. "There, much better than muggle transit. They'll take you wherever you need to go."

A lanky young man in a faded purple suit stepped out of the bus. He was squinting at a piece of paper. "Good afternoon," he read. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, transportation for the stranded witch or wizard. My name," he patted his chest without looking up, "is Stan Shunpike, and I'll be your conductor today."

"He always reads off that piece of paper," Neville whispered in his ear. "And he's been working there for a year at least."

"You've taken this bus before?" Harry asked, eyeing the uppermost tier of windows. He was pretty sure you weren't allowed to have vehicles that tall, they'd hit underpasses and the roofs of tunnels.

"All the time," Neville said before swallowing hard. He looked a little green again, and Harry wondered if this would be a repeat of the Gringotts carts.

"For three?" Stan asked Mrs Longbottom.

"No, just young Mr Potter here," she replied, waving a hand in his direction. "He'll need help with his trunk."

Harry could almost feel Stan's eyes drift over his forehead, and he flattened his fringe, checking that his scar was hidden.

"Of course!" Stan said with far more zeal than was warranted. He hoisted up Harry's trunk and manhandled it onto the bus. The trunk put up a valiant fight against the rough treatment, nearly crushing Stan when it started to tip over on the second step. Watching the epic struggle between man and luggage, Harry was glad he wasn't the one stowing it aboard. With everything he'd bought it probably weighed as much as Dudley.

He turned to Mrs Longbottom. "Thank you again for helping me today."

"It was my pleasure," she said and gave a small, formal nod of her head.

Neville was shuffling his feet. "I'll see you at Hogwarts?" he asked. He looked hopeful.

"Of course!" Harry said. The fact that he'd know someone on his first day was a huge relief, and he found himself hoping that he and Neville would end up in the same house so they'd have classes together. Neville seemed like a genuinely nice person, not at all like his cousin or the children from his primary school.

Hogwarts would be different. Better, He was sure of it.

A new world, full of new people.

Harry paused as he climbed up the bus's stairs and looked back at Neville. "Happy birthday, Neville," he said.

Neville's face brightened as he smiled. "Happy early birthday, Harry!"

~End Chapter Seven~

Whew - that brings us to the end of the longest chapter in the story so far! Harry's learned a lot this chapter - from how the Longbottoms knew him, to the wizarding world's (rather ominous) opinion on snakes and parseltongue. I'm curious whether any of you anticipated the prophecy reveal once I brought the Neville and Augusta into the story last chapter, and how you think Augusta's description of Voldemort and the war will shape Harry's beliefs in comparison to Hagrid's in canon. :)

As for Harry's wand, I was between tasks one day at work and looked up the actual colour of holly wood (after wading through countless images of glamorous palm trees...) and was surprised when I saw that it's one of the palest woods around - being nearly white in colour. I don't recall if the colour of Harry's wand is ever described in the books, but I found it curious that in the movie it's brown. The only thing I can think of is that they gave it an 'ordinary, down-to-earth' colour to make the contrasts between his character and Voldemort's character more obvious. Of course, Voldemort's wand should have been a light golden or honey brown, but I guess that didn't scream 'bad guy' as much as bone white.

According to Pottermore, my own wand is 10 3/4, pear with a phoenix tail feather and slightly springy, which apparently means it won't use any spells designated as dark magic, sigh. No necromancy for me, I guess.

I'm still working on editing the next chapter (it's been giving me some serious trouble, but I think I'm nearly past the worst of it), but I should hopefully have it done by next week so we can continue on this unofficial Saturday update schedule. :) Also, Camp NaNoWriMo starts next week, so I'll be editing from midnight Saturday morning and will likely be vibrating with caffein the next time you hear from me, haha!

Anyways, thank you again for sticking with this story! And for those who review, a huge thank you, you make my day!

Stay magical,

~Theine