Brin: I would have preferred to discuss this in a PM, for length if nothing else, but suffice it to say that I have a few issues with considering transfiguration to be permanent. First, that is never said to be the case in canon; as far as I am aware, J.K. has only ever mentioned it in interviews, so the details of what it can and can't do are open to me to toy around with however I want. Second, there are aspects of the background world that conflict with that assumption. Why would the Weasleys worry about buying robes secondhand if they could just transfigure their old robes into new ones? Furthermore, Molly was obviously embarrassed that the only dress robes she could find for Ron were so abhorrent, so why would she not do something to resolve that problem and give him something actually decent-looking? Third, duplicating food is no different than conjuring it, at least from a physical perspective; it is still creating matter out of nothing. Yet the owners of Honeydukes keep stock in the cellar; why would they do that if they can just duplicate the lone 'master copy' of a sweet when they run low? (And a quick aside: as someone with a background in biochemistry, trust me when I say that simple hunger is far from the worst thing that could happen if food vanished from inside your body.) Fourth, the Wizarding World is shown to have an economy similar to a historic cottage industry, but in the real world that was based on production. I can't see that parallel developing when wizards would have no reason to place the same value on raw materials or basic processing. Fifth and last, and due to the aforementioned background, making wizards capable of changing matter permanently on an atomic level and then watching them squander that ability on trivialities is galling on a personal level.

So why did I change how transfiguration supposedly works? The short and mildly arrogant answer is because I wanted to.

Rocjaw Cypher: Dumbledore is… well, he… um… Okay, it depends on exactly how we're defining "evil". There are enough issues in the first two books, book 1 especially, that he has to be either incompetent, senile, or a plain idiot or manipulative and moderately callous for his actions to make any sense. The first set of options could work, but it's harder to make that a fun story, so instead he's the latter. That's not to say he'll be twirling his waxed mustache or laughing maniacally where no one can hear him, but the plans he has concerning Harry and Voldemort aren't exactly conducive to Harry's continued good health. In his defense, he is a definite moral utilitarian, so if one person has to suffer for a thousand people to live, that would be a morally justifiable choice. The problem is just that when you're that one, the line between "It's for the betterment of the world, dear boy" and "Mwa-ha-ha-ha!" gets very blurry indeed.

Clearly I was right to be unsure about my portrayal of McGonagall; some of you said it was borderline bashing, even making her a "Gryffindor Snape", while others said it was dead on. That is something I find very interesting. Rather than risk starting a bunch of arguments, I'll just reveal how I always viewed McGonagall in the series so you can see where I'm coming from and why I've written her as I have. I see her as someone quick to make assumptions; in this case, she assumed Harry would act a certain way because of how his parents behaved when they were children, and when he didn't, she tried to fit the new information into her assumptions rather than reevaluate her opinion. That's not a criticism of her; we all do that. Because of her cultish devotion to Dumbledore, however (see book 1, where she trusted his words over her own eyes, and book 4, where she told Karkaroff and Maxime that Dumbledore's conclusions "should be good enough for everybody" simply because he's Albus Dumbledore), she despises the Dark, and her conclusion that Harry has been influenced by someone of a Dark persuasion and might even be Dark himself threw her off-balance. Cue the mental flip-flopping. Add in the fact that she liked James and Lily, and the implied "that's not how your parents would want you behaving" sprinkled throughout her scene start making more sense. She's also a proud woman, both of her position in Hogwarts and of the school itself, and stepping all over that pride like Harry did would obviously irritate her.

But to answer the complaint I saw most, McGonagall is petty; one just has to look at book 1 to see that. What else would you call sending four eleven-year-olds into the Forbidden Forest when there was something quick enough, strong enough, and evil enough to be slaughtering unicorns with a simple-minded man who never completed his magical education as their sole defense, all for the inexcusable crime of being out of bed after curfew? Apparating Harry without warning him of the side effects is comparatively minor, and while she probably wouldn't have done that if she had time to cool down, she is very much a Gryffindor: she wears her heart on her sleeve and acts before she thinks.

Disclaimer: Did Ollivander say that brother wands were rare, even though it is highly unlikely that he was capable of making only one wand from a dragon's heart or a single unicorn's tail? If so, I own neither the Harry Potter nor Dresden Files franchises; they belong to J.K. Rowling and Jim Butcher, respectively, among others.

Chapter 10
A Proper Introduction

The air and very fabric of space warped around them, and Harry had to reach out to a nearby wall to keep from falling over. He had thought ghosting by himself was bad, but getting dragged along by McGonagall? Absolutely awful. He needed to apologize to Aimee, Margaux, and Lisette in the near future if they had been forced to suffer through that when he rescued them from Paris.

Shoving those thoughts from his head, he looked up slightly to find the self-proclaimed professor watching him with suspicious eyes, the same attitude she had had basically from the moment he let her into his shed. He knew he should have argued more strenuously against Lash about letting her see his workspace, but much as he did not want to admit it, there was no way even an angel could have predicted she would react so badly and so inexplicably to his foci and his wards. "That was quite good for your first Side-Along Apparation," the woman muttered softly, though it took him a moment to realize that it was their ghosting to which she was referring. "Most people are nauseous upon their arrival."

"No, I'm fine," he denied, crossing his arms. So she wanted to talk in circles rather than saying whatever it was she wanted to say? Two could play that game. "So is this Diagon Alley? I expected more rabbits getting pulled out of hats and women being sawed in half."

"What?" She stared at him totally nonplussed for a second before shaking her head and waving her wand at herself. The suit she was wearing melted into a robe that dragged along the street, and he wrinkled his nose at the sight. It was the same style that all the other people he had seen wearing the last and only time he went into Diagon Alley, but a closer look did not fill him with enthusiasm. He did not know what city they were in, but wherever it was, having one's clothes picking up everything on the ground could not be hygienic. "Come along, Mister Potter. We have much to do today and not a lot of time in which to do it."

Harry rolled his eyes. Maybe if she had come by earlier or made the school more accessible—

"Just go along with it," Lash said tiredly. "I am the only one who has to deal with your irritation about this, and I am already well aware of your opinions on the matter. Accept, adapt, continue on."

He sighed and nodded. That had become Lash's mantra over the past year, particularly when one of her experiments either failed or did something unexpected. And it was a good philosophy, he knew that, but wallowing in his aggravation was much more enjoyable than acknowledging that the rest of the world could not care less about what he thought of things.

And infinitely preferable to facing Diagon Alley again.

His hand strayed to the small zippered pouch hanging from his belt as he followed McGonagall out of the alcove she had ghost— Apparated to. With the various foci he had created over the last several months, he had quickly realized that carrying everything would attract a great deal more attention than he really wanted to put up with. Instead he had this pack that he had enchanted to be bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. Lash at one point jokingly referred to it as his 'Bag of Holding', and while he did not know the reference, he understood roughly what she meant. Mostly he used it to hold the various bags of metals he worked with, but he had also modified the inside with pockets to hold his foci when he did not wish to wear them; his sight anklet he kept on at all times, but the other tools came and went as the situation demanded. Right now, he only wore his anklet and his shield torc while his ghosting ring and his flame wand were out of sight but still well within reach.

The only focus not on his person was the one he had been working on when McGonagall came to call, but that would not offer him much help if this went downhill, anyway.

"This is the Leaky Cauldron," the woman said, waving her hand at the door of a grubby-looking pub situated between a bookstore and a record store. "It is charmed so Muggles cannot see it, and it is the general entry point to the Alley, either through the door or by using the Floo, a manner of transport that relies on magical fireplaces," she explained to his questioning eyebrow. "As it is illegal to hook a Muggle fireplace to the Floo network, you will instead have to come here via the Knight Bus. We will return to your home using that method when we leave."

Pushing the door open, she quickly ushered him through the darkened room, only sparing a nod to the bald bartender before they were out a back door and in a walled courtyard. This did not look at all like the marketplace he had seen before, and for a brief moment he wondered if McGonagall was actually a teacher and not a mugger with a highly off-putting sense of humor.

She pulled out her wand again and tapped a random brick in the wall. "Once you have a wand, you will be able to enter the Alley at your leisure," she told him even as the bricks began rotating and shifting, a hole appearing and growing bigger and bigger until the entire wall had folded up into an archway. A lone rubbish bin that had been pushed against the wall twitched and slid to one side, though the motion gave Harry the bizarre impression of a dog that had just woken up to find that all its people had moved elsewhere. McGonagall walked through the opening and said, "That rubbish bin will always return to the same place when the entrance closes; tap the brick sitting three up and two to the right from the handle, and the way will open. If you forget, you can always ask Tom, who owns the Cauldron and whom you should have seen tending bar, to open it for you. Did you keep your list of supplies?"

"I'm sure I can remember everything on it," he said. Well, he couldn't, but Lash had an eidetic memory; recalling that list would be child's play for her. Another concern came to mind then. "But how am I supposed to pay for anything? You didn't exactly give me time to grab my wallet."

"There will be no need for you to bring Muggle money here," McGonagall said after a minute, her lips pursing at his admittedly impudent tone. If she wanted him to be respectful, though, she should not have treated him the way she had from the instant they met. He dealt with people who disliked him all the time – and from her attitude, she apparently disliked him on sight – but he was more than willing to deal evenly with them so long as they were open about their opinions and intentions. She was not, and he had no patience for that. "Before your parents' death, they made arrangements for your education, including giving you a trust vault to cover all expenses." Turning away from him and continuing down the street, she added, "Besides, the goblins charge a hefty transaction fee for anyone wishing to exchange currency, so this way is much better."

He stopped in his tracks and glanced at her. "Vault?" he repeated dumbly. "Why would I need a vault for my trust account?"

"Where else would they store their money?" she asked, arching a brow at him.

Okay, that was enough of that. "In an account like normal people?" he shot back in the same tone McGonagall had used. "Unless you're saying it was in fashion back in the seventies for people to leave bricks of bills laying around so they could look at them?"

The witch scowled at him for a second before resuming her walk. "Unlike Muggles, we do not use material so easy to deface or fake as paper bills. Our coinage is made from gold, silver, and bronze." 'Like proper money should' went unsaid, but Harry heard it nonetheless.

"So far, I am not exactly impressed with what I have seen of this woman," Lash said, slipping through other people on the street the same way a ghost would.

He clicked his tongue dismissively and muttered in a voice too soft for anyone else to hear, "You and me both."

The walk to the bank passed in silence, and when they finally arrived at the bank – covered entirely in white marble and named Gringotts, if the golden letters carved above the doorway was any indication – Harry was distracted from the surroundings by the strange beings flanking the tall doors. Short and swarthy, what could only be goblins raked their eyes over the men and women coming and going through the doors. Their noses were long, as were their fingers; a wizard stumbled out of line and nearly ran into one of the door guards, and Harry had a glimpse of blackened, triangular teeth before the goblin smoothed its face out into a mask of indifference.

Another pair of goblins sketched them mocking bows as they walked into the lobby, which had been constructed of yet more marble, and McGonagall marched over to the counter. There had to be at least a hundred of the smaller beings working behind the counter, and barely had one become free before the woman was talking at him. "We need to make a withdrawal from Mister Harry Potter's safe."

At her words, several bystanders who were still waiting in line looked over at her, and then their glances shifted to Harry. From the way their eyes widened and they started chattering amongst themselves, he was suddenly appreciative of the brusque way in which she had dragged him through the Leaky Cauldron. If his name had been announced for the whole pub to hear, he might have spent the next hour just getting his hand shaken by a bunch of people he would never meet again and honestly did not particularly care about.

The goblin glanced up at her, no more differential to her imperious attitude than Harry himself would have been. "And does Mister Harry Potter have his key?"

Harry grimaced, but before he could say anything about not even knowing that he had an account there before today, McGonagall pulled a tiny golden key out of her handbag and handed it over. The goblin examined it critically, turning it over in his hands and peering closely, and just when Harry was expecting him to give it a nibble, he passed it back. "This seems to be in order. Brasslash!"

"Harry?" Lash said, putting her hand on his shoulder as if to hold him in place. He flicked his eyes toward the teacher. "Where would she have gotten the key to your vault?"

That… was a very good question. "Professor, why did you have that key?" he asked in what was likely the politest voice he had used with the woman all day. Lash could be paranoid at times, but while he hoped there was a perfectly innocent reason for it, his guardian angel had a right to worry about him. She also tended to be right far more often than not. "I would have expected the bank to hold it for me or something."

"No, Professor Dumbledore has been keeping track of your finances in your stead."

Yes, because that definitely made it sound like it was all aboveboard. He was sure he had read about strangers 'keeping track' of other people's money in mystery novels before; they tended to involve the phrases 'embezzlement' and 'anonymous transfers' and 'private accounts in the Caymans' getting thrown around toward the end of the story. The chances of this being innocent had just taken a nosedive. "And does this Professor Dumbledore person know where I live?" Maybe he was overreacting; no reason to assume anything—

"Professor Dumbledore is the headmaster of Hogwarts," she said, the rebuke delivered in an aghast voice as though he had just committed some terrible sacrilege. A younger goblin who had come at the teller's call huffed grumpily, and she followed the being and beckoned him to accompany her. "And yes, he knows where you live. He was the one who brought you to the Dursleys upon your parents' passing."

Lash let out a tired laugh. "See? I am not paranoid. I just know all the vileness of human nature."

"Great," he muttered. He was expecting something bad, but this was bad in a different way than he had suspected. Dumbledore knew where he lived and yet had not once made contact with him? Apparently had taken enough of an interest in him to retain access to his money but couldn't be arsed to come around and tell him about this magical world? There were only a few ways this could be interpreted, and none of them were very good. And while was not going to go so far as to immediately place the blame for giving him to an abusive family on the man – at least, not without some evidence that Dumbledore had known about it beforehand – all it would have taken was one visit to see that things were very wrong.

Of course, that might have also made it so he did not need the personal attentions of his guardian angel, but just because things turned out all right in the end did not relieve the man of responsibility for his actions.

"And why was he the one to place me with the Dursleys and keep track of my money?" he finally asked.

McGonagall stopped again and stared at him for a silent moment before shaking her head. "Professor Dumbledore is the greatest wizard in the world. He saved our country from Grindelwald, and he was the only wizard You-Know-Who ever feared. Who else would your parents choose to ensure you were safe after their deaths?"

He took a deep breath, then let it out. The more he found out about this situation, the less he liked it. Following her and Brasslash into a rickety cart sitting upon a set of rail, he looked around for any signs of a seatbelt before simply grabbing a bar bolted onto the front. The cart rolled forward slowly before the rails fell away in a steep drop. Harry was a fan of roller coasters, at least the few he had ridden when a carnival came to Great Whinging, but this was pushing it a little. With every turn and dip, the cart would swing wildly, straining against the wheels holding it onto the rails and threatening to hurl them all out into the stygian depths, and despite making periodic ascents, they never seemed to slow down, though they certainly accelerated with every drop.

Finally, they started losing speed, and the cart came to a bone-rattling halt in front of what looked like a cave entrance. There was a door set in the stone, and Brasslash was quick to take the key from McGonagall and unlock it. The heavy metal circle swung outward, and Harry stepped closer to take a look, snagging the key back from the goblin before it could be handed over to the woman. Now if he could just peer through all the smoke billowing out—

Torches inside the vault burst into life, and Harry stared, his eyes growing wide. Gold coins sat in stacks stretching toward the ceiling, silver gleaming next to them and in still more piles further away. Surrounding the metal mountains was a veritable sea of bronze. Only a few patches of floor were visible, and he walked over to the one just inside the door and reached out for a couple of coins.

"These are real," Lash affirmed as he tossed a piece of gold up and down in his hands. "I know the weight of gold and silver coins; the Romans used currency much like this. Congratulations, you are now rich beyond your wildest imaginings."

"Is this… all from my parents?" he breathed.

"No. Your parents were comfortable, but they didn't have this much," McGonagall said in a strangled voice. He looked over to find her staring at the contents of his vault, and her face showed her to be just as awestruck as he was. "Their house was claimed by the Ministry as a national landmark, so I can only guess that much of this is the money the Ministry paid for the house and the land it's on. There was also a bounty on You-Know-Who's head, and you are the one who defeated him. That would mean that money was yours, too."

She shook her head and visibly regained control of herself. "Obviously, this should more than last you for the rest of your time at Hogwarts. Just fill a bag with some money so we can continue on."

McGonagall explained the strange denominations to him on the ride back to the surface, though she was much less enthused when he questioned why in the world anyone would make a sickle worth a seventeenth of a galleon or a knut one-twenty-ninth of a sickle rather than using something sensible like a decimal system. Leaving the bank, their first stop was at the bookstore, whose name – Flourish and Blotts – proved that these people's strange sense of humor was not limited to authors' pseudonyms. Lash practically started salivating at the books around them, and while he personally preferred the practical lessons she had given him to theory, he could not fault her for her excitement. "You remember the list?"

"Of course."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" McGonagall asked.

"No, just talking to myself," he quickly assured her. Since the woman had stationed herself at the door, Harry waded into the ocean of knowledge being offered to him and started swimming around in it.

The books were arranged according to subject, but instead of immediately seeking out the books on his list – which Lash put up in his field of vision and helpfully made transparent unless he nearly crossed his eyes – he instead started wandering the store. Books of all kinds were pressed together, some leather-bound monsters with titles in gold filigree on their spines next to flimsy paperbacks with only the vaguest of names, and in one box near the floor were a number of tiny diaries with locks on the front that would easily fit in his palm. Books about a wide variety of ancient scripts shared shelves to travel guides, and only a foot away from The Dark Forces book he needed was another text titled Curses and Counter-curses, the contents of which were both ludicrous and incredible. Maybe it was a good thing he had mucked about with the Dursleys' minds, after all; if Dudley still treated him as he once had, Harry didn't know if he would have been able to resist the temptation not to try some of these out.

The basket he had grabbed to carry all his school books was full to overflowing by the time he lugged it to the counter, and then McGonagall tossed another slim volume in. "What's that?" he panted, straining to pick up the heavy basket and nearly falling over when she waved a wand over it and abruptly made it weigh nothing.

Giving him a tight smile, she answered, "The Essential Thirty. It's a book I recommend all Muggleborn and -raised students buy. It describes some of the most basic and useful spells for general life: creating and snuffing out lights, unlocking doors, summoning objects…" She trailed off when she spotted the book about curses he had just placed on the counter and pressed her lips tight together. "Utility spells, for the most part. Things all wizards will need to learn at one point or another."

"Thank you." She waved him off, her displeased expression not softening an iota, and he rolled his eyes as he fished out the sixteen required golden galleons. "How much is this in normal money?"

"Galleons are 'normal money'," she said sternly, "and they are the common currency across the entire European continent. However, if you meant to ask how much it is in Muggle money, I believe the latest exchange rate was fifty pounds sterling per galleon."

"Fifty?" he repeated. She nodded, and he glanced over at his stack of books with new respect before thinking out loud, "I wonder how much gold is in a galleon?" He didn't know the exchange rate of gold to the pound, but he was sure that he or Uncle Vernon could find out, and since Lash had made sure his uncle would ignore the oddity of those kinds of questions…

"I'm not sure, but it doesn't really matter." He shot her an incredulous look, and she sniffed disparagingly. "Gringotts charms all their coins so that any Muggle who picks one up will immediately assume it is fake. We can't permit risking exposing our world to the Muggles. They also make the coins indestructible so unscrupulous individuals can't try to game the economy by selling the raw metal."

He turned back to his bags with a grumble. So much for that get-rich-quick scheme.

The rest of the afternoon passed rather uneventfully: Madam Malkin's for the robes he would be required to wear, though he had been too uncomfortable to ask whether wizards wore anything but underclothes below those billowy outfits as he suspected from McGonagall's earlier transfiguration; the apothecary, which was fascinating in more ways than one and made him glad he had picked up a few books about potion theory at Lash's request; a stationary store for sheets of parchment, bottles of ink, and a collection of feather quills. McGonagall ignored his protests when he told her that he had never used an actual quill to write with and couldn't he just use pens like a regular person, and in hindsight, that continued implication that wizards were not 'normal' was probably the real reason she denied his request.

It was a good thing that he had someone in his head who could teach him how to use these primitive implements and money to spare for more supplies after he inevitably used up all he bought today practicing his handwriting.

Their last stop was the one that had most intrigued him. A narrow shop situated at the end of the Alley near the Leaky Cauldron, faded gold letters revealed the name of their destination. "'Ollivanders: Maker of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.'," Harry read aloud. Another glance at the outside of the shop and the dusty windows, and he added, "Is there somewhere else we could get a wand? Maybe somewhere less… dodgy?"

"Ollivanders is the finest wand shop in Britain," McGonagall said, and in the same adamant tone she had when she had proclaimed that Madam Malkin's was the only place in Britain to buy quality robes, Pippin's Apothecary stood above any others he might visit, and Dumbledore was the greatest wizard of all time. By this point, he was wondering if she might not have grown up in the Alley and therefore refused to consider that anywhere else was as good as her childhood home. She pulled the door open and stared pointedly at him, and forcing his shoulders to relax, he trudged inside.

The inside of the store was no better than the outside. A single chair, delicate enough that he wondered if it might be a sculpture rather than a real piece of furniture, was shoved in the corner, and behind the counter were shelves filled with narrow boxes and covered by a thin layer of dust. Their footsteps echoed strangely, as if they were in a cavern rather than a building, and to add to the uncomfortable atmosphere, a faint keening noise, high-pitched enough that it was almost beyond hearing, filled Harry's ears.

"Good afternoon."

The soft voice came from deep inside the building, but the man it belonged to rustled some boxes and then came into sight. McGonagall nodded to him and said something, but Harry was not paying attention. He was otherwise distracted.

Because that was no man standing there.

His vision split and twisted as, for the first time since he tested it, his anklet activated. The white-haired man standing before them faded to the point of being transparent, giving Harry an unimpeded view of just what this Ollivander really was. The creature was just the tiniest bit taller than he was, but it was so thin it was nearly skeletal and its skin was a jaundiced yellow. Its fingers were long, stretched, and a second look revealed that it was an extra joint that made them so disturbing. Its nose looked like it had been hacked off, leaving just a hole in its face. When the image of the man smiled softly at McGonagall, the thing opened its mouth wide in a silent cackle, showing off its yellow, crooked teeth. Turning to him, it caught his gaze with its wide eyes, the irises a polished silver and the pupils tiny pinpricks of black—

"Mister Potter?"

He jerked his head at McGonagall in fright, and the professor took a cautious step back before she realized what she was doing. Turning his eyes back to this Ollivander creature, he took several shallow breaths in a futile attempt to force his heart to slow from its frantic, terrified pace. He finally managed to calm down enough to stammer, "Wh-Wh-What?"

"All I said was that it was nice to make your acquaintance." Thankfully, his anklet's ability to break illusions was limited to sight; he did not want to hear what the Ollivander's actual voice sounded like. "Your eyes are similar to your mother's." McGonagall quietly scoffed, so softly that Harry was not sure she even heard herself, and the Ollivander shot a quelling glance at her. "Oh, yes. Different but similar. I remember her quite well. Her wand was excellent for charm work: ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Very delicate magic, oh yes.

"Your father, on the other hand, liked a bit more power behind his spells. Eleven inches exactly; mahogany, but still somewhat pliable. It was no surprise to hear that he had a bent for transfiguration, not when a wand like that chose him."

The Ollivander stepped closer and reached out to touch his face, and Harry immediately skittered back a few steps. His heart pounded painful in his chest. His breath became ragged. The creature's impish face was replaced by beige fur for just an instant, the smell of the sea filled his nose, and his hand swung toward his belt pouch as though to whip out his flame wand and set the entire building ablaze. It slowly pulled its hand away, and whereas the thing sneered nastily at him, the illusion of the old man lightly frowned.

"Harry, calm down. You are in no danger," Lash murmured gently. Her fingers raked through his hair and stroked along the sides of his neck, and for a moment he could have sworn that she was using more than two hands. "This is not a pirate. He is no threat to you. Nothing he can do can harm you. You are safe. Calm down."

After several tense seconds, he let himself relax into her touch. The last time he had encountered a creature dressing up as a human, it had gone… badly, and facing a living corpse a couple of months later had not helped matters. He had thought he was over his fears – he had survived both those encounters, after all, which was more than could be said about the slavers or the vampire, and the goblins had not triggered such a reaction – but apparently some of those wounds had not quite fully healed.

"Mister Potter, that is no way to behave…"

He tuned the witch out and stared distrustfully into the Ollivander's inhuman eyes. "Let's just get this over with."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose that might be for the best." The creature turned away and slunk into the back of the store to rummage among the quiet stacks. "Your right arm is your wand arm, yes?"

"That's correct."

After nearly a minute, the Ollivander returned to the front of the store, half a dozen boxes in its arms. "Normally, I like to have a little fun with the young wizards and witches who come into my store for their first wand. A tape measure that measures a variety of, quite frankly, irrelevant ratios." It touched said measure, and at the brush of its sallow skin the tool twitched. "Then I'll try wands that I can feel are the wrong fit. Most of the time, there will be no reaction, but occasionally a particularly bad match will cause quite a show. I let the suspense build, make the children begin to doubt that they will ever find a wand just for them. And then…" It pulled the lids off the boxes it had brought. "And then I give them the few I feel would fit best. Oh, the looks of joy and relief on their faces! I am an old man, and no one can blame me for a little pageantry at so momentous an occasion.

"But you?" The Ollivander pulled out a wand and held it out to Harry, the carved grip facing him. "I get the feeling that you would not be amenable to such a game. Am I right?"

"You are." Steeling himself, Harry reached out and all but snatched the wand out of the imp's hand. As soon as his fingers rested on the wand, he felt a warmth running up his hand and into his arm, and several fat, red sparks puffed out of the wand and lazily orbited the tip. The heat lingered for a long moment before finally receding. "I take it that means it's a good match?"

The creature gave him a glance, its expression filled with some emotion Harry could not interpret. "Quite. Eleven inches of holly with a single phoenix feather as a core. Supple, but still strong. A rare combination of wood and core all on its own, and with its history, it is no surprise that it chose you."

"Its history?" he could not help but ask.

"Yes." Again the illusion of the man smiled, and again the creature cackled eerily. "When the phoenix who gave the feather in that wand made its donation, it actually pulled out two feathers. The other feather I also used to create a second wand, a brother to yours: thirteen-and-a-half inches of yew. Unyielding. Tenacious. Powerful. And the wielder of that wand? He went on to seek a grand destiny, to accomplish great and extraordinary deeds." The Ollivander gnashed its teeth. "And terrible deeds."

Harry nibbled his lips and prodded, "And this history is relevant to me because?"

"Because one of those deeds," the Ollivander said, pointing an ugly finger at his head, "gave you that scar."

McGonagall, who had been so silent for the last few minutes that Harry had almost forgotten she was still there, gasped. He, on the other hand, just rolled his new wand between his fingers. "So my wand is connected to You-Know-Who?" Though, to be honest, he still did not know who, but no one seemed willing to answer that particular question.

"Your wand is tied to the wand of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, yes, just as you are tied to him. But do not take that as a condemnation," the Ollivander immediately added. "Wands do not care about good or evil. All that this wand choosing you means is that you, too, are destined to change the world as we know it. Whether that be for good or ill is up to you."

Giving the creature a nod of comprehension, he fished out the seven galleons it demanded and left the shop as fast as was feasible.

It took until early afternoon of the next day for Lash's patience to finally fail. "Well, what are you still waiting for? Whip it out and let me take a better look at it."

Harry looked up from the box McGonagall had given him after his flight from the store and sent her a sly look. For the last year and a half, she had delighted in hurling off-color jokes at him just to see him squirm, but comparatively, that one was extremely weak. Now was the opportunity he had been looking for for months, the chance to turn her jokes against her. Swallowing faintly, he asked in a light voice, "'Whip it out'? That's it? I was expecting a crack about how you couldn't wait to check out my long, hard rod or something."

Lash stared silently at him for just a moment before she warned, "Harry, think very carefully before you answer. Do you truly wish me to ravish your virgin ears with all the innuendo that could possibly apply to this situation?"

"Er…" A tiny smirk appeared, and then the tip of her tongue darted out to glide slowly over her red lips. His eyes fixated on the trail of moisture left behind, his cheeks burned, and he squeaked, "L-L-Let's just examine the wand."

"Thought so."

Setting the wand on the rough plywood floor of his shed, he was actually grateful when Lash vanished and filled his skin; at her command, his blush faded away as though it had never been. He would have to get her to teach him how to do that one of these days. She stretched his hand over the wand and just held it there for over a minute, and when she pulled away, a frown had found its way on his face. "Check behind me. This makes little sense."

Was she really confused, or had she just phrased it that way because she wanted to test his sensory abilities? When testing the differences between his magic and that of her old world, the chances were more or less fifty-fifty, and with her ability to make herself look and sound however she wanted, her doubtful voice was no help. He mentally shrugged and cradled the wand in his hands, ignoring the faint warmth that spread through his fingers as he closed his eyes to listen. He was not as good with his magical senses as she was – nor would he likely ever be, all things considered – and so it took him several minutes to find what Lash had been talking about.

"That's… Huh." No, she was legitimately confused, as was he. When he listened to magic, he could tell how strong it was from the volume, and the actual sounds told him what the spell was. This new wand, however, was weird; he could hear the sounds just fine, but interpreting them was out of the question. The magic was far too muddled and distorted, and the constantly changing pitch of the wand's song didn't help matters. "I have no clue."

"Nor do I," Lash muttered. "Wait. You hear a change in pitch?"

He blinked. "Yes. Why? Does that mean something to you?"

"Hearing another individual's assessment is always beneficial," she said, a victorious smile growing on her face, "and in this case, it tells me a great deal."

"Well? Don't keep me in suspense."

A roll of her eyes, and then Lash prompted, "How do the sounds of your other foci contrast with this one?"

"The sounds are clear, but most of them are quieter." She nodded encouragingly, and after a moment before what she wanted became painfully obvious. "And they're all monotone."

"Correct." Holding up one finger, she asked, "Now, what have I always taught you are the two things magic needs to be manifested? And what do you do to make your foci?"

Those were simple enough. "Intent and emotion. To make a focus, you carve runes into it, and then you attune it."

"Which is?"

"Putting your intent for the spell into the…" Harry stared at her and then turned his eyes to the wand in his hands. "You think this is designed to store emotion?"

"It would explain much, would it not?" Lash asked. "The transfiguration textbook you purchased spends a great deal of time on the importance of incantations and visualization, which is nothing more than intent, along with gestures of various kinds, but nowhere does it mention imbuing your spell with emotion."

He would have to take her word on that score; he had literally flipped through that book, and while that was enough for Lash to remember it and be able to read it at her leisure, he did not remember a word of the text. "What about the magical theory book?"

Lash closed her eyes and hummed for a long moment before she opened them again. "No, it says nothing about emotion, either. That is a conscious act, so the only reasons they would neglect to discuss it are that the authors of both those books do not want anyone to be able to learn magic from them alone or that using one of these wands makes it a moot point.

"Perhaps it is also the reason people in this world wait so long before teaching children magic," she continued thoughtfully. "You were capable of forming spells when you were but nine years old, and likely even younger than that. If these wands are meant to store emotional energy, however, delaying proper education until the age of eleven would mean that the prime school years would coincide with the tumultuous hormone storms of adolescence. One could hardly find a better time for such a harvest."

That made sense, but the more Harry thought about it, the more he realized it also opened the door to a terrible possibility. "Wait. You always describe magic as the intent being the actual effect while emotion is the power behind it. The bullet and trigger analogy." She nodded. "Then what you're saying is that this is, essentially, a self-firing gun?"

They both looked again at the wand.

"Because if that's the case, I'm not sure this thing's safe."

"When you phrase it that way, nor am I," Lash slowly said. "Assuming we are correct, it seems like it would be all to easy for it to activate with the slightest intent. Even a passing folly could potentially be enough to trigger a reaction."

"How would you even attune it?" he further wondered, lifting the wand up and giving it a couple of playful tosses. "Just focus on one emotion, or would you have to pour all of them into it?" With a shrug, he set it back inside the box. "Though I suppose it working on emotion might explain why it's always warm when I touch it."

"I suppose it—" Lash cut herself off and stared at him with wide eyes. "No, I do not think so. Harry, use one of your other foci. Any of them, just do it quickly."

Growing worried at her obvious fear, he grabbed his torc and slipped it around his wrist. "Vahan." In front of him appeared a large circle of translucent blue, the wall of the shed on the other side stretching as though he had just transported a segment of the sea to and was staring through it. His shield was still a bit of work in progress, admittedly; rather than stopping projectiles cold, it expanded the millimeter of space its width affected and used that room to gently redirect them in a direction that was not toward him, but sadly he had no way of predicting where they would come out. The spell looked the same as it had the last time he cast it, but immediately he noticed a discomforting difference. "Lash, why does it itch?!"

"Because I know what spell is on this wand." The angel shook her head angrily. "I am so sorry, Harry; I should have recognized this sooner. In the eleventh century in my world, a witch devised a method of enchanting foci so they would automatically attune themselves. All they needed was to be on her person for a few months. Unfortunately, the spell she used had a major side-effect: the process of attuning changed the wielder as well as the focus, and without her consciously guiding the process, her focus optimized the connection by also attuning her to it. It eventually left her unable to use her other foci at anything close to their previous efficiency because every time she would try to reattune them, that focus would undo the changes she had just wrought on herself."

"What happened?" he breathed.

Lash met his eyes and shook her head. "In the end, she had to destroy her newest focus and then reattune the rest. Two years of research and three spent repairing her tools, wasted."

"So we need to destroy this now, before it damages my ability to use my other foci."

The wand was in his hands in an instant, and he was already moving to snap the wooden rod when Lash's hands came to rest on top of his. "Let us not be too hasty," she counseled. "For this spell to be on the wand already, it is only sensible to assume that it was on all the wands in that shop. If it is that common, Ollivander likely knows more about it than I do. You should return to Diagon Alley and speak with him before making any permanent decisions."

A moment to weigh her words, and he gave her an unhappy nod. "All right. We'll do it your way. Let's go see the imp." He let out a mirthless laugh. "Because this is exactly how I wanted to spend my Thursday."

Ugh, this chapter was like pulling teeth! You probably shouldn't expect Harry and McGonagall's relationship to improve, at least not in the short term. Harry's little flashback and fit of phobia only complicated matters further. And yes, I will eventually explain what Ollivander is. Later. Much later.

For anyone who has not read one of my other stories, I do not give J.K.'s statement that a galleon is worth five pounds much credibility. She's said before that she's bad at math, and it clearly shows. Normally I go with an exchange rate of one galleon to 25 pounds (50 dollars), but I'm changing things up a little here.

Oh, and next chapter will most likely be out in three weeks. I'll be moving to my first audition rotation in two, so writing time will be kind of… zilch.

Silently Watches out.