As punishment for his indiscretions, or perhaps just as a matter of expediency, Harry did not get to leave the graveyard until July. Perhaps it would have been longer, had certain events not come to pass, but come they did, quite suddenly and seemingly inevitably.

Despite Silviu's newfound, manufactured belief that Harry was now under his thumb rather than Petri's, and his promise not to use his mind magic against him anymore, Petri had not let up on the matter of resisting compulsions. Thankfully, there was no more casting of the cruciatus curse, and it had become marginally easier to tell which thoughts were his own and which weren't, but Harry had hit a block when it came to resisting banal orders like "tie your shoelaces." He was half-convinced that it was impossible.

In other areas, he had been met with far more success. He could adequately cast the basic six charms series: mending, severing, fire-making, locomotion, animation, and cancellation, along with a handful of other useful charms. There really was a difference between knowing the spell and knowing the spell, even if he couldn't place where that boundary was, exactly, but he felt that he had finally made progress on casting at will.

The thing he was most excited to have begun learning was the warming charm. That was because the warming charm was the base of a variety of spells used in cooking, and he was desperate to eat something that wasn't a potion or boiled vegetables. His last attempt at reinventing the oven using a fire and some rocks had gone poorly, and after cursing him and calling him a muggle Petri had bought him a copy of a popular cooking guide, Witch's Brew by Queenie Goldstein, to avoid any further incidents.

Harry was currently bent over a pile of leaves he had acquired from outside, practising the technique for roasting. The goal was to warm evenly everywhere. So far he had partially burnt several leaves and had not come close to a perfect spread, but he was sure that he was improving. The fantasy of a roast complete with potatoes and Yorkshire pudding played out dreamily in his mind's eye.

It was rudely interrupted by a series of measured knocks. Harry glanced up and debated whether to get the door, but fortunately Petri had already stood from where he was reading at the table to answer it.

Harry wondered who it could be. As far as he knew, Petri had never given anyone his specific address, and salesmen were scarce around graveyards. He supposed it must be Silviu, coming to awkwardly check in on him as he sometimes did.

Petri pushed open the casket lid and froze, looking very much like he would love to shut it again and retreat, but could not. Curious, Harry craned his neck to see the person standing outside. All he could glimpse from his angle was a deep purple robe hem dotted with glittering gold, beneath which protruded the pointed toes of a pair of white boots. It was definitely not Silviu.

"Joachim Petri, what a surprise," said the visitor in German, and Harry gripped his wand more tightly, the name of the Enemy's Curse flashing traitorously in his mind. Whoever it was knew Petri's real identity, despite his charmed appearance.

"Herr Dumbledore," said Petri, after a long pause.

Dumbledore? That name sounded oddly familiar.

"Yes, I'm here to see Mr Potter," said Mr Dumbledore in English. For some reason, Petri winced.

"You might as well come inside," said Petri, and Harry panicked slightly as Petri stepped aside and allowed Mr Dumbledore to pass him down the stairs.

Mr Dumbledore was a very old man who sported a remarkably long, white beard that trailed down below his navel and was, at the moment, haphazardly tucked into his belt. His purple and gold robes were made from a seamless, starry brocade that seemed to change shades subtly at every angle, and resembled the midnight sky. Had he seen Mr Dumbledore walking about on a muggle street, Harry thought he would have mistaken the robe for a fancy dress.

"Where is he?" Mr Dumbledore asked, even though he was looking right at Harry. He almost didn't seem to notice that there was someone there at all.

"He's here," said Petri, looking more nervous than Harry had ever seen him. Mr Dumbledore glanced back at Petri, who averted his gaze.

"Curious," said Mr Dumbledore, looking at Harry again. "And who is this?"

"My apprentice," said Petri.

"Albus Dumbledore," said Mr Dumbledore, bending down and holding out his hand. "I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts."

Incredibly confused and a little wary, Harry quickly put his wand away and reached out to shake Professor Dumbledore's hand.

"Er, I'm Harry," he said. "Nice to meet you."

"A pleasure to meet you as well, my boy," said Professor Dumbledore. His blue eyes twinkled, almost mischievously. "I have a letter here for someone. Perhaps you could ensure that it reaches the right hands."

He withdrew a thick letter from the folds of his robes and Harry took it cautiously. It was held closed by a purple wax seal that had been stamped with what was presumably the Hogwarts crest.

Harry flipped it over. On the back of the parchment envelope was written, in bright green ink:

Mr H. Potter

The South Side of the Casket

66 Knockturn Alley, Plot D-12

London

Greater London

The address was highly alarming. On the one hand, it was clear that the sender knew precisely where he slept, and on the other hand, the way it had been worded made it look like Mr H. Potter was very dead and buried. He didn't know which was worse.

Casting a glance at Professor Dumbledore, who was still watching him expectantly, Harry turned the letter over again and slipped his thumb under the flap, breaking the wax seal and opening the envelope.

He didn't know what he had expected, but it was a letter informing him that he had a place at Hogwarts, and a list of necessary items. Was it customary that the headmaster delivered acceptance letters personally? That seemed unlikely, since a letter usually implied post. Had the fidelius charm interfered with owls?

"Very curious," said Professor Dumbledore.

"What's curious?" Harry could not help asking. His gaze flickered over to Petri, who was standing stiffly to the side, expression blank.

"My boy, forgive me. I consider myself to be gifted with a very good memory, but it seems I have already forgotten your name," said Professor Dumbledore. "Alas, a reminder is perhaps not the remedy here."

He turned to Petri again. "I admit I find myself impressed, Joachim. But perhaps it is not so surprising. I recall you had a particular touch with the fidelius."

Petri flinched. "It is one of my specialities," he agreed, carefully.

"All the same, I am terribly curious to understand how Harry Potter disappeared without a trace from the care of his relatives two years ago, only to appear now in the heart of wizarding London," said Professor Dumbledore.

"See for yourself," said Petri, finally looking up. There was some kind of wordless exchange between them, and then Professor Dumbledore slumped slightly, as if a new weight had been added to his shoulders.

"Clever," he said. "All the same, I believe it would best if Harry returned to his relatives until it comes time for him to attend Hogwarts."

The Dursleys? Harry made a face, just as Petri said, "His muggle relatives? Surely you jest."

"He is not like you, Joachim," said Professor Dumbledore.

"Of course not," said Petri. "That is irrelevant."

"Magic does not make worth," Professor Dumbledore said, his eyes losing their twinkle. It felt like a reprimand, but Harry didn't understand what he meant. He noticed that Petri's hand twitched towards his wand pocket.

There was a pause, and then Professor Dumbledore said, "I see we are at an impasse." He suddenly drew his wand, and every hair on Harry's body stood on end. Petri, if anything, seemed even more affected, for he immediately fixed his gaze upon the wand and looked ready to take a step back or turn and apparate away at a moment's notice.

"This is hardly your style," Petri said. Professor Dumbledore angled his wand to point down towards the floor, his eyes twinkling again.

"You misunderstand, Joachim," he said. "Harry is very important to the future of the wizarding world, more important than you could know. I simply require your word. I hope you would agree that that is more, my style, as you say."

Petri gave a jerky nod.

"Protect Harry, even from yourself," said Professor Dumbledore. "Do this for him, if not me. Do I have your word?"

Petri was still staring at Professor Dumbledore's wand. It was a peculiar wand, Harry thought, very long and not smooth like the others he had seen, but bulging at intervals with what seemed to be carvings of berries.

"You have it," said Petri, at length. "Don't you think that I don't know what you're doing."

"I wouldn't dare imagine that you didn't, my boy," said Professor Dumbledore. Harry thought, rather inappropriately, that it was a little funny to hear Petri, old as he was, be called "boy," and had to hold back a giggle. Petri grimaced.

"But I see that I've overstayed my welcome. I shall see you at Hogwarts, Harry," Professor Dumbledore added, with a brief glance back. Harry watched him ascend the stairs in bewilderment. Hadn't he claimed to have forgotten Harry's name?

The casket door slammed shut, and Petri collapsed onto a chair. Harry didn't think he'd ever seen the man look so out of sorts, and was almost concerned.

"Who was that?" he asked. "Did he just threaten you—us?"

"That," said Petri, "was Albus Dumbledore, the Supreme Mugwump and the most powerful wizard in the world. His very presence is threat enough."

"What's Supreme Mugwump mean?" Harry asked, trying not to snort at the strange title, given the seriousness of the context.

"The head of the International Confederation of Wizards," said Petri. Harry nodded. That sounded very important indeed. Someone like that was the headmaster of Hogwarts?

Then he remembered something else. "How did he see through the fidelius charm? I thought that was impossible! And why did he want me to go back to the Dursleys, I mean, my relatives?"

"He did not see through the fidelius as much as around it," said Petri. "Rest assured, he still has no way of knowing that you are Harry Potter, as little as it matters. As for the muggles, I do not know. He's a muggle-lover, but that cannot be the only reason."

"Oh. Couldn't someone else do the same thing with the fidelius?" Harry asked. Petri shook his head.

"I doubt it. Dumbledore is an almost unparalleled genius," he said.

"How do you know him?" Harry asked.

"About fifty years ago, there was a war on the Continent," Petri said. Harry nodded, thinking of the Second World War and wondering if wizards had been involved in that. "Dumbledore ended it, nearly single-handedly. Afterwards he spoke for me, saved me from prison, even though we were enemies. Perhaps he pitied me; I do not know his reasoning."

Harry privately thought that Dumbledore had made the wrong choice, seeing as Petri had obviously done all kinds of illegal things since then, and probably deserved to be in prison.

"Oh," he said instead. He frowned, and then asked, "But wait, he came to see me. Why? He said I was important, but I don't understand how."

"I don't know," Petri said sharply, "but it may have something to do with your defeat of the Dark Lord."

"Maybe he thinks it means I'm good at magic," Harry suggested. Petri snorted; humour seemed to revive him somewhat.

"You're above average for your age," he allowed. "But I doubt you could manage the Dark Lord again, if you can't manage me."

Harry made a face and opened his mouth to say something that would probably be stupid enough to earn him a stinging hex, but then he remembered that he was still holding his Hogwarts letter and changed course.

"Am I going to Hogwarts, then? Not Durmstrang?"

"Yes, so it seems," said Petri, his face rather pinched. "Dumbledore did appear to be under that impression."

He took a glance at the supply list. "I don't have half these things," he said.

"We can go to Diagon Alley later," said Petri, sighing deeply. "When does term start?"

Harry looked over his letter. "Term begins on September 1," he read, "We await your owl by no later than July 31, wait, do we need to owl the school?"

"I would imagine not, since the headmaster himself came to see you," said Petri. Harry wasn't convinced.

"But what if they don't let me go because of something stupid like that?" he said. "I'll send a letter. Wait, what do I write? Just 'I accept?'"

Petri sighed. "You may waste parchment when you get your own."

"I'll write it on the back of this," Harry said stubbornly, flipping over his acceptance letter. Petri did not stop him when he walked over to the table to grab one of the self-inking quills lying there.

Harry found himself very excited to be going to Hogwarts. He had got used to Petri, and there was no way he wanted to go back to the likes of the Dursleys, but that didn't meant he wanted to spend every waking moment in the dark wizard's presence or else trapped inside a piece of luggage. At Hogwarts, without Dudley around, maybe he could even make some friends.

On the morning of Harry's birthday, they received an owl from Professor Dumbledore with the key to Harry's vault enclosed. It was entirely news to Harry that he had such a vault, but he supposed it made sense that his parents hadn't left him with nothing, given that his father at least had been a pureblood wizard from a relatively old family. Why Professor Dumbledore had the key was not explained, but Harry acknowledged the wisdom of keeping such a thing out of the hands of the Dursleys. Even if they couldn't have taken the money for themselves, he had no doubt that they would have conveniently "forgotten" to tell him about it.

"You'd best not go near Gringotts," Petri said, and went to retrieve Harry's money alone. Harry was fairly certain, after contemplating the matter at length, that even Gornuk Turnlink would not be able to recognise him, but he still had nightmares sometimes about being trapped and was in no hurry to go back into the tunnels. He was stuck in the trunk instead, but at least he knew he could get out.

There was no need to go, anyway, even if he didn't trust Petri. Harry had kept Nalrod's ledger as a memento and a reminder, but he was not above using it for its intended purpose. It was enchanted in a way that Petri had been entirely unable to decipher, but it was obvious how it worked. It showed the amount of money in all the vaults Nalrod had been in charge of. Harry had only needed to press his key to the key-shaped indent in the cover to get his own vault added to the book.

He had the rather mind-blowing sum of 51,246 galleons in his vault, though as he watched the number revised itself down a hundred, presumably due to Petri's withdrawal. The total was enough to purchase a nice flat in Carkitt Market, according to Petri, though he would be very broke afterwards and probably could not afford to pay the property tax. Harry didn't care about that. The point was that he was rich!

It didn't bother him that Petri insisted he spend his own money, because it meant he could buy his things new instead of second-hand like Petri most definitely would have wanted. After nine years suffering the sight of Dudley being spoiled rotten while Harry got nothing but scraps, he wanted to indulge himself for a change. Not to that extent, of course—he had no desire to become a pig in a wig—just a little.

He knew how much money was in Petri's vault, too, since it had been one of Nalrod's. Petri was also rich, but to Harry's astonishment, he had less than Harry did. His vault contained just short of forty thousand galleons. Harry wondered where his parents had got so much money, especially given that they had died very young. Perhaps the money was from his grandparents' generation.

The trunk lid opened with a click and a hiss, and Petri's stern face peered inside. The ladder unfolded itself and Harry scrambled up to the surface. Petri handed him a jingling bag of coins.

"Thanks," said Harry. "A hundred galleons, right?"

"Yes," said Petri, looking askance at the ledger tucked under Harry's arm. "That should be more than enough for your school things."

They flooed into the Leaky Cauldron, as usual. An old, short wizard in a top hat sat at the table immediately by the fireplace, and Harry instinctively ducked his head to avoid being seen, even though he knew he couldn't be recognised. He was sure that this same wizard had bowed to him in a muggle shop once. Were English wizards really so obsessed with Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived?

They really were, as he was soon to find out.

Petri took Harry to Flourish and Blotts first, probably since he was also interested in buying a book or two. All the set books for Hogwarts were up front, as it was the season for school shopping, so Harry picked out the ones he needed within a minute. Petri already had the Standard Book of Spells in every grade, Magical Theory, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, and the self-updating edition of A History of Magic, so Harry did not need to get those. The Standard Book was a little old, and an edition behind, but Petri assured him that there would be little substantive difference and Harry already knew most of the spells in the first book, anyway.

While he waited for Petri, who was browsing the Divination section, Harry glanced at the fiction shelves and had to do a double take—his name was everywhere! From Harry Potter and the Dragon Rider to The Adventures of Harry Potter, Boy Auror, there was an entire shelf dedicated to what appeared to be stories about him. He was flabbergasted and had to pull one from the shelf and take a look.

"Harry waved his wand and summoned a wall of fire, stalling the dragon as its iron suit melted in the heat. 'Only a fool would armour a dragon!' he cried victoriously. He looked back to his sidekick, Rupert. 'Rupert, take the lady and run. I'll hold him off!' he ordered. Rupert climbed onto the magic carpet..." Harry scowled, finding it disturbing to see himself depicted as some kind of fantasy hero. "It's not even good," he muttered, closing the book and slipping it back into its place.

"There you are." It was Petri. He glanced at the shelf Harry had been staring at and sneered. "Plenty of wizards try to profit from others' achievements."

"They're not even good," Harry complained.

"You'd best hope they never get better," said Petri, and Harry supposed he had a point. He paid twenty-one galleons for the rather pricey textbooks—The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection had been a whopping seven galleons—and they left. Petri did not buy anything in the end.

As they exited, they passed right by Lucius Malfoy, who was entering the shop. The man paid them no mind, not even to sneer. Harry stiffened despite himself.

They headed next door to Madam Malkin's. Harry had just about outgrown his current robes, to the point where his ankles showed even when he stood still, so it was perfect timing for new ones.

When they arrived, a very familiar blond boy was already being fitted in the back. Harry took one look at him and almost turned around to leave, but Petri was blocking the door so he couldn't without making a scene.

"Hogwarts, dear?" asked Madam Malkin, and Harry nodded. "Oh, Mr. Peters. Is this your son?"

"My nephew," said Petri. He leaned down and whispered in Harry's ear, "Play nicely." As if Harry needed to hear that. More loudly, he said, "I'll be across the street to fetch your potions kit. Stay here."

And to make sure of it, Petri took Harry's money with him. Harry let him, because he honestly did not trust himself not to get into some kind of trouble.

Madam Malkin ushered Harry onto a stool right next to Lucius Malfoy's son. The other boy glanced over to Harry curiously, earning a reprimand from the witch fitting him, which he entirely ignored.

"Hello. Hogwarts too?" asked the boy, who evidently did not recognise Harry at all even if the converse was not true.

"Yes," said Harry, not daring to nod now that he was draped in pinned fabric.

"Father's next door buying my books and Mother's up the street looking at wands," said the young Malfoy. Harry could not remember if he had sounded this spoilt the last time they had met, but he was definitely verging on Dudley's level. The boy started to go on about how he was going to smuggle a broom into Hogwarts despite the first year ban, a broom he apparently did not even yet have.

"I saw your father at Flourish and Blotts," Harry said, just to get him to shut up. "Malfoy, right?"

He bit back a grimace as the boy practically preened. "That's right. Heard of us have you? I'm Draco Malfoy. What's your surname?"

"Potter," said Harry, without thinking.

"Potter, like Harry Potter?"

"Yes, like that," said Harry, feeling suddenly confident. It was a far cry from the last time Harry had told Draco Malfoy his name. There was not much reaction at all, and Malfoy only nodded absently. Despite himself, Harry was a little amused at his strange anonymity.

"So, do you know what house you'll be sorted in?" Malfoy asked.

"No," said Harry, wincing as he was stuck with a pin.

"Sorry, dear," said Madam Malkin.

"It's fine. How do they decide?" Harry asked.

"I'm not sure. It's a secret," Malfoy admitted, "but all the same I know I'll be in Slytherin. That's where my family's been for generations. Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

"You wouldn't really leave?" Harry asked, sceptical. He didn't know anything about the Hogwarts houses, but he couldn't imagine that any of them was really worse than the others. "What would you do instead?"

"Well, Father's mentioned sending me to Durmstrang, but Mother doesn't want me to go there, says it's too far," said Malfoy. "But Hufflepuff."

Harry was pleased that they had turned to the topic of Durmstrang, about which he was ironically more knowledgeable than about Hogwarts. Petri had gone to Durmstrang himself, and he told stories on occasion.

"It is far," Harry said. "It's up north on the Continent, on top of a mountain, somewhere really cold."

Malfoy made a face, and Harry gathered he didn't much like the cold. "Father says they don't accept riff-raff there, not like Hogwarts. Hogwarts takes all sorts. Can you imagine, some of them have never even heard of it until they get their letters?"

Harry guessed that Malfoy was talking about mudbloods, but even Harry knew better now than to say the word in public. They were called muggle-borns here. There hadn't been any muggle-borns to speak of in Germany, as far as Harry had known, but they were a third of the population in Britain. Petri complained about it all the time, almost as much as Uncle Vernon used to (and probably still did) complain about foreigners.

Harry frowned a little. He knew what it was like to grow up knowing nothing about magic. It had hardly been his fault, and it was the same for muggle-borns. He was about to say as much to Malfoy when the witch pinning the blond boy's robes said, "You're all done," and let him step down from the stool.

"I suppose I'll see you at Hogwarts," said Malfoy, and allowed himself to be led to the front of the shop. Harry was not sorry to see him go.

Petri came in several minutes later, thankfully after Lucius Malfoy had already stopped by to collect his son. Harry took his money and paid for his new robes and shirts, and a set of black and grey striped ties which would change to the right colour once he was sorted, if he put his wand to them and said the name of his house. He deposited everything inside the cauldron Petri was carrying like a shopping basket.

"What is left?" Petri asked.

"Scales and telescope," said Harry.

"We will have to go to Wiseacre's. Do not forget, you need parchment too," said Petri.

"Ooh," Harry said, admiring a gaudy green quill in the window of Amanuensis Quills.

"You would look ridiculous writing with that," said Petri. Harry scowled, even though he privately agreed. The pinions had not been stripped much either, so he suspected it was more decorative than intended for actual use.

They stopped by Scribbulus Writing Instruments instead, which sold a much more sensible array of quills, though it had a wider variety of inks, including a colour-change ink that flashed a different bright shade every few seconds. Harry picked up a bottle of regular black ink, two seven-yard scrolls of parchment, a twenty-nine pack of loose sheets, and a dozen cheap goose quills. If he asked nicely, Petri might enchant them to self-ink. At any rate, the self-inking quills in the shop cost as much as all the ones he bought combined, so he decided against them.

They went to Wiseacre's to pick up a collapsible brass telescope and a set of scales, as well as a basic trunk, and used the shop's floo to return home directly.

"Can you make these self-inking?" Harry asked Petri, taking out his new quills.

"Can you make them self-inking?" Petri asked him in return. Harry frowned at the impromptu assignment. It was his birthday.

Knowing that an appeal from sentiment was unlikely to work, Harry resigned himself to considering the problem.

"The quill has to get the ink from the bottle, but not all the time or it'll overflow," he said. "It should only ink itself when you've run out. No, why? It should just stay fully inked and replenish itself whenever you use some. A switching spell to switch old and new ink?"

"That could work," Petri said, and Harry got the impression that it in fact could not work at all, "but it would be very inefficient. Can you tell me why?"

"Well it would switch every second or so even when you're not using it. That's too much," said Harry. "So put a conditional charm on if the tip is pressing on something. I can't do that, though." Not that he could cast a switching spell, either.

"Suppose you could. It's a theoretical exercise," said Petri.

"Okay, so a conditional charm. Switch every time there's pressure. Is that it?" Harry asked.

"A good attempt," said Petri, picking up one of Harry's new quills, "but such an advanced switching spell is beyond all but masters of transfiguration. There is also the question of what you would do if the ink runs out."

"Can't you refill it?" Harry asked. He'd seen Petri cast the spell on a glass of water before, in lieu of using the water-making spell again.

"I could," said Petri.

"Why does anybody buy ink?" Harry asked.

"Convenience," said Petri, "and of course the quality degrades if you refill it. A good-quality refill is more trouble than it's worth. Then there is magical or metal-based ink, which you cannot duplicate."

Harry supposed that that was why Petri never duplicated their food. Still, he was curious. "But it's possible to make a good refill? How?"

Petri sighed. "I have a book on this, somewhere. Forget about the refill for now. How will you bring the ink to your quill? And keep in mind that whatever you do must persist after sharpening."

Harry thought about it a bit more and then sighed in frustration. "I don't know," he said. "The switching spell was my only guess."

"The quills at the shop are most likely specially designed," Petri said. "It is a quill shop, not an enchanter's shop. There is a tube in the shaft that holds ink, and they cast the refilling charm on the tube."

"So it's a fountain pen?" Harry demanded, feeling a little cheated.

"More or less," Petri agreed, "But there is a way to charm a regular quill."

He was not forthcoming with the solution, so Harry was forced to think some more. A little hesitantly, he asked, "How does that blood-drawing spell you use work?"

"Good. That's a variant of the siphoning charm," Petri said, smiling. "You could use it to draw the ink into the quill. A good solution. But in fact you do not need to siphon the ink anywhere. You only need a linking charm, which you will learn much later."

Petri performed the enchantment then. It was a long string of wand movements and a chant that verged on a tongue twister. He used the quill to write the enchantment for Harry.

"First we set the linking charm between the quill and the inkwell. The charm does not care whether there's any ink. Set the conditional charm on pressure, along the shaft and not only the tip, and relative movement between ends. This is important so that the quill does not bleed ink everywhere. End with the nullity charm. Simple," said Petri.

Given that Harry could not cast any of the spells involved, other than the nullity charm, he would hardly consider it simple, but was glad for the functioning quill. Petri quickly repeated the enchantment on several of the others Harry had bought as well.

"That should suffice," he said.

"Thanks," said Harry.

He packed all his equipment in his new trunk, which also had an extension charm on it but only a modest one that doubled the depth and width, and they ventured into Petri's library to retrieve the schoolbooks he hadn't bought, so as to have them all in one place.

Petri summoned them all by their titles, along with Duplication for Two, by Ambrose Dagworth, which was about how to duplicate things effectively. They took the books out of the trunk and Harry sat down on his bed to read the duplication book.

On the first page, unsurprisingly, were the instructions for the duplication charm. The incantation was geminio, and the book warned that any simple duplicate was of inferior quality and would fade after a time. What "inferior quality" meant apparently depended on the original item, but the only thing that could be reliably duplicated was quartz, and it still wasn't permanent.

Harry tried to duplicate one of his practice leaves and ended up with a very sad, very withered copy that seemed to evaporate when he tried to touch it. He put away his wand in favour of reading a bit more.

Essentially permanent, quality-preserving duplication was possible, as Petri had suggested, but it was a type of alchemy, which was beyond anything taught at wizarding schools. It involved infusing the property of quartz into the item in question using a very complicated-looking transfiguration, duplicating the object as usual, and then submerging it into an even more complicated-looking potion. And of course, this process only worked on non-enchanted items, and there was an extra factor to be added for every kind of material in the item.

Harry saw what Petri meant when he said that it was more effort than it was worth, but the idea was still interesting. The author suggested that once someone had mastered this method, they could then go on to duplicate valuable items or circumvent the "Principle Exceptions to Gamp's Law," whatever that was, and make an infinite food or gold supply.

Infinite food did sound rather good to Harry, but he wasn't sure he really wanted to eat food that "had the property of quartz" and had been dipped into a potion full of strange ingredients.

"Do you know alchemy?" Harry asked Petri later, wondering why he had this book at all.

"No," said Petri. "I have only basic transfiguration and potions skill. I am sure plenty of wizards own that book, even though the vast majority do not practise alchemy at all. Almost everyone fantasizes about effective duplication. As much as you wanted or needed of anything? No more scarcity. It would be a utopia. Unfortunately, alchemy is the very opposite of easy."

Harry nodded, looking regretfully at the book. Petri was right. He wanted the powers described in that book, could imagine them and what he would do with them, but it seemed hopelessly difficult compared even to other desirable spells that were currently far out of his reach. Maybe after Hogwarts, probably after his apprenticeship ended, he could go back to the topic.

"But does that mean nobody can do this?" he asked. "If even just one person could, wouldn't there still be no more scarcity?"

"There are people who can," Petri said. "Albus Dumbledore, for example, and his old alchemy master, Nicolas Flamel. But it still isn't so efficient. They could make everything they need, but not everything everyone else needs."

Harry set the book aside and lay down on his bed. Magic could do amazing things, but it still wasn't enough to solve people's problems. Maybe a wizard like Albus Dumbledore could do everything for himself, using just magic, but most witches and wizards Harry had seen weren't very good at more than one or two kinds of magic. He thought it was a bit of a waste.

Harry only knew anything about charms, and maybe a little about conjuration and divination, but only the kind that was dark magic and not really useful. That was why there had to be a place like Hogwarts, he concluded. Hogwarts had some of everything. Harry smiled to himself.

He couldn't wait.

A/N: Readers may be pleased to hear that this story has finally acquired a plot. Yes; only after 100k words of rambling nonsense has it occurred to me that something of the sort might be necessary.