Just like that, the war was over. A collective sigh of relief was exhaled from magical Britain. The leader of the dark forces, the Dark Lord Voldemort had vanished overnight. Rumour had it that Voldemort himself had attacked the last surviving members of the Potter household, and had attempted to slaughter the defenceless Potter child in his crib. However, the curse rebounded, killing the Dark Lord where he stood. The once mighty Voldemort had been vanquished by a child. His army, named Death Eaters by the media, was all but finished. The public fought back with a vengeance. Those too timid to once fight boldly threw themselves in defence of their friends and family. Death Eaters were rounded up left and right, sent to dwell in prison for the rest of their life. The only place a Death Eater was headed to was Azkaban, a sentence that was worse than death. There were those that managed to escape, however, claiming that they had been under the control of the Dark Lord. It certainly helped that they were also the most affluent among their peers. However, there were those that bunkered down, not willing to give up. These Death Eaters had neither the money nor connections to get out of their lifelong sentence, and saw fit to cause as much chaos as they could. Death before dishonour.

It was why Albus found himself currently waiting outside a decrepit old building. Inside housed Death Eaters that had killed numerous muggles and wizards alike, carving a path of destruction in their wake before running off into hiding. This group of Death Eaters was special, however. In their midst, there was one Antonin Dolohov. One in the inner circle of Voldemort. Powerful, ruthless, and sadistic in his methods, those who stood against him stood no chance. The magical enforcement, Aurors, had finally managed to corner them in the building before Albus. They had engaged him before, but Antonin had defeated them numerous times, always leading to heavy casualties. Albus had himself chosen to aid the Aurors in their fight, bringing along with him a few trusted allies. At the go-ahead, a strike team of six Aurors would move in through the front door, bringing it down as fast as caution would allow them. They would bear the brunt of the attack, two of them shielding any attempts to kill the group while the other four worked on tearing down the wards erected by the Death Eaters. Other assembled Aurors would provide covering fire from the front, drawing more hostile attention. However, this was not the main plan of attack. This was merely a distraction. In the meantime, Albus and his allies would sneak in through the back. A rather safe plan, if conventional. Albus had no qualms against it.

A red flare burst out from the front side of the building. The go-ahead. The Aurors worked fast on the other side, and already, explosions and bursts of light were seen from the front of the house. Albus waited momentarily, double-checking that his invisibility charm was properly in place. Then, he began sneaking forward, his allies no doubt following behind him. The strike team had finished dealing with the majority of the wards, but there were still a few left, so Albus decided to help them out. Quickly, he felt for the weave of magic thrumming throughout the house. Reaching out, he grasped it as tightly, and with a flex of his hand, the wards shattered. They were through. Opening the door, he was met with a shabby girl, distracted by the sounds of conflict on the other side. The shabby girl turned around, his hand shakily fumbling for her wand. With a wave of his wand, however, Albus quickly put a stop to that. The wall next to him shook, and ropes of concrete shot out, enveloping the girl where she stood. The ropes tightened, and the girl slammed against the wall, unconscious. Around him, his allies started storming through the house, clearing the way for Albus. Nodding, he decided to go upstairs, trusting his friends to take care of whoever was on the first. It was time to go meet one of his former students.

Making a steady walk upstairs, Albus heard the gruff yells of Antonin, commanding his men to strike the Aurors down. That simply would not do. A thrust of his wand made short work of the door, blasting it open. Antonin whipped around, wand at the ready. A flurry of spells flew out of his trigger-happy wand, slamming into the stone wall that Albus had already summoned from the ground. Antonin paused, waiting for the dust to settle to see if he got whoever came through the door. Albus transfigured the stone wall into two living, breathing lions, meeting his opponent face to face.

"You!" Antonin's face paled, seeing the living legend in front of him.

"Yes, Mr. Dolohov. Me." The lions pounced forward, and Antonin shielded himself, but he was not their target. Down went the two wizards behind Antonin, too busy dealing with the Aurors to divert their attention to Albus. Cursing, Antonin sent two curses at the lions, splattering them to pieces, before focusing his attention on his previous Headmaster. A tense moment was shared between the two, and then he struck, cutting violently through the air with his wand hand, sending wave after wave of inky-black jets of curses at him. No doubt, they were meant to cause grievous, if not fatal injuries. Albus countered by a flick of his wand. A bright white shield burst forth, stunning Antonin, the black curses splattering harmlessly against the shield. Albus worked quickly, transfiguring the ground around Antonin into thick vines that shot towards him. Antonin cursed, sending wave after wave of fire to incinerate the vines. So distracted was he, however, that he failed to notice the shadows sneaking up behind him. By the time they struck, it was too late. The lions that had been slowly reforming over the course of their fight sank their teeth into his arms, causing Antonin to wince as their razor-sharp incisors sliced through his forearm muscles. Struggling, he sent a weak curse that carved through the face of foul beasts. It wasn't the lions he should have been worried about, though, as he forgot about his opponent in front of him. Albus sent a stunner that caused Antonin's world to go black.

Harry, now seven years old, sat down in front of Gnobly. Harry had grown a lot, about average height for someone his age. He had scraggy hair that covered the scar he had been marked by birth with, a lightning bolt. It had never faded, though scars usually heal over time. There was something preventing it from healing naturally or magically. Despite this, Harry wasn't the strangest of the two individuals in the room. Gnobly was a short, about three feet tall, house-elf. This wasn't to say that Gnobly was a small house-elf. No, in fact, he had usually towered over his kind, being larger than the average for his species. Gnobly was a large knife-eared individual with a small whispy beard on his face. His arms were thin, but defined, from all the hard work that he'd put into the small cottage that Harry lived in. While house-elves had the ability to perform everyday household tasks through their own special kind of magic, Gnobly was strange in that he liked to complete his chores by hand. It was something that he had instilled into Harry, who had no qualms with physical work.

In the middle, there was a bowl, filled with dough that both Gnobly and Harry were kneading, together. Harry enjoyed all the lessons that Gnobly taught him, but if he had to ultimately decide what brought him the most joy, it would be the cooking. In some strange sort of way, cooking was a little like magic. Magic required the utmost focus and willpower in order to turn something to another thing. At least, that was what little Harry's grasp of the magic that he had been practising was.

"Now, we've added all the ingredients, see how the dough turns tough? Yes, that means it's ready. Come, let us place the dough on the tray."

Gnobly brought out a metal tray, with some baking parchment placed upon it. Gnobly and Harry dropped scoops of dough, slowly shaping them into circles.

"Now, we wait." Gnobly told him as they placed the tray gingerly into the oven.

"How long do we have to wait?" Whined young Harry.

"Now, child, waiting isn't necessarily bad." Said Gnobly. "Waiting just means you have time to do something else."

"Really? What are we going to do?"

"Nothing, child."

"But you said waiting means you have to do something else!"

"And sometimes," Gnobly continued, making sure he had Harry's attention. His large light blue eyes made contact with Harry's emerald ones. "That something else means nothing else. Doing nothing isn't wrong, Harry. Sometimes waiting is doing something."

"Huh." Harry mumbled. He didn't quite get it. Sometimes, Harry didn't get what Gnobly was trying to say, but he still enjoyed how wise and sage he sounded. In a way, it reminded Harry of Dumbledore. "So… we're just gonna watch the cookies bake?"

"Yes, child. Sometimes the only thing you can do is watch. Rushing things won't help."

"What happens if we rush the cookies?"

"They'll come out runny, or if we turn up the heat, they'll come out too crispy. We're looking to make the perfect cookies, aren't we Harry?"

"Yes! The perfect cookies!" Harry said, undeterred by the life lesson that Gnobly had given to him.

Ding!

"It's done, it's done!"

"And not a moment too soon, child. I believe someone is here to see you."

Harry turned around, to be greeted with the sight of Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Hello, my dear boy."

"Sir, you're here!"

"Of course, how else would I be able to taste my favourite cook's cookies?" He spread his arms open, and Harry immediately leapt into his arms. Dumbledore gripped him tightly, giving Harry three solid pats on the back. He had just gotten back from a situation at the Ministry. But nothing would have prevented him from spending time with his adopted son.

"Here, Dumbledore. Take one." Gnobly said, already having collected the cookies from the oven and placed them into a container. Dumbledore grabbed one, looking at it, frowning. He took a cautious nibble. Sighing, he knelt down, looking Harry dead in the eye. His eyes didn't betray him in the slightest, cold, hard.

"Harry…" He began. Harry stared at him with wide eyes. "It tastes great." His disapproving face instantly lightened, and somehow, though he never showed his teeth, his smile warmed the room. A bright twinkle was in his eye, and somehow, though he spoke no more words after that, Harry knew he was proud of him.

Harry would remember this moment for as long as he lived.

"Focus, Harry." Dumbledore ordered. With a wave of the wand in his hand, a tremor shook the floor before violently splitting open, erupting violently with lava. Harry, no older than eleven, dove to the side and tucked himself into a small roll, getting back on his feet in an instant. A movement that was far faster than a ten-year-old could perform, yet the boy shot up, firing off two red orbs of light with a shout as he sprinted to the side, taking full advantage of the mobility he had over the old man. The old man watched the orbs zoom towards him, before flicking his wand, a wall of stone sliding out of the ground. The two orbs fizzled uselessly against the wall. Harry, however, ran straight at it, undeterred, a bolt of yellow shooting out of his wand, blasting the wall open. Leaping through the fresh hole brought him to a sudden stop, as the old man sent him flying back, a streak of white slamming into his chest.

Harry slowly got up, shrugging off the pain with a grimace on his face. He was greeted with the sight of twinkling blue eyes above a massive beard surrounding a gentle smile. 'You know, I don't particularly like you seeing sprawled on the ground, my boy.' The old man offered Harry his hand. He took it, feeling the firm, but comforting, grip of his mentor as he was helped to his feet.

"Then why do you send me there every time?" Harry grumbled. Dumbledore chuckled in response.

"Alas, my dear boy, it's not what I want that drives me, but what is needed."

Harry nodded, his shaggy hair falling over his emerald eyes. He had been trained for all his life for one purpose. The defeat of the dark lord, Voldemort. The lightning shaped scar on his forehead burned, a constant reminder of what Voldemort took from him that fateful night. Six years ago, Voldemort had killed his mother and father in their own home. However, his own curse rebounded, killing him instantly. Or so the Ministry of Magic said. Dumbledore believed that Voldemort had survived, a shade of his former self, but survived all the same. It was because of this he had taken Harry, moulded him into a warrior. Harry himself had no qualms with that. The magical world had coined him the boy who lived, the only one to ever survive the killing curse. Harry knew this wasn't true. No child could just shrug off the killing curse, when the masters of old had all failed. No, something else had happened that night, and no one knew.

Now ten, Harry was a year away from starting his formal education in Hogwarts. His motivation never ceased, always hoping to become the best person he could be. He owed Dumbledore that much. His eyes moved over to the wizened old man. Standing in front of him was possibly the greatest wizard in modern England. His sheer magical power alone could hold him in a duel against the most skilled duellists in the world, but his expertise and mastery of the wand was set him far, far apart.

"Now, off to breakfast with you. It's always good to eat and get some food in your stomach before the day officially starts." Harry ran off, his stomach grumbling in protest.

This was how his life had always been, ever since he had been old enough to carry a wand. Before that, his time was spent with his face shoved into a pile of books about the theory of magic. However, while Harry's concentration failed him, his innate skill in magic more than made up for it. From young, Harry had been able to pick up magic with less difficulty than most. While he only had a few spells up his sleeve, Harry was always eager to learn more. He just preferred a more practical way of teaching it.

Sitting down at the table, Harry grabbed his fork and spoon with his hands. His plate was served to him by Gnobley. It contained a sizzling sunny-side up egg, some bacon, and a croissant. Instantly, Harry knew something was up. This food was way too unhealthy for Dumbledore to even approve serving him. Just as the thought passed through his head, the old wizard himself strolled in, carrying something behind his back, a twinkle in his eye and a devious smile. Harry was stunned. While Dumbledore didn't neglect him, rarely ever would Dumbledore stay for breakfast, as he had to attend to his Headmasterly duties.

"Harry, my dear boy. Congratulations." Dumbledore revealed what he had been carrying behind his back, a letter which he gingerly passed to Harry.

Carefully opening it, Harry peeled back the opening flap, and dragged the apparently important document inside out. He unfurled the letter, and let it drop to the side of his plate. On the letter, it stated,

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore

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

Dear Mr Potter,

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

Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Harry put the letter down. The words were ringing in his head. A place at Hogwarts. Which meant-

"Happy birthday, my dear boy." Dumbledore smiled kindly at him. Grinning, Harry tackled him into a hug, squeezing the old man tightly. "I thought the letter might be better delivered by this old man rather than one of the numerous birds available to us in Hogwarts. Less effort for the owls."

"Thank you!" Whooping internally, Harry sat back in his chair and started scarfing down the delectable breakfast. Compared to the usual assortment of bread and fruits, the taste of bacon sizzled against his tongue, searing their way into his tastebuds.

"After this, Hagrid will take you to Diagon Alley to purchase the supplies you need for the fiscal year ahead." Hearing this, Harry's mood saddened slightly, but he nodded all the same. His adopted father had no time to bring him on his first trip to get his supplies, he had other things to attend to. Harry wouldn't let that put a damper on his mood though, he was finally getting his wand and familiar today.

"Come along, come along." Said the half-giant to the small wizard. At 4'7", Harry was a little bit on the small side. Yet, the man beside him, Hagrid, absolutely dwarfed him. This came in handy for warding off the massive crowd that beset them on either side. Harry had never gone out before, so he was enamoured with the brick-based buildings, while Hagrid shoved the crowd aside, creating a parting in the sea of people. The positive unintended consequence of Harry being a shut-in meant that he wasn't an object of interest for the crowd, as someone who was the son of a wizard of great renown like Albus Dumbledore might be. Bystanders shoved their way past, in a hurry to get out of the swarm in the streets.

Their first stop was to Gringotts Wizarding Bank, home to the goblins who controlled the finances of the wizarding world. A towering white corner building flanked by two Grecian pillars, with a large gold plank that contained the name of the establishment. Inside, lay a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

Gulping, Harry stuck close to Hagrid, the half-giant a comforting presence in the unfamiliar area. Dumbledore had never saw fit to bring him to Gringotts, instead just waving it off as 'boring times for boring people'. As the only bank their world had, Gringotts won out through their competitive prices, interest rates, and once they had the majority of wizarding gold in their coffers, the massive monopoly that they held over all. Numerous attempts had tried to upheave the goblin monopoly, to no avail. For banking, however, these goblins were the finest available, upholding the pristine standards of their company. It was why Harry found himself in front of a very tall counter with a goblin behind it. This goblin was squinting at its book through a rather thick pair of spectacles, writing information down periodically once its contemplative silence had ended. Hagrid cleared his throat, and the goblin lowered its glasses down to look at him.

"I'm here to open up this kids vault." Hagrid said. At that, the goblin didn't move, clearly awaiting a name. Hagrid leaned in conspiratorially, and said in a rather loud whisper, "You know, the Potter's kid."

The goblin raised an eyebrow, and sharply questioned Hagrid. "Do you have a key?"

Hagrid started unscrupulously emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy old biscuits over the goblin's book. The goblin wrinkled his nose, his lips turning into an upturned snarl. "Got it," Hagrid finally said. Nodding, Hagrid dropped an ornate gold key into the open palm of the goblin. "I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," he continued, "It's about the thing in vault seven-hundred and thirteen."

The goblin made sure to read the letter carefully, his eyes flicking to Hagrid every once in a while.

"Right this way." That said, the goblin hopped down. For someone who was working at such a tall desk, the goblin was an entire head shorter than Harry. The goblin led them both through a rather tight corridor, Hagrid bumbling and bumping into cabinets along the way. The trio ended up in front of a door emblazoned in gold letters with the name 'Griphook'.

"He'll be with you shortly." Harry tried to peer through the frosted glass window that made up the upper half of the door, but the glass was too thick and so his young curiosity remained unsated. Thankfully though, it was not for long, as a goblin in a classy three-piece suit wandered out of his office, which Harry saw was tidy and organised for the heaping amounts of paper that lay within. Compared to the goblin that had led them here, Griphook had larger ears and slicked-back black hair. Next to Griphook, Harry felt quite underdressed, having only a casual black t-shirt and beige jeans on. The two goblins shared a short conversation, and then the goblin with the thick glasses departed, walking speedily back the way they came. Griphook however, walked further into the building, leading them to an elevator. Taking the rickety elevator down, the doors parted, revealing a large chasm, a spiderweb of mine tracks spread throughout it. In front of them was a lone minecart. The minecart walls looked barely high enough for a human being to be safely secure, evidently being fashioned for goblin heights. Harry gave the minecart a quick once-over. This looked unsafe. Griphook walked in, looking completely at home. Harry slowly clambered into the minecart, his heart in his throat, but he had no choice. It was as if the goblin sensed his reluctance, as he was met with a mischievous look and a sharp-toothed grin. And then Griphook pulled the lever.

Harry felt his stomach drop as the minecart immediately sped up, accelerating at an impossible rate. The minecart led them through many steep drops, sharp curves and sudden uphill tracks. His eyes stung as the wind screamed against his face. Along the way, Harry saw dead ends illuminated by luminous yellow safety barriers. He prayed to whatever god out there that the track they were on wouldn't end like that. Screeching to a halt, the cart stopped in front of a small pocket of a cavern in the cliff wall. Harry disembarked. The world felt like it was shifting under him. Harry was used to moving at high speeds. He didn't get motion sick but if there was one vehicle that could do it, that was it. In the middle of the cavern wall, there was a black ornate door. Engraved in it were swirling patterns of shimmering gold, converging in the centre where there was a keyhole. Griphook trotted over, as right as rain and inserted his vault door key. Harry rubbed his eyes in disbelief. The intricate gold engravings swirled in front of his eyes, slowly vanishing into the crevices around the door. Even to this day, magic astounded him with what it could do. With a creak, the door opened.

Inside was piles upon piles of gold Galleons. Harry's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. While he knew his parents had no difficulties in the monetary aspect of their life, he didn't know they had this much stored away. There was a small collection of bronze coins, Knuts, and silver, sickle, next to them.

Hagrid stumbled over, his face quite green. Every step from him seemed to rattle the coins around the trio, even heavier than usual. "That'll be all yours, then. This is your trust vault, that your parents entrusted to you. It should be enough for the rest of your year, and it'll get refilled every year." He helped Harry pile some of the gold into a bag. Harry insisted to carry it, not wanting to burden Hagrid. It was heavy though. With a heave, he slung it over his shoulder. "Vault seven-hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?" Hagrid continued.

The goblin shook his head in negative, his lips pressed together in what seemed to be a smirk. "One speed only."

Reluctantly, Harry and Hagrid both carefully maneuvered their way back onto the death-cart. The goblin seemed to take even deeper pleasure in pulling the lever this time. They went even further into the cavern, gathering even more speed. Whatever speed the goblin's 'one speed' was, it seemed to be speeding up exponentially.

Unlike his vault, vault seven-hundred and thirteen had no keyhole.

"Stand back," said Griphook sternly. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers, as if stroking a cat, and the entire door melted away. "If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there."

"How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" asked Harry.

"About once every ten years," said Griphook, a nasty grin adorning his face, "If you're lucky."

A single grubby little package lay in the middle of the vault, wrapped in brown paper not unlike something that food take-away would come in. It wasn't illuminated by a light or anything that one might come to expect from such a vault. For a vault so secret, it barely seemed worth it. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat, no doubt lost among the numerous snacks and trinkets that littered inside. Harry was curious as to what it was, but knew if Dumbledore didn't tell him about it, it must be secret.

"Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don't talk to me on the way back. It's better if I keep my mouth shut," said Hagrid. It was time to get back onto the rickety old death-cart.

One wild cart ride later, Harry and Hagrid stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Compared to the barely illuminated chasm of Gringotts, the outside sun seemed harsh.

"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding towards the building labelled with 'Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions'. "Listen, Harry, would you mind if I slipped off for a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts." He did still look quite green, so Harry entered Madam Malkin's shop alone, while Hagrid ambled back up the street towards a dingy looking bar.

A woman, that introduced herself as Madam Malkin bustled up to him. A short, portly witch that was draped in mauve robes, she radiated a motherly vibe and she smiled gently towards Harry. He imagined that came in handy with the young students that didn't come from a magical background.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Harry started to speak. "Got the lot here – a young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second younger witch pinned up his long black robes. He had pale platinum-blonde hair and a slightly upturned nose, giving him a somewhat snooty look. Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to make the proper alterations.

"Hello," said the other boy, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," said Harry, "What's your name?"

"I'm Draco. Draco Malfoy. My father's next door buying my books and mother's waiting for the completion of my wand." He had a bored, drawling voice. "I think after this I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll get my father to get me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

Harry didn't think that was a very good idea, but he wasn't about to stop Draco.

"Have you got your own broom?" Draco continued.

"No," said Harry.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"No," said Harry again. While he was aware of the world-beloved sport, Harry had never played it before. Dumbledore had never seen fit to include it into his education.

"I do!" Draco proudly said, his eyes shining with proud joy. "Father says I'm one of the best players he's ever seen be born in this century. It'll be a crime if I'm not picked to play for the house team, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

"I'd be happy to join any house. They all have their good qualities, really." Secretly, though, Harry wanted to join Gryffindor. It was, after all, his not only his adoptive mentor's house, but his deceased parents' house as well.

"No one really thinks that, you know? A house like Slytherin is obviously going to be more powerful than something like, say, Hufflepuff. I know I'll be in Slytherin, just like my family before me. The house of the ambitious!" Draco puffed out his chest slightly, his head held impossibly higher.

Harry had half the mind to tell Draco off, but didn't. Better to let him find out for himself rather than be scolded by someone his own age.

"I say, look at that man!" said Draco suddenly, nodding towards the front window. Hagrid stood outside, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show that he couldn't come in. Harry shuddered, realising that if the ice creams looked big in Hagrid's hands, he was in for quite a treat.

"That's Hagrid," said Harry, attempting to wave back at Hagrid before his arm got slapped down by Madam Malkin, giving him a very disgruntled look. Harry smiled sheepishly back at her. "He works at Hogwarts."

"Oh," said the boy, raising an eyebrow. "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"

"He's the gamekeeper. He's bringing me around to purchase my school supplies," said Harry.

"Yes, exactly. I heard he's sort of a savage – lives in a hut on the school grounds, and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed. You know how giants are."

"That's not true, Draco. Hagrid's brilliant, he's someone I've always hung out with. He's a passionate man who loves all sorts of creatures. Sometimes he brings them over. They're fun to play with." Harry said, a little annoyed at Draco, accidentally admonishing slightly.

"Really?" Said Draco, looking slightly sheepish. "Why's he with you? Where're your parents?"

"They're dead," Harry said shortly. He didn't feel like going much into the matter. Harry wasn't one for pity.

"Oh, sorry," said Draco, his brow furrowing. He sounded as though he was mustering up as much pity as a four-year-old who had no idea of the concept of death while saying a final goodbye to his goldfish because their parents told them to. "They were our kind, were they? Lost in the war?"

"They were a witch and a wizard, yes." Harry's lips pressed into a thin line. Harry knew of the divide between purebloods and muggleborns. It had been something Dumbledore had been trying to solve

"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them haven't even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families." Draco sprouted off, sounding again like a child that didn't know what he was talking about but was told to by their parents.

"My mother was muggleborn." Stated Harry, unwilling to let Draco insult his parents any further. "She was one of the most brilliant witches her age. I'm proud that she's my mother, wouldn't have wanted another."

Draco looked sheepish. Again, he had offended Harry. He continued on, however. "Sorry. You're a half-blood then? What's your family name?"

But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear." Harry hopped off the footstool, and contemplated whether he should give Draco an answer. While Harry was mad at Draco, he knew it was not his fault he had these beliefs. Harry stretched out his hand, an invitation of friendship and forgiveness. "Potter."

Draco's eyes widened, and he grabbed Harry's hand in his. "You're Harry Potter, then? Nice to see you." The seamstress next to him snatched his arm back into position, giving Draco a dirty look.

"See you at Hogwarts, Draco." And with that, Harry left the clothes shop.

"See you." Draco said in his drawling voice.

Harry was more silent than usual as he ate the ice cream that Hagrid had bought him. He savoured the chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts, feeling the cool chill of the ice cream soothe his warm body.

"What's up?" Said Hagrid.

Harry told Hagrid about the pale boy that he met at Madam Malkin's, while they stopped to buy parchment and quills. He told him about how Draco had gotten on his nerves, insulting muggleborns and magical creatures alike.

"Ah, you've met the Malfoy heir, then. Son of Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black." Hagrid stroked his beard, deep in thought. He picked up a bottle of ink that changed colour as you wrote with it. He gave it a little shake, watching as the pure black ink swirled with streaks of rainbow hue. The shopkeeper noticed this, and snatched the bottle back, putting it back on display.

"You know, Harry…" Hagrid continued. "I know he can be a handful, but Dumbledore's always taught me that you got to be at least friends with these people. You never know where yer allies might come from." Hagrid sounded as though he was speaking from experience. "Besides, you know how purebloods are like. All blood purity this, blood purity that. I wouldn't be surprised if their children take after them."

Harry said nothing to that, instead choosing to steer the conversation away from such a heavy topic. He just hoped he had made the right decision about Draco Malfoy.

They bought Harry's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts, where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones, bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps, bound in silk; books full of peculiar symbols and books with nothing in them at all. Harry opened one of them, and saw the ink-black words 'Your very own secret diary' float up. Harry put it back on the shelf.

"Now, what was it? 29 Knuts for a Sickle, and 17 Sickles to a Galleon." Hagrid recited to himself while he sorted through Harry's money. He had insisted on carrying it, waving him off. "A parent should do these things for you, but I'll do for now, eh?" He had said.

They next went to go buy Harry's cauldron, in a shop called Potage's Cauldron shop, right next to the Apothecary. Barrels of slime stood on the floor, jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls. Above, hanging from the ceiling were all manners of gross bits of creatures, bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, snarled claws, and the occasional giant's toe or elf ear. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of basic first year potion ingredients, Harry examined the silver unicorn horns that were priced at twenty-one Galleons each. He idly wondered how unicorn horns were harvested, since no unicorn could be harmed without a curse falling upon the hunter. Maybe he would ask Hagrid later, or Dumbledore.

Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid stopped Harry. "Hold on, I haven't got you a birthday present."

Harry felt himself go red. "Hagrid, you're already taking your time and spending it with me. You don't have to-"

"I know I don't have to. Tell you what, I'll get you an animal. An owl. Owls are dead useful, you can deliver yer mail and everything."

Hagrid dragged Harry to Eeylops Owl Emporium, Harry protesting the entire way. Once Harry was inside, though, he was fascinated with the numerous owls that lined the walls, each in their own ornate cages. None of them really caught his eye, though, except one particular snowy owl that stared at him with her sharp amber eyes. There was a hint of intelligence behind those eyes, Harry decided. He had seen such intellect before, in the eyes of his adopted father.

"That's a good one, Harry." Hagrid harrumphed, catching his shared gaze. "Tell you what, I'll name 'er for yer. She'll be called Hedwig."

Now came the best part that Harry was most interested in. It was time to get his wand. He had been using a practise wand the entire time, and while he had no disillusions that his own wand would allow him to finally match his mentor in power, he was excited to get one that he could call his own.

They stopped outside a black shop at the end of a small alleyway. Peeling gold letters over the door read 'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.'. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window. It looked like quite a shabby shop, but Harry knew better. Ollivander was one of the foremost experts in wand-making, an artisan at his craft. The door creaked open, evidence that the hinges needed more oil. A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside.

It was a tiny, claustrophobic place, empty except for a display case and a single, spindly chair that Hagrid immediately plopped himself down on, waiting. The chair creaked under his weight. Shelves lined the wall behind the display case, carrying thousands of long cases, each housing a pre-made wand. A door led through to the back, and from what Harry could see through the partially open door, rows upon rows of shelves stretched out as far as the eye could see. A man stood behind the display case, lowering his thick glasses. His wide, pale eyes stared intensely at Harry.

"Curious, indeed. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inch long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work. One of the pre-made ones."

Ollivander, presumably, moved closer to Harry. His eyes never seemed to blink, not only looking at him, but through him. Harry felt like the hairs on the back of his neck were standing up.

"Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches, pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it – The wand chooses the wizard, of course."

Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes, and he had to remind himself to breathe.

"Your adoptive father, yes, yes. Ebony, fourteen inches. Most excellent for transfiguration as well, but also combat. The things he has done with that wand, stunning, yes. My grandfather made that wand, and he knew what kind of greatness that wand was destined for."

Ollivander's arm snapped out suddenly, moving with incredible speed, contrary to what his frail looking body might convey. His dry, spindly fingers gingerly brushed against the lightning shaped scar on Harry's forehead, caressing it.

"So this is where…" He traced the scar slowly, sending shivers down Harry's spine. "I'm sorry to say I made the wand that did it," he said, softly. "Yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… Well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

He shook his head despondently. Retracting his hand, he spun around, attending to the other person in his shop. "Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again… Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"

"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.

"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" said Ollivander, suddenly stern. "Waste of a good wand, indeed. Terrible people, snapping one of my creations. Akin to murder."

"Er- yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, looking down at his feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he added brightly.

"But you don't use them?" said Ollivander sharply.

"Oh, no, sir," Hagrid said quickly, gripping his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke. Harry thought his knuckles might pop off if his hand tightened any further.

Ollivander gave Hagrid a piercing look. "If they ever lift that ban on you, you know where to come to get it remade." Turning back, Ollivander pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Would you like a custom wand? Which is your wand arm, Mr. Potter?"

"No, and my right." Said Harry, holding out his arm for measurement.

Ollivander measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and around his head. As he measured, he said, "Every wand of quality has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. I use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. Every wand should be made from scratch, perfectly suited to the wizard. Or rather, I should say, the wizard is suited to the wand. While it is wise to get a placeholder wand for now, it is a shame muggleborns usually do not purchase custom wands, whether it be lack of money or stubbornness."

"Yes, but I have nothing to note for it. When I do something of worth; then I shall make my wand." Harry said, determined. His would not be a wasted life.

Ollivander nodded his head in tacit approval. He took off, flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes. The tape measure continued its job on its own, measuring the width of each of his nostrils.

"That will do," He said, and the tape measure neatly rolled itself back up and floated back onto the desk. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches, nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.

Harry took the wand, but he instantly knew it was not his. The grip fit all wrong in his hand. Ollivander could tell as well, which is why he hastily replaced it with another.

"Maple and phoenix feather, seven inches. Quite whippy. Try-"

As Ollivander said that, the wand emitted some lightning, though Harry had not cast anything.

"No, no, that isn't good either. Here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight-and-a-half inches, springy."

The wand promptly burst into flames.

"Oh god, sorry, I didn't mean to-" Harry began, but was stopped by Ollivander's raised hand.

"Not to worry, Mr. Potter. This is a result of your magical core, very well developed for one such your age. Not to worry we'll find the perfect match here somewhere."

Harry tried more, and more wands. While none had burst into flames quite like that one, none of them felt like they fit him well. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher, all scattered back to their place on the shelves. The pile of untired wands on the shelf was steadily decreasing, until all but one remained.

"If none of the premade wands are to your liking, you will have to make a wand. I hope you understand. While I was rather reluctant to try this… Here. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand from Ollivander's outstretched hand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers, and his magical core screamed in jubilation. Together, their magic intertwined, singing a triumphant song. He raised the wand, and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end, throwing dancing spots of light onto the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped from his spot on the chair, and Ollivander cried, "Oh, it's magnificent! Very good, but very curious all the same."

Harry held onto the wand, revelling in the feeling. "Sorry, Mr. Ollivander," he began, "But what's curious?"

Ollivander focused on Harry with his pale stare.

"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, you might know of it. Its name is Fawkes." Harry's ears perked up, recognising the name of his mentor's familiar. "And it gave another feather. Just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother- why, its brother gave you that scar."

Suddenly, Harry's wand felt a lot colder in his hand. There was a certain weight to it now. This was the brother of the wand that killed his parents.

"Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things. Terrible, yes, but great."

Harry nodded, his mouth dryer than before. He paid seven gold Galleons for his wand, and four for a brown leather wand holster that could be either mounted on his waist or the underside of his arm. Though he tried to offer more for the broken wand. Refusing, Ollivander told him, "Only seven Galleons. No more, no less." And so they departed, Harry and his wand by his side.

I'll be having exams this week, so I won't be able to write. I've got a few chapters saved up but the more I use those the less I'll be able to update frequently in the future.