This chapter, as I'm sure you'll soon realize, falls rather close to cannon. That's because nothing has happened, yet, to put Harry in entirely different situations to those his cannon self found himself in. I have tried to keep events fresh by putting my own spin on every scene I show, mostly through how Harry acts, but the changes aren't massive. If that bothers you, I can at least promise that you will start seeing more and more significant variation as the plot moves further along.

The characters aren't mine. Still.

(-)

Staring at the mountain of a man with the facial hair of a mountain man, Harry decided that he really ought to be more specific with any future wishes.

It was his birthday, though the day was only seconds old, and he had been wishing for any sort of birthday present for the last few weeks. Wishing though, not expecting, because in his almost exactly eleven years he was yet to notch a single gift. But when he had thought that he would take anything he (understandably) hadn't been expecting the two-for-one deal of a man that was currently staring down his family.

The strangeness had begun with a bunch of letters, and he meant a bunch. They had started one at a time, a letter every morning, each one addressed to Harry himself right down to his unorthodox bedroom. That was the first sign that something was up. No one outside of Number 4's living room should have known about that. The second sign, following hot on the heels of the first, was his aunt and uncle's reaction. They had exploded into action, destroying the first letter as desperately as if it were an active bomb. They had barely breathed until the letter was incinerated, and when their breath had finally returned it was as a pair of relieved sighs. Neither would answer any questions about the letter, not even from their precious Dudders. They were eager to act as if nothing happened and return things to the routine. They had been successful… for 24 hours until an identical letter arrived. It was a like a strange game of wack-a-mole, and for every level his relatives passed the difficulty was ratcheted up a notch. Within days the letters went from a daily occurrence to an hourly one, and the increases in volume hadn't slowed since. The barrage of mail, combined with Vernon and Petunia's self-enforced quest to keep it all from their nephew's hands, had grown intense enough to force them from their own home. They had desperately fallen back on first a night in a hotel, then an old, moistened hut of a cabin. They probably would have broken down by now, if it weren't for the pride that filled them at having successfully kept every letter from reaching their nephew.

Which was why it was probably in their best interest that they never learned about the letter Harry had nabbed as early as the third day.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was the sort of thing you'd expect to be a prank, though Harry wasn't sure which was more ridiculous; the idea that magic was real or that someone would willingly call their school Hogwarts. But Vernon and Petunia wouldn't be so worked up by a simple prank, and magic would explain some events in his life that could really do with some explaining.

So, he had decided to withhold judgement. The letters were invitations after all, and if they were serious, it seemed a much inviting prospect than Stonewall, the local public-school which Harry was set to attend. He couldn't exactly respond to the letter without tipping off his aunt and uncle, but he hadn't been particularly worried. He had assumed that if someone cared enough to turn half of a forest into personally addressed invitations they would soon get fed up with the lack of response and make a personal visit.

They hadn't picked a very hospitable time, but his prediction had been correct, leading to the current situation. Harry was stood in a damp room, staring at a wet mastiff of a man, who himself stood nonchalantly in front of the shaking barrel of a rifle attached to Vernon's shaking arms. The man stepped forward and made to speak, but Harry cut him off. He would prefer not to give his uncle the chance to jump at a shadow and pull the trigger.

"Who are you?" He asked the stranger, aiming to appear the classic worried child. It wasn't difficult with how hard he was shivering; it was cold damnit.

The man ignored the question entirely, but not the boy who asked it. Stepping forward, he knelt down to look Harry in the eyes.

"Blimey look at the size of yeh! Yeh could fit in the palm of me hand when I last laid eyes on yeh." The line was accompanied by a sniff, the man clearly emotional as he lay his eyes on Harry.

That pulled Harry up short. For once, the shock that spread over his face didn't need to be faked in the slightest. He hadn't even considered that these people may have known his parents, let alone that the first messenger would have held him as a baby. Harry's sudden freeze wasn't shared by his family however, and Vernon chose that moment to force his way into the conversation.

"Leave!" He barked, waving the rifle in his hands in an attempt to ward the stranger out of the house. "We don't want your kind here."

It was enough to draw the giant's attention to him, though he showed none of the fear Vernon had been hoping for.

"Oh, shut up Dursley," was all he said. Pushing himself back to his feet, he covered the room in two long steps and casually lifted the gun from Vernon's hands. It quite literally looked like taking candy from a baby. His next action made clear how he could overpower Vernon so easily, as he twisted the rifle's barrel until it looked like a half-finished balloon animal. Vernon himself was beginning to look a bit like a balloon animal, face split as it was between going purple with rage and pale with fear.

Jolted from his shock, Harry reassessed his initial impression of his "gift". If the stranger could not only get away with verbally abusing Vernon to his face, but also leave the man so visibly upset, then Harry would take the entire stock. But despite his newfound appreciation for him, the man hadn't actually answered Harry's question.

"Who are you?" Harry repeated, slightly more firmly this time.

The man blinked, as if the question surprised him, before letting out a resounding laugh loud enough to force every other occupant's hands to their ears.

"Sorry about that, guess I got a wee bit carried away there. The names Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of the Keys at Hogwarts." The title was said with pride, but it meant little to the others in the room. He also said it as if it were all the answer Harry would need.

"Hogwarts?" Harry asked, keeping his voice curious. He would rather not clue the Dursley's into the fact that he had nabbed a letter; that would be more trouble than it was worth. His question seemed to be worth a lot of trouble to Hagrid however, as the giant man recoiled as if struck.

"Surely yeh know Hogwarts," He exclaimed. "Why, if yeh didn't know about Hogwarts yeh couldn' know about any of it!"

Harry tilted his head and pressed on quietly. "Any of what, sir?"

Hagrid's cry of "Dursley!" that echoed out of the house was only the first of many such rebukes to come that night.

O-O-O-O-O

By the time he settled down to sleep Harry could feel his head spinning. He had learned more about himself in an hour than in his whole life with the Dursleys. About the real him, not the tripe the Dursleys had fed him about alcoholic parents and car accidents.

No, magic was real. His parents had been magical, and he was too. The existence of magic shouldn't have surprised him, and in a way it hadn't. It had been almost a year since he had flung Connor with his mind, but the experience was never far from his thoughts. The letter had given the strange occurrence a name, magic, and after reading it Harry had thought himself convinced.

But there was something about seeing that really made believing, and he had could certainly see the pig's tail his Cousin now sported- a testament to the Dursley's dedication in angering a guest with both magic and a temper.

Said guest was lying on the floor no more than 10 feet from Harry, snores rivaling even the storm outside for volume. Lying midway between them was a crumpled wrapper, long since freed of the slice of cake it had once held. The cake hadn't even been very good, but he still felt something when he looked at the wrapper. Honestly, the fact that he had received something for his birthday almost seemed stranger than learning that magic was real, which really said something about his life. Looking back at the man who had given it to him, Harry decided he still wasn't too sure what to make of him.

Hagrid had quite literally burst onto the scene – demolishing the front door as he had – bringing promises of a whole new world, a whole new life. It should have been like a dream come true, and in a way, it was. Except for the fact that while that world was new to him, he certainly wasn't new to them.

He was famous. Some sort of a hero? Where the fuck had that come from? Apparently, he had excellent murder-reflection as a baby. Too bad his parents hadn't proved similarly endowed.

That was another new thing, his parents. The utter respect in Hagrid's voice when he talked about them couldn't have been more different to the disdain the Dursleys had always shown. It would take some time to sink in, that they had died heroes' deaths instead of the ignominious car accident his aunt and uncle had described. No, they had been killed, and he had somehow killed their killer.

No one new how it happened, just that it did. In a way the Dursley's had always been right; he was a freak, even by magical standards. Not that that bothered him, he would take that over being a dead baby any day of the week. No, what bothered him was how famous he seemed to be in this new world. Hagrid had even mentioned children's books about him! With a snort, he hoped they were fictional stories. Nonfiction stories following his life would probably leave toddlers crying, after all.

These people sounded about ready to lick the ground he walked on if he so much as asked them to. He really hoped Hagrid had been exaggerating, he didn't come off as the most level-headed source after all, but he had a bad feeling that that wouldn't be the case. He was an old hand at meeting people's expectations at this point, but playing the heroic golden boy just sounded like such a pain. He could feel the headaches coming on already.

Shifting to wrap himself in his makeshift blanket of Hagrid's jacket, Harry tried to force his thoughts to settle and allow sleep to take him. It was late, and Hagrid was taking him to Diagon Alley the next morning. It was the wizarding world's premier shopping center, from what Harry understood of Hagrid's description. When sleep finally came his dreams were filled with castles and mystical forests as his brain tried to imagine just what a wizard settlement would look like.

O-O-O-O-O

Whatever he expected, a dingy little pub had definitely not been it.

His bemusement must have been visible on his face because Hagrid let out a hearty chuckle. "The leaky Cauldron," He said by way of explanation. "I know it don' look like much, but it's a rather famous place."

Hagrid's affection for the grimy building was clear as he stepped forward and out of sight. Harry didn't see much to love in the place, but he followed his chaperone through the doors all the same.

Harry found out quickly that Hagrid hadn't been exaggerating about his fame. The realization struck him right about when the bartender shook his hand with tears of joy streaming down his face. Or maybe it was when a stranger prostrated themselves in a bow at his feet. Or maybe it was when…the when didn't matter, he decided. What mattered was that the stream of well-wishers wouldn't end. He did his best to take them in stride, plastering a warm smile across his face and giving a hearty thanks or nod to every person that approached him, but he wasn't sure how long he could keep it up. Hagrid, too, was growing anxious as the minutes dragged on. He had mentioned an errand he had to run, an item he had to retrieve, and the extended delay seemed to be causing him near physical discomfort. So, when the crowd finally thinned to just a single face, it was received with relief from the both of them.

The man that arrived at the back of the line was largely nondescript, his pasty skin and purple turban making up his most distinct features. He had been fidgeting from the moment Harry laid eyes on him and it had yet to pause. He practically radiated nervousness and frailty, so much so that Harry wouldn't have been surprised to see him overpowered by a fly. Yet, for a moment as he approached, Harry could see something in his eyes.

It reminded Harry of the look a hawk gives a mouse before it swoops in for the kill, dangerous, but most of all appraising. Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he was being judged, though what the verdict was he had no idea. Then, as suddenly as the look came, it was gone. Most would have missed it. He almost missed it, and he'd spent the better part of two years training himself to pick up on that sort of thing. Before he could think on it anymore the man was in front of him, and he was forced to shift his attention.

The stranger made to speak, but Hagrid's voice cut in before him. "Professor Quirrel! Harry, this is one of yeh teachers for next year. Meet Quirinus Quirrell." The man in question nodded his thanks to Hagrid for the introduction, before reaching out and grasping Harry's hand in a shake. His grip was surprisingly strong, Harry noted, for a man with such a sickly appearance.

"P-P-Potter, how w-wonderful to m-meet you. It w-w-will be an honor to t-teach you, th-th-though how much I'll be able t-to t-teach to you I'm n-not t-too sure" The words were followed closely by a self-deprecating laugh. Harry made to ask just what it was that he would be teaching him, but before he could the crowd of people surrounding them seemed to decide that Quirrell had had Harry to himself for long enough. The people Harry had thought himself through with suddenly converged on him once more, each babbling a story or calling out for him to sign whatever it was they had on hand. Hagrid must have had reached the end of his patience however, because he moved first and pulled Harry toward the backdoor before they could hem him in once more.

"Sorry folks, lots ter buy and places to be, yeh must understand" Hagrid called out, forcing his way toward the exit. Harry just followed along in his wake, happily taking advantage of the path Hagrid opened for him. Before he passed through the doors, he chanced one last glance over his shoulder.

Everyone in the room was still watching them go, most looking torn between pleasure to have met him and irritation over losing him so quickly. Harry's eyes were searching for one man in particular, however, and his eyes fell upon him just before the room was blocked from sight. Quirrell was watching him go from the very edge of the crowd, eyes looking strangely blank and yet Harry just knew they were drinking in his every move. Suppressing the shiver that ran down his spine, Harry turned and hurried after Hagrid. There was something strange with that man, Harry just wasn't sure if he wanted to get close enough to him to find out exactly what.

O-O-O-O-O

Gringotts was beautiful. Gleaming marble that towered over the surrounding buildings like a royal standing among the peasantry. It was a shame then, that its chief denizens were such ugly little things. Goblins, Hagrid had called them, and all around the lobby they could be seen scurrying to and fro. Behind their desks, wrinkled faces stared down past hooked noses at disproportionately long fingers working away on menial tasks. Their attitudes seemed no more pleasant than their faces, at least to Harry's first impression, and he and Hagrid had been brusquely waved past the lobby the instant they had shown proper credentials.

Speaking of those credentials, Harry glanced at the key held in Hagrid's hand. The goblin had described it as his key, Harry's key, and seeing it made him wonder just what his parents had left him. It was a foreign concept; Harry had long since come to accept that the Dursleys would leach away anything his parents had bequeathed to him. He had thought it unfortunate to never have anything to remember his parents by, but it was far from his most pressing regret. Now though, things had changed. He knew he had a vault, and he knew that Hagrid seemed to think it comfortably able to cover any school stuffs. Just how much was really in there?

Before he could give his question voice, they passed through the doors leading to the vaults and Harry found himself immediately distracted. He had assumed the elegant lobby would be a sign of things to come. He had assumed wrong. Stepping through the door was like stepping into a mineshaft, right down to the role of torches as the primary sources of light. Realizing that he had slowed to gawk, Harry quickened his pace and tried to catch up to Hagrid and their guide, a goblin named Griphook.

When Griphook led them to a literal mining cart, albeit one fitted with what could be called seats (if you squinted), Harry decided that his mine analogy may have been a bit too spot on. Was this even a bank? Did they dig the gold you asked for out of the ground right in front of you? Harry had heard of farm to table restaurants before, but somehow a mine to bank set up seemed to be things a step too far.

Once they were firmly seated in the cart, Harry turned to Hagrid. "Hagrid? Exactly how much money isthere in my vaaaauuuuuuulllllllttttt…" The question trailed off into a scream of sorts as the cart rocketed out of the blocks, moving entirely too fast to pass any sort of safety test.

Once his surprise passed though, Harry actually found himself enjoying the ride. The wind stung at his face, but it was a pleasant sort of prickling, like sticking your head out the window of a cruising car. He had never been on a rollercoaster – there was no chance the Dursleys would pay the cost of a theme park ticket for him – but he imagined that it felt something like this. Watching and feeling the cart slam out a near 90 degree turn without slowing, he revised his opinion; this cart was snubbing its nose at the laws of physics in ways that Harry doubted even the peaks of engineering could replicate.

Glancing at his companion on this wild ride – the human one – any thoughts of finishing his question fled his mind. Not only would he have to scream his words to have a chance at being heard over the wind, but Hagrid's face had taken on a decidedly green complexion. making the man to speak seemed like it would be just asking for him to lose his lunch, and Harry was in no hurry to discover just how much food a man that size could put away- or in this case, give back up.

By the time the cart ground to a halt Hagrid's complexion had come to resemble that of the ever-pasty goblin; or maybe three goblins, given their and Hagrid's comparative sizes. A moment later Harry's attention was drawn away toward Griphook, the goblin stepping forward from the cart and beginning to unlock the door of his vault.

The second he could see the interior, any thought of asking exactly how much was in the vault was chased from Harry's mind. He didn't yet have a handle on wizarding money, but damn if didn't look like a lot. A sea of gold sloped into pools of silver before rounding out in puddles of bronze, coins blanketing entire sections of the floor from view. No wonder Hagrid hadn't been worried about paying for a few textbooks and a cauldron!

Hagrid chuckled, some color returned to his cheeks, though he remained bracing himself against a sturdy wall. "It's all yours," he spoke, trying to alleviate Harry's obvious incomprehension. "Go on! Grab some money for yer school things."

Harry hesitated, not having the slightest clue what amount would be appropriate. "How much do I need?"

Listening to Hagrid round off the strangest conversion values he'd ever heard (seriously, who used seventeen as their conversion rate of choice?) Harry began slowly shoveling money into a small bag. By the time Hagrid called him to a halt, remarking that he had enough now for at least a few terms, the bag weighed heavily in his hand. But while the bag was bulging at the seams, Harry couldn't spot so much as a dent in the sea of money in front of him. There was no way this was normal. Just who were his parents to have this sort of bank account straight out of school? He didn't know, but he was certain that there had more to them than your standard young newlyweds.

O-O-O-O-O

Harry blinked and squinted as the sunlight struck his eyes, seeming much brighter than he remembered it being before he entered the bank. As he and Hagrid waited for their sight to adjust, Harry reflected on their stop at the second vault.

Whatever Hagrid's business was for Dumbledore, it had borne them deep into the bowels of Gringotts, far deeper than even Harry's own vault had been. The parcel that had been retrieved, which was now tucked neatly under Hagrid's arm, was clearly something of incredible value or importance if its defenses were anything to go by.

Naturally, Harry was curious what it was. Not curious enough, however, to make any attempt at wheedling its nature out of Hagrid. He wasn't even sure Hagrid really knew what the innocuous little package held, and even if he did Harry wasn't sure he could understand a definition if he got one; he was pretty knew to this whole magic thing, after all. Instead, he shifted his thoughts to his shopping list. Now that their little venture was funded, it was time to start checking items off.

Looking at the list, though, made Harry's head begin to spin. He hadn't the first clue how one would purchase most things on the list. What even was a standard size 2 Cauldron?

Hagrid seemed to pick up on Harry's indecision and led him over to a shop labeled Madame Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. That was the good news. The bad news was that Hagrid promptly ditched him for a dose of alcohol back at the Leaky Cauldron. To be fair, the man probably would have stayed if Harry demanded it of him, but he simply didn't have the heart to after looking at the man's still queasy face. Besides, he still wasn't eager for Hagrid to cover him in puke, so giving the man a moment to settle himself was really in both of their best interests. Plus, this was something of an opportunity for him, too. From his first step outside the Dursley's shack that morning right up to that moment he hadn't been able to take any time alone. It was a necessary sacrifice, seeing as he needed a guide to help him navigate the strange goings-on of this new world, but it also limited how he could act.

The second Hagrid rounded the corner out of sight, Harry turned to regard himself in the shop window's reflection. His hair ran rather long, the scraggly raven locks not often being cut as his aunt thought it an irritating chore. His hair barely brushed his shoulders in the back, holding to a medium length. In the front, however, it hung down almost over his eyes. The imbalance was mostly a testament to the unprofessional nature of his haircuts, coming as they did at the amateur hands of his aunt, but in that moment, he was grateful for it. Carefully shifting his hanging locks, Harry completely covered his most distinctive feature; the lightning bold scar centered on his forehead. He may be famous in this world, but these people didn't yet know what he actually looked like. The scar was one of a kind and would surely see him recognized in an instant, but it was also easily blocked from sight. This strategy for anonymity would only last until his appearance became common knowledge, but Harry was going to make sure he used it while he could. Satisfied that his scar was obscured, Harry finally turned and pulled the door open, entering the shop.

The interior was well lit, sunlight lending Madame Malkin's pearly white teeth a lustrous shine. She was short, only a matter of inches taller than Harry himself, and she had a squat sort of build. Behind her, further into the shop, a drab witch was taking the measurements of a blond, angular boy. The blonde was glancing around the room, clearly bored, and yet even his boredom seemed to include a hint disdain.

Madame Malkin asked Harry if he was here for Hogwarts, and Harry nodded politely at her in the affirmative. But even while she led him to a stool – adjacent to one on which the other boy stood – Harry's eyes were studying the blond.

The boy's skin was smooth and entirely unblemished. Harry doubted he had ever done a chore or even played outside in his life, looking at his hands' utter lack of marks or callouses. His pride appeared to be unblemished as well if the general tone of his gaze was anything to go by. The boy's eyes had briefly taken Harry in while he approached, and he seemed to have found him wanting. Though, if his resting look was anything to go by, the boy found a lot of things to be wanting.

"Hello," the boy greeted in a drawling voice, somehow sounding completely uninterested in a conversation that he had just started himself.

The boy felt like an aristocrat, and so that was exactly what Harry would give him. Bringing on his poshest accent, Harry moved to respond. "Hello, Hogwarts for you as well?"

"Yes. It's rather exciting, isn't it? My father went to get my books, and mother is looking at wands at the moment. After that, though, we'll be going to look at racing brooms." The blond trailed off with and expectant look back at Harry.

Dredging up some of what he'd absorbed walking through the alley, Harry did his best to keep pace with the discussion; "The new models?"

"The Nimbus 2000," the blond answered, eyes lighting up as he talked about it. "They say it can do double the top speed of the old Cleansweep. Double! Quidditch will be an absolute thrill on one of those. You do play, right?"

Harry nodded, adding a quick "every week," hoping the boy would keep talking. He seemed ready to, as well, before something caught his attention out the window.

"I say, look at that oaf!" He cried out. Turning his head to where the boy was looking, Harry spotted Hagrid peering in with a grin and a wave, a cone of ice cream clutched in each hand.

"That's Hagrid," Harry supplied. "He's from Hogwarts. He's helping me with my school shopping."

Glancing back at Harry, the boy raised an eyebrow. "I've heard of him. A servant, no? Why do you need him to take you?" The blond peered intently at Harry. "Where are your parents?"

The question was tinged with suspicion, though what exactly the boy was suspicious of, Harry had no clue.

"They're indisposed at the moment," Harry replied, careful to keep his answer vague. It seemed an innocuous enough question, but the way the boy asked it made clear that it had a very wrong answer. Besides, he wasn't lying; his parents were just a bit more permanently indisposed than his answer implied.

"Business" Harry added after a pause, seeing that his first answer hadn't appeased the boy.

The blonde seemed to accept that, a brief look of empathy flashing through his eyes, and he slipped back into his earlier, more casual tone. "I was worried you were one of them for a second there. We really ought not to let any of them in, don't you agree?"

"Of course," Harry agreed, despite not really knowing what it was he was agreeing to.

"You have to grow up around magic to really appreciate it," the boy ranted. "I mean, they just have no respect for our culture. No class in the lot of them, I say, better to leave them among the rest of the muggles. For their own good, even. It doesn't do well for a person to be constantly faced with their betters, after all. It makes the rabble get rowdy, and suddenly everyone's unhappy." The boy closed his little speech with an eleven-year-old's attempt at a sage nod, and Harry got the distinct impression that he was merely reciting a talk he'd often been on the receiving end of, right down to the mannerisms.

Hagrid had mentioned, in passing, the existence of blood supremacy within wizarding culture. What he had neglected to mention was that it ran deep enough for eleven-year-olds to start spouting speeches on those ideals in the middle of a public business. Harry prepared to answer the boy, but Madame Malkin's voice cut him off.

"You're all done now, dearie. Hop down and run along," the shopkeeper's voice called out, allowing Harry to disengage from his little chat gratefully. It had been informative, but there was only so long he could bluff his way through topics he'd never heard of before. He had already been pushing his luck as it was.

Dropping from his stool, Harry made for the door. Before he could reach it, the blond boy's voice reached him one final time; "I suppose I'll see you at Hogwarts then…You know, I never got your name. I'm Draco, Draco Malfoy."

Harry paused in front of the door, turning to respond. He briefly noted how the boy said his own name, as if just being able to hear it was a gift.

"I'm Harry," was all he gave the boy, turning and sweeping out of the room before a surname could be requested. He would prefer that Draco didn't know exactly who he had been talking to, not yet at least.

O-O-O-O-O

"Good afternoon," a soft voice spoke.

Ollivander was an old man with bright, shining eyes. His shop had an intimidating atmosphere, not because it was hostile but because one could feel the magic packed into every inch of the place. Shelves led into more shelves as Harry glanced toward the back of the room, each stacked high with rows of boxes approximately the length of his forearm.

"Hello," Harry returned to him, back straight and voice firm, but not unfriendly. He would likely have to spend a lot of time like this, Harry realized ruefully, given just how many people expected him to be some strong, heroic figure.

"Ahh, yes. Mr. Potter. I knew I would be seeing you soon." Harry started at the sound of his name, did gossip travel that fast around Diagon Alley? "It feels like just yesterday that your mother was in your place – you have her eyes you know – 10 and a quarter inches, willow, really such an excellent wand for charms she found. Your father on the other hand… well, he was transfiguration through and through." The man chuckled, eyes staying focused on Harry the whole time he was speaking. With a start, Harry realized he was yet to see those eyes blink.

The man leaned in, attention zeroing in on his forehead and the scar they both new lay there. "I sold the wand that did that, too, I'm afraid. 13 and a half inches, yew, phoenix feather core, and so very capable." The man shook his head, regret filling his eyes. "I knew the moment I sold it that it would change the world, I only wish I had known how."

Then, as suddenly as his sadness came on, it was gone. "You haven't come to listen to an old man's regrets though, have you. No, let's find you a wand why don't we? Wand arm?

Hazarding a guess that the man meant his dominant hand, Harry pushed his right hand forward. No sooner was his hand extended than Ollivander whirled, snatching a tape measure from god knows where and making note of his arm's every dimension.

"Every wand is unique, Mr. Potter, and each possesses its own core; Unicorn Hair, Phoenix feathers, and the heartstring of a dragon…No two wand cores are alike, even if they come from the same creature." As he spoke, Ollivander released his hold on the tape measure. Rather than crashing down to the floor, the device carried on taking measurements with a mind of its own.

With his hands free, Ollivander began pulling down boxes from shelves all around the room, seemingly at random to Harry's eyes. Finally appearing satisfied, he returned to where he started and dropped the boxes he collected at Harry's feet. "Just like their cores every wand is unique, no two are exactly the same. Always remember, it is the wand that chooses the wizard, not the other way around. Now, try this one, 12 inches and firm oak."

The man handed it over and Harry swished it, unsure of what else he could do with a stick of wood. Tried to swish it, at least, because Ollivander suddenly grabbed the wand from his hand before he could move it more than an inch. Harry looked at the man in consternation, only to find a new wand already being held out for him to pick up.

"Ash. Ten inches. Sharp one this." Was all the man said to explain his actions, and Harry decided it was best not to ask questions. Taking the proffered wand, Harry was at least allowed to complete a motion with this one. A trail of sparks trailed out behind the wand's tip, but they were dull and sputtering. Harry looked at them in surprise, not having expected a physical reaction, but Ollivander only shook his head and took back this wand, too.

Ollivander gives wand. Harry swings wand. Ollivander takes wand. He lost track of how many times they repeated this process. The only things that changed were Ollivander's descriptions and the results of Harry test swings. Each wand had a separate, unique reaction. Dreary sparks, Sharp bangs, muted flashes, one wand even summoned a single wilted daisy. But while every reaction was different, every wand was snatched back without fail. At least the wand maker didn't seem upset by the long search. In fact, he seemed to become more and more thrilled with each failed wand.

Suddenly, after about 20 minutes, an idea seemed to strike the man. Whirling and sifting through a shelf, he pulled a box free from behind three others. "11 inches of Holly with a phoenix feather core. A most unusual wand, but…" Ollivander trailed off, handing the new wand over to Harry rather than finishing his thought.

The moment Harry touched it he knew he had found his wand. It was a completely novel feeling, like being reunited with an eleventh finger you never knew existed. It felt like a part of him and holding it in his hand he couldn't imagine how it hadn't always been there. At Ollivander's expectant look Harry swung the wand, though it felt like only a formality to him.

The wand lit up when he swished it, red and gold fireworks erupting in a warm, friendly explosion. Ollivander jumped up and down at the reaction, clapping with child like enthusiasm, and Hagrid soon joined him from where he sat by the door.

"Bravo!" Ollivander called out. "Oh, what a good show. Though of all wands…curious. So very curious."

"what's curious, sir?" Harry asked, slightly put off by the ominous reaction of the wandmaker.

"I told you earlier that I sold the wand that gave you that scar," Ollivander spoke seriously, gesturing to Harry's forehead. "I told you it was a special wand, and it was, but not just for the strength it held within it. The phoenix feather that served as its core was one of only two to come from that bird. Each feather became a wand, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named took one, all those years ago, and the other now rests in your hands."

Looking at the old wandmaker, Harry simply smiled. "I'll treat it carefully, then," he said as he reached into his money bag.

Paying the seven Galleons Ollivander asked for, Harry turned and made for the door where Hagrid was already waiting.

"That wand will do great things, just as its brother before it. Please, do not double the regrets of an old man."

Turning to face Ollivander one last time, Harry was taken aback by the intensity in his eyes and voice. What would a hero do in this situation, Harry mused. Going with the first thing that popped into his mind, he gave the man a cheesy smile.

"Don't worry sir, it's in safe hands."

(-)