The summer sun broke the horizon, scattering bright beams of light across the rainy sky of Little Whinging, and the drumming of falling droplets filled the air of the deserted park.
Harry quietly watched the fractured sunlight from his solitary swing. He swayed gently back and forth, feeling the cool breeze on his face. The rain was cold, but he didn't feel it – it just rolled off him as it always had.
He had realized, after a time, that hiding from consciousness was counterintuitive. His problems would only grow worse while he blissfully ignored them. Harry liked to think of it like this: If he turned his gaze away from the big black dog, it would only inch closer. Not the best analogy, perhaps, but it seemed strangely fitting.
There were aspects of sleep that still greatly appealed to Harry, such as the darkness and silence, which both suggest loneliness in turn. Harry thought at first that he preferred loneliness because his alternative was the Dursleys. Mrs. Figg had, over time, shown Harry that silence could not only be shared but was better when it was.
So here Harry was, awake before dawn, enjoying the mellow sunrise. Mrs. Figg hadn't joined him today; she was quite a bit longer toothed than he, and she needed her sleep. He wasn't alone, though. Crookshanks was by his side as he always was. He must be the only cat in the world who didn't mind getting wet, Harry thought fondly.
He wasn't worried about the Dursleys; they no longer cared about what he did in his free time. If there was hot breakfast and a tended garden waiting for them each morning, they would just ignore his existence. To them, he was a kind of servant; best left doing his work unseen and forgotten.
This was largely due to his half-kneazle companion, who had the fantastical power to indirectly protect Harry from harm if he was nearby. The clever tabby would curl up in Harry's cupboard when Harry was in the house, and find his way out, undetected, if Harry had other ventures. This ultimately caused his physical beatings to cease – but not forgotten were his scars from the seven years prior.
The absence of physical punishment – and Harry entirely, for that matter – lead to the Dursleys' complete and total negligence of him. They stopped preparing his meals, they stopped taking him to school and the doctor, and they stopped doing his laundry (which was minimal). He learned quickly how to take care of himself and had help from Mrs. Figg whenever he needed it.
Any regretful feelings were always muted by one specific memory, though, from before he was old enough to understand more complex feelings. He had spent a whole hour on a drawing that he was quite proud of; two blond-haired blobs beside a dark-haired blob, with a fourth, smaller dark-haired blob set apart from the rest. Scrawled across the top was ' my family' in Harry's early handwriting. When he presented the drawing to his uncle, it was torn apart and thrown into the fire in front of him.
The recollection still brought a feeling of true sadness to Harry – at one point, he had actually believed that these disgusting people were his family.
A family doesn't treat each other like that. Families love and support each other, they care for each other, they hug each other. Harry remembered his first hug: given by Mrs. Figg as he had tried in vain to process his cursed diagnosis. He never knew how much he needed it until it happened.
It was four years ago, to the day, a day he would never forget. His seventh birthday. He knew that the emotional and physical scars of that day would never leave his body, and that was just as well. They reminded him to revisit his planned fate, to remember his prophesied future, and to chip away halfheartedly at the shock that remained, to try in vain to fully understand and believe it.
Simple math, which he had learned from Mrs. Figg, says that seven plus four equals eleven, and here it was. He was eleven years old. Harry wondered how he could feel both younger and older than his true age at the same time... on one hand, he was but a fraction into his life. He still had so much time left, even if his prophecy turned dark on him, but on the other hand, it was all too short a time. He was already growing weary.
That blessed Arabella was Harry's guardian angel through the last few years. She made sure that he, above all else, understood the importance of his task and was prepared for it. Reminders of wizarding dangers were regular but not overwhelming – she wanted him to be paranoid and overcareful, but not let it control his mind. She wasn't light with her training, but she was gentle.
The first thing she did was give Harry a wand; a non-functional one previously belonging to the late Mr. Figg; capped with goblin silver to stop spells. She wanted him practiced in hexes, cursed, charms – anything he could learn from the countless spellbooks she owned. Because of the capped wand (the ministry restricted underage magic), he couldn't actually cast what he was practicing. The books were perfect for such applications; they described pronunciation, movement, and theory. The only thing missing was the casting itself, the absence of which did not affect Harry in any way besides an uncomfortable tension in his wand arm.
Harry extensively read about practical spells, useful charms, combat-oriented hexes, and curses, repeating the movements and incantations until they were ingrained in his mind, becoming near instinctual. After enough practice, he could make the tip of the wand glow with the potential of the jailed spell inside. The wand became an extension of his body; when he wasn't practicing with it, he was twirling it absentmindedly between his fingers like a windmill.
Mrs. Figg helped Harry get on a better diet than he had been able to supply himself. He started to fill out more. After a few months, his ribs were much less visible, and his hands weren't as cold. He also started exercising in the dark early mornings, it made him feel much better overall. The better diet sharpened his mind, which helped his Occlumency practice immensely (Mrs. Figg thought it a very important skill).
The dramatic change between the starving, weak Harry and the stronger, well-fed Harry infuriated him. He remembered all the leftover meals that the Dursleys had thrown away, looking him straight in the eye, as if daring him to object. All the years of being stuck in that damned cupboard, curled up like he was in a constant PTSD attack. It was their fault entirely. Oh, how Harry wished he could watch them starve.
Several times he and Mrs. Figg had also tried to brew simple potions because neither of them had done it before. According to her, he had gained his mother's knack for potions, while she had gained the potion skills of a tortoise. Harry dismissed the statement laughingly but secretly agreed with her, especially after the desecrated cat corpse fiasco.
Harry fancies "cat" over "half-kneazle hybrid", which is what they happened to be. He learned this when he finally asked Mrs. Figg what she did for a living, to which 'kneazle cross-breeding' was her casual answer; "A roaring trade," she had said.
While he was lost amidst thought and memory, it had stopped raining. The sun was fully risen and glowing magnificently on the horizon. Harry shook his head lazily. The mail would be arriving shortly – it was not a good day to miss it. He rose from the swing, twirling the wand distractedly between his fingers, and set off toward #4, Privet Drive.
~~~~H~P~~~~
Harry arrived at the dismal residence just in time to catch the mailman, an irritable and grubby old bloke who smelled strongly of tobacco and alcohol. Despite the mailman's grumpy moods... he was oddly kind to Harry, at least in radical contrast to the Dursleys and their neighbors.
"'Ello, 'Arry," he greeted in a tired and hoarse voice. "Fine morning, innit?"
"Yes sir, I suppose it is," Harry replied, glancing around at the glistening, wet grass.
"I'll get yer letters, then," he yawned. He started ruffling around in his bag, muttering quiet complaints about his job as he always did. "Wake up at bleedin' 5 am, ooh, I'd fancy a cuppa right about now... let's see here… Dursleys… ah, 'ere yeh are," he extracted a small collection of letters. He handled them with a strange caution compared to his normal indifference.
The mailman carefully handed Harry the letters, seeming oddly distrait. "Well, I best be movin' on," he said, turning around. "Enjoy the sunshine, you hear?"
"Yes, sir," Harry replied. He lowered his gaze from the retreating mailman, raking his eyes across the letters he held. A thick brown letter lay neatly on the pile of letters in Harry's arms.
Mr. H. Potter, Front Yard, #4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey
His excitement was clouded by instinctual caution and disbelief. Front Yard? He spun around, eyes panning the road and nearby yards for anybody lurking unseen. He found nobody except a grand-looking owl sitting on the gutter. How strange, he thought, he barely ever saw owls here – aren't they nocturnal? He eyed the bird suspiciously.
He flipped over the letter to reveal a violently red wax seal. The seal was stamped with a curly letter H, and a multicolored coat of arms was stamped above it. It had four sections – red with a lion, green with a snake, blue with an eagle, and yellow with a badger. A ribbon of text underneath read: Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titillandus.
It was exactly as Mrs. Figg had described it would be. His anticipation was unbearable as he eagerly (but carefully) broke the seal and withdrew the contents. The first paper looked very official and was again topped in the coat of arms.
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 been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1st. We await your owl by no later than July 31st.
Yours Sincerely, Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress
Await my owl? Was Harry's first thought. He noticed that the owl was now sitting patiently upon the fencepost. Mrs. Figg had never told him that wizards communicate with owls. She had said that magical folk could teleport, so why were they using letters? The Muggle telephone would probably be faster.
Harry supposed it was his own fault that he didn't know... he was the one ignoring the books on magical creatures almost entirely. As for Mrs. Figg – she wasn't a witch, and Harry had never seen her send a letter, so the topic never arose.
He had finally decrypted the masterfully coded term, "await my owl", so he moved on to the latter half. His eyes grazed the words July 31st, and his brain froze. Surely, Harry thought incredulously, they don't mean today.
"Do – do I send you ?" He asked the owl. As Harry expected, the owl did not respond. It instead chose to ruffle its feathers importantly, spattering Harry with water droplets.
Deciding to ignore the owl and check the rest of the letter's contents, Harry found the supply list:
-Uniform-
- Three Sets of Work Robes (Black)
-One Plain Pointed Hat (Black) for day wear
-One Pair of Protective Gloves (Dragon Hide or similar)
-One Winter Cloak (Black, w/ silver fastenings)
~Please note that all pupil's clothes should carry name tags~
-Other Equipment-
- One Wand
-One Cauldron (Pewter, standard size 2)
-One set of Glass or Crystal Phials
-One Telescope
-One set Brass Scales
-Course Books-
~All students should have a copy of each of the following~
- The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
-A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
-Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
-A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
-One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
-Magical Draughts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
-Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
-The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
~Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad~
-Parents are reminded that first years are not allowed their own broomsticks-
Harry stared at the paper. He had expected a strange list, but he had no idea how he would get anything on it. Mrs. Figg had told him about a magic sort of shopping center – Digonelley if he remembered correctly – but he didn't know how to get there.
The last thing he dug out of the envelope was a small golden slip of paper with Platform 9¾ written in large curly letter across the front. Confused, he studied the slip of paper, searching for any directions, which he finally found as he flipped it over. Handwritten on the back in stunningly perfect cursive were the words: Walk through the barrier. Don't hesitate. Don't be afraid.
The owl, apparently growing impatient, hooted rather loudly, making Harry jump.
"I haven't got any paper!" he apologized. "Mrs. Figg will have some, just follow me over there, yeah?" The owl stared at him with large, round eyes. He started walking towards Wysteria Walk, and the owl flew lightly onto his shoulder. He hoped to Merlin that the Dursleys wouldn't see.
~~~~H~P~~~~
He entered #9, Wisteria Walk without knocking, wand twirling idly in one hand and mail resting in the other. They trusted each other; Mrs. Figg was the closest thing to a mother he had. It was hard to think otherwise when she treated him like family, as her son; a desperate connection between two lonely souls.
The possibility that Mrs. Figg was lonely had never crossed his mind in the past – just that she was alone, like all the other old widows. When she began to open to him, he realized that she craved company and missed her husband. After several years, she told him of her miscarriage and how she still grieved and blamed herself for it constantly. He tried to comfort her but knew he couldn't fill the void that her earlier losses had left, just as she couldn't fill his.
"Mrs. Figg?" he said loudly.
"Harry? Is that you?" came her distant reply. She appeared at the top of the stairs with a grin, and started rushing down the stairs – "Oh, you got your letter! How wonderful!" – but was disrupted by an unfortunately placed half-kneazle.
It happened in a split second: Mrs. Figg falling through the air, Harry's eyes opening wide, and his wand hand twirling away from him. A deep rumbling – air rippling toward the old woman – a high-pitched scream – a green flash – the wand exploded in Harry's hand.
Harry dropped the burning stick as he recoiled. Mrs. Figg lay frozen in the air – mere inches from the ground. Harry stared in awe, his breath catching as he cradled his burnt hand.
What just happened? Was all he could think.
The tension in his wand arm was gone, but his right hand was badly burnt and scarring. The spell had apparently cast, but the wand lay smoldering on the ground...
He looked at Mrs. Figg. "I... I-I'm sorry ab-bout the wand, Mrs. F-Figg..." he said in a broken voice. It was her husband's, and he had just destroyed it.
She sat up against the wall, "It's just a stick, boy," she said with a bemused smile. "How – how did it get through the cap?"
"I've no clue," Harry said, bending down and picking up the wand.
"Maybe it was Mateo," she said, gazing hopefully at the wand. "He's always protected me, even in passing." She gestured vaguely at the half-kneazles. "Then again, maybe it was just you."
Harry didn't know what to think. He knew that he cast it; the tension in his arm was gone. Why did the wand break? Had the spells been building up? Was it too much for it to handle? Or was it Mateo's last favor to his wife that he never got to say goodbye to?
As both slowly recovered from the shock and confusion of the event, the topic of Harry's letter was nearly forgotten; Harry was distracted by his burnt hand and the unpleasant experience of his first casting. It wasn't until Harry was leaving that Mrs. Figg brought it up, promising him a visit to "Diagon Alley" the next day.
As Harry walked home, he was once again torn between whether his birthday had been good or bad.
~~~~H~P~~~~
Harry awoke early on August 1st. Another atypical birthday had passed, and today he was getting his fourth birthday present ever: a day in the magical world. He didn't know whether to be excited or not.
Harry dressed fast and sped through his chores even faster. He checked to make sure the Dursleys were asleep, and then sneaked into their room, carefully grabbing a hair from Aunt Petunia's pillow and set of clothes from her closet by Mrs. Figg's request. He then slunk down the street, sticking to the shadows, until he reached Wisteria Walk.
"Hello, Harry," she said as he entered. "Did you get the clothes and hair I asked for?"
"…Yes," he said slowly. "What's it for?"
"Polyjuice potion."
"You're gonna be my aunt?"
"Yes. We both know that your aunt is far too normal to handle magic, she'd probably shit her pants in Diagon alley, but nobody else knows that. If – no, when you are recognized, I think it better if an actual family member is with you. Especially if someone from the Order is there."
"Oh yeah, right."
Mrs. Figg stepped into the bathroom. After a series of unpleasant noises, she emerged – no, his Aunt Petunia emerged – into the living room.
"Being a squib is better than being a Muggle in a few ways, Harry, and floo powder is one of them. I'm sure you've read about it," she said as she fastened her handbag. "As a squib, I am still magic-aware, so the ministry has me connected to the floo network. They do the same thing for muggle-born parents, as well." She still had Mrs. Figg's voice, but it was quite unsettling to see the relaxed form of Aunt Petunia talking so nonchalantly. She leaned down and grabbed Harry's shoulders, putting his aunt's face uncomfortably close to his.
"You need to be careful in Diagon Alley. Even though the Dark Lord is gone, many of his zealots were able to escape, and still walk among us. The most dangerous kind is also the hardest to detect, and therefore the least known; the Order calls them Swipers. They are extremely intelligent Warlocks working for the dark side and are highly practiced in Legilimency. They caused a ton of problems for the Order during the War, but most people blamed it on the Imperius curse, which Dumbledore says is much harder to cast than it's made out to be.
"I want you to have your Occlumency active the entire time we are there, and tell me if you feel anything, okay? These guys are still loyal, and that makes them even more dangerous."
"I understand, I'll be careful." Harry was surprised at the sudden warning, although he figured he shouldn't have been. She had told him of how extensive Voldemort's influence was, even after his vanishing. Still, the idea that his agents could be lurking in Diagon Alley waiting for him was nerve-wracking.
"Right then, onto the Floo. It's quite a lot simpler than most wizards think: all you have to do is step into the green flames, say 'Diagon Alley' as clearly as possible, and close your eyes. If you say it clearly, it will always deliver you to the right place." Harry eyed the fireplace uncertainly, which was cold and desolate.
Mrs. Figg grabbed a pinch of silvery powder from a tin on the mantelpiece labeled "Floo Powder" and tossed it into the fire. The heat dissipated and the flames melded into a greenish-blue hue.
"I'll go first and wait just on the other side, okay? Watch how I do it."
Harry stood awkwardly, examining every movement she made. He really did not want to mess it up – both because of the embarrassment but also because of the unknown consequences of doing it incorrectly. Would he end up somewhere entirely different? Would he just disappear entirely? He focused all his attention on the old woman as she hobbled into the fireplace.
Mrs. Figg grabbed another handful from the tin. The vivid flames licked at her clothes but left no marks. With a deep breath, she firmly announced, "Diagon Alley" and threw the powder down at her feet. With a roar, the flames climbed above the batty old woman and when they lowered, she was gone. Harry stared wide-eyed at the now-empty mantel; any shred of doubt disappearing as Mrs. Figg had.
The green flames returned to their low burn, barely higher than Harry's ankles. He stepped into the rectangular fireplace, grabbing the Floo powder. It was peculiar, the flames were barely warm.
He took a deep breath as Mrs. Figg had and said in a clear, confident voice (although it didn't reflect how he felt), "Diagon Alley". Clenching his eyes shut, he threw down the powder at his feet and the inferno surrounded him like a warm blanket.
He felt like he was falling and spinning; it was nauseating. Resisting his body's urge to panic, he remained physically calm and waited to reach Diagon Alley. After a few seconds, the uncomfortable sensations stopped, and Harry opened his eyes.
He stepped out of a large grate onto a cobblestone street. Petunia appeared at his side with a large smile, making Harry's heart spasm before he remembered her identity. She reminded him to use his Occlumency.
Right, he thought. Closing his eyes, he cleared his mind. Learning Occlumency was the hardest part of it – he had thought the sleepless nights would never end as he lay trying to control his emotions. Once he figured it out, however, it was easy to put into practice. The familiar pressure of the Occlumency slid into place in his mind like a shield.
Opening his eyes, he looked around him. The narrow alley was filled with people of all ages: children getting school supplies, their parents keeping watch, and old shopkeepers displaying their products. The people themselves were dressed in a large assortment of robes and cloaks, many of which were topped with a tall, pointy hat. His school outfit seemed much less extraordinary at the sight. Some others, whom Harry guessed had arrived by means other than Floo, were dressed in poor imitations of Muggle outfits. A man in Curious George pajamas walking past said, "Nice costumes," to them.
They set off down the street. Harry could barely keep up with the conglomerate of things happening around him: magical creatures hissing from cages, an orgy of unidentifiable smells, colorful signs for colorful shops filled with colorfully people buying colorful products and using equally colorful language. His head was spinning, it was quite overwhelming… there were so many people. Harry had never felt claustrophobic before – he had gotten well used to small spaces – but he was starting to feel it now. The only familiar thing in sight was the form of Aunt Petunia in front of him, which was not at all comforting and did nothing to suppress the feeling that he was being watched… that someone was lurking in a side alley waiting for him…
Harry felt the occasional prod on his mind, but Harry was certain that they were just a placebo. They didn't feel like the attack he anticipated Legilimency felt like.
After much stress, Harry and Mrs. Figg reached the end of the alley unhurt (though Harry felt rather violated), where they stood before an ancient and magnificent marble structure. It put all the little shops to shame in terms of presentation – Harry had never seen such a grand building. Gringotts was spelled in golden letters above the entryway.
Harry recognized two goblins from his readings, flanking massive golden doors. Inlayed on those doors was the text that follows:
Fortius Quo Fidelius
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.
Harry shivered. There seemed to be more words – he assumed they faded over the centuries – but the remaining message was clear: Do not steal from goblins. He made a mental note of it.
They entered the entrance hall. The ceilings were far above their heads, and very far above the goblins' heads. Spectacular crystal chandeliers hung down from the top, stopping barely twenty feet above their head. Tall counters ran along the sides from the doors to the far end, and goblin tellers sat behind them. They headed toward the far end.
The atmosphere was tense... Harry couldn't place it, but he knew it wasn't normal. All the goblins looked uncomfortable and disgusted.
They stepped up to the counter. The goblin towered above them; hands folded in front of him. The effect surprising: the goblin looked much more menacing and dangerous than he did from a distance. Harry wondered if it was just a trick of the light, but the goblin's eyes seemed to be glowing malevolently. The goblin did not ask Harry's name.
"Welcome to Gringotts, Mr. Potter," it croaked. "I was wondering when we would see you would return… your vault has been closed for so long."
It took Harry several seconds to find his voice as he tried desperately to remember what he had read about goblins. What did the damned book say? There are few things that goblins value... treasure, victory, and respect.
"Th-thank you v-very much, sir," he stuttered. "The bank is… well, the books just don't do it justice. It's truly breathtaking to be here in person." The goblin eyed him with a look of pleasant surprise. "If I may ask, how did you recognize me?" Harry asked.
"This may be your first visit, Mr. Potter, but it is not your family's. Many of your ancestors have stood right where you do, and I must say, the resemblance is uncanny." He looked at Harry thoughtfully. "It appears your eyes aren't the only thing you've gotten from your mother; I've never met a witch with more respect for my species." Harry could think of no response, but instead stowed the new information about his mother deep in his mind. Silence fell for a short time.
"I take it you would like to enter the Potter vault today?" the goblin asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Do you have the key to your vault?" Harry's stomach dropped. Of course I don't have the damned key, where would I even get it? The goblin seemed to know what Harry was thinking.
"A signature should do fine in place of a vault key if you would be so kind." He glanced over at Harry's companion. "It will also tell if you are under the disguise of a poorly brewed Polyjuice potion, like Arabella here." Harry twisted around and sure enough, Mrs. Figg stood before him, looking thoroughly embarrassed. His mouth dropped open in panic, but the goblin held up his hand to silence him.
"I'd have you both killed for that if I wasn't in such a good mood today," he reached behind the counter, cackling maniacally, and withdrew a piece of parchment and quill. Harry felt his blood chill. "But I think I'll wait until after the test. Pull the knob in front of you."
Harry did so, and a flat piece of wood extended from the counter, providing a flat space at a comfortable level for visitors to write on. The goblin handed Harry the paper and quill. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Mrs. Figg take another swig of Polyjuice and grimace as she transformed back into his aunt's form.
"Sir? You haven't given me any ink," he said.
"You shan't need any, Mr. Potter. Sign your name on the line."
Harry bemusedly wrote his signature on the indicated line, which flashed gold, and felt a sharp pain on the back of his hand. The very same words he had written briefly showed up red against his skin. If Harry didn't know any better, he'd say that he had just used his own blood as ink.
The drawer disappeared back into the counter, and the goblin retrieved the paper, examining it.
"It appears we have one Harry James Potter – lucky for you," he said gravely. "I hope you can excuse the added caution, but yesterday we were nearly robbed of a very important artifact. First time in centuries, prevented only because Dumbledore emptied the vault earlier that day." He seemed outraged at the prospect, that they were nearly robbed, and Harry understood why the atmosphere was so tense – they were disgraced. "I will take you to your vault, Mr. Potter, but I must ask that Mrs. Figg stays."
Harry followed the goblin through a door labeled "VAULT TRACK No. 6". The goblin, which Harry identified as Griphook by his newly visible nametag, beckoned him into a cart, and they sped off through tunnels that were roughly carved into the earth. Down, down, down they went, left, right, left, right. They seemed to turn every other second – any hope of knowing where they were was lost among the hundreds of alternate routes that were taken or passed. They passed over the top of an underground waterfall, through massive caves of crystal, and even over a pool of boiling magma.
Finally, they arrived at vault 687. Griphook got out first, walked over to the vault, and stroked the door with a long, bony finger. The door shuddered before gradually unlocking itself. Griphook looked at Harry with dark amusement.
"If anyone else tries that, the door will grab them and suck them through like a spaghetti noodle. They'll be stuck in there until we do our routine vault cleanings."
"How often do you clean the vaults?" Harry asked in a shaky voice.
"About every fifteen years," Griphook said with the same unnerving cackle. Harry shivered. The caves were inky black around them.
He watched in awe as the door melted away into the nearby walls, revealing towering mounds of gold, silver, and bronze coins. It was more money than Harry had ever seen in his life – more than even the Dursleys had. The goblin handed him a leather sack that he had grabbed from the cart.
Harry scooped up gold and silver by the fistful, shoving it into the bag, which never seemed to grow heavier or get full. Even after putting an absurd amount of gold into the bag, there was no visible dent in the pile and the leather coin bag was no heavier. The money seemed infinite.
"Alright, I think I've got enough," said Harry.
"Very well, Mr. Potter," said Griphook "Back to the cart, if you will."
Off they went through the caves, taking what seemed to be an entirely different route, but there was really no way of knowing. Harry didn't even think Griphook knew – the cart was steering itself. After another gut-wrenching cart ride, they arrived back at the start of vault track six. He exchanged brief pleasantries with Griphook before departing from the marble fortress.
"Where first, Harry?" asked Mrs. Figg as they started down the street. Referencing his supply list, they gradually made their way through the items.
-They visited Potage's cauldron shop. For a split second, his eyes darted between his money bag and a solid gold cauldron, but he didn't think it would leave a good impression at school.
-They visited Mr. Mulpepper's apothecary, where Harry bought a year one potions kit, containing but a small fraction of what the shop offered. He awed at vials of dragon's blood, unicorn hairs and horns, and hippogriff talons (whatever those were). Solid gold caught his eye again: this time a mortar and pestle that weighed almost as much as his cauldron. He once again resisted.
-They visited Flourish and Blotts, where Mrs. Figg had a lifetime discount and bought the few books that Harry couldn't borrow from her.
-And they visited Madam Malkin's. A squat witch dressed in mauve graciously welcomed Harry, commending how polite he was. Like the other shop owners, she didn't notice how he constantly checked behind his back and peered out the windows when he got the chance.
"An easy customer, how refreshing!" she had said to him. "Just yesterday there was a boy in here – nasty attitude, he had. Treated me like a bloody servant, and he was only your age. Took nearly an hour to get his robe fitted... that'll be ten galleons, dear."
It was time for the most exciting magical object. The thing Harry had been looking forward to the most wasn't robes or books or golden cauldrons, however, it was the wand. His very own magical wand.
His excitement faltered as he entered Ollivander's wand shop. The atmosphere wasn't exactly welcoming; it was dark, silent, and the only living things in sight were the spiders hanging from the ceiling.
The front windows, which were too dusty to see through from the outside, were full of display wands. The rest of the store looked almost like an old library – full of shelves so high that a ladder was needed to reach the upper levels – but the shelves were full of small rectangular boxes, which Harry guessed held the wands.
He rang the bell on the counter, lightly at first, and then louder as his impatience grew. After a healthy number of twangs, an old man appeared from behind one of the shelves. Slowly the man hobbled over to the counter, where he greeted Harry.
"I have been wondering when I would see you, Harry Potter." the wandmaker said in a gravelly, worn voice.
Again. What's the point of caution if every damn old man in Diagon Alley knows my name?
"Sir?"
"I remember every customer I've ever had, Harry," he said. "your mother's eyes aren't seen often."
Harry looked at the floor. I have my mother's eyes?
Ollivander looked at him sadly. "Come for your first wand, then?" he asked carefully.
Harry confirmed this, and the old wandmaker disappeared among the shelves for a few minutes. When he returned, his arms were full of wand boxes.
"We'll try this batch first," Ollivander said. "Just pick one, give it a wave and a swish, and move on. The wand picks the wizard, Mr. Potter, and they like to put on a show when they find their wielders."
Harry couldn't see how a stick would pick him, but he decided that the old man's knowledge on the subject significantly outclassed his own. He grabbed the box nearest him and opened it to reveal a sleek, long, and dark wand. He gripped it familiarly, but it felt wrong and... unfamiliar. He waved it vaguely at a chair to his right.
With a whooshing sound, the chair shot backward, hit the wall, and splintered into large pieces. Harry startled, and placed the wand in its box, muttering apologetically. The wandmaker said nothing, so Harry grabbed another wand.
This one felt better than the last, but ever so slightly off – like milk that was one day overdue. He pointed it at a stack of papers, figuring it would do less damage than the previous. They burst into flame (to the continued indifference of the wandmaker) and a panicked Harry put it out with a blundered aguamenti , which sprayed water all over the walls and ceiling like a garden sprinkler.
Harry averted his eyes from the smoldering ashes, once again muttering apologies to Ollivander, who was staring at Harry with a curious gaze. He slowly grabbed yet another wand that was short and thick like a carrot. It felt utterly terrible in his hand, but – might as well give it a try, he thought. Worse feelings had led him right in the past.
He pointed the stubby wand at the bell. It was metal; surely it would hold up. What resulted was an extremely unpleasant feeling in Harry's arm; like an ice cube being sucked through a straw, and the bell started violently ringing. He very quickly put the wand away, rubbing his tired arm. He was about to grab another when Mr. Ollivander stopped him.
"Now, boy, I think you've tried enough of these. Give me one minute, won't you?" he asked.
I've tried enough? Harry thought wildly. Did I fail? Did I mess up his shop too much? Harry's doubtful thoughts marinated for several minutes before Ollivander returned holding a single box.
"I've seen enough to be convinced that unicorn hair and dragon heartstring aren't a good fit for you, so I would like you to try this," he handed Harry the box. "Pheonix feather core. Not many people bond with this type of wand, so I don't make many anymore... I've had this one in stock for decades..."
That much was clear to Harry; the box was more worn than the others and carried more dust than the displays in the windows. He opened it slowly, revealing a beige medium-length wand.
"Eleven inches... made of holly," Ollivander said. "A rather unusual combination of wood and core, but alas, it passed all of my tests."
The second Harry wrapped his fingers around the wand, he was filled with warmth. It seemed to be flowing from the wand, through his arm, and into his body... he felt powerful; like he could do anything. The wand was spraying golden and red sparks enthusiastically, the green lightning that haunted his dreams leeched into the front of his mind, but he welcomed them. His mother's eyes were green, his eyes were green. Why should he be afraid?
Harry's scar was buzzing and prickling, but he ignored it. The sparks that rained out of the wand were turning from gold to green... Harry knew.
This wand will avenge my parents.