Chapter 3: Olive Branch

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~Druid~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Are you Harry Potter? That is what this odd person has said. For a moment, Harry simply stares silently at the man type thing in front of him. Now that he thinks about it, he's pretty sure that this is the first time anyone's asked his name in a few years. Ah, he should probably respond.

"Indeed. A pleasure to meet you, Mister Flitwick. Are you perhaps from Hogwarts?" the tiny man nods excitedly, a smile crossing his face for a moment.

"Why yes I am! May I come in?" Harry then remembers that normally one would invite a guest over for tea and biscuits.

With a nod, Harry steps out of the way for the tiny person to enter Number Four Privet Drive. He does so, quickly finding a spot on the hideously tacky couch Petunia had practically begged Vernon to buy. 'The Johnsons have one just like it, and everybody knows that the Johnsons are the ones you want to be' she had said. Personally Harry would prefer a nice hollow in a tree.

Harry makes his way to the kitchen and quickly returns with a teapot and a small plate of biscuits. Not too many that the Dursleys would notice, but hopefully enough to not seem rude. Harry then panics internally for half a second as he remembers that you're supposed to boil the water in the teapot first. Then he mentally facepalms as he recalls that he has magic.

Raising the teapot by the handle over his right hand, Harry makes a small ball of flames. He holds the flame there for a moment, waiting for the water inside to start boiling before cutting it off to pour the now steaming hot water into a small blue and white cup. He sets the pot on a raised metal coaster shaped like leafy vines that Petunia had also demanded Vernon buy who knows how long ago.

Harry then sits down and looks to Flitwick, waiting for the small man to say something, only to be caught off guard a little by the look of sheer confusion and awe on the man's face. He stares at the cup of tea in front of him as if he'd never seen the beverage before. Harry hums softly to himself as he thinks he's figured out the problem.

"Oh, sorry if I startled you with the flame. I didn't have a pot ready and I figured since you were from Hogwarts it'd be okay to use magic in front of you." This seems to snap Flitwick out of his trance, and the man chuckles faintly as though out of breath.

"I suppose that's my fault for dropping in unannounced. Though my surprise was more the fact that you did that both wandlessly and silently. It normally takes my fifth year's a solid minute to light a candle without their wands, and half of them still use incantations for it." Harry tilts his head to the side in confusion.

"Really?" Flitwick chuckles again, this time with more heart in it.

"Yes, though forgive me if I table that discussion for a later time. We've digressed a bit. Allow me to reintroduce myself. I am professor Filius Flitwick, teacher of Charms and Head of the Ravenclaw House for Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I've come to answer any questions you might have, and perhaps help you procure your school supplies." Harry sits in silence for a moment, digesting the small info dump.

"Do all students meet a teacher like this?" Filius shakes his head, a wry smile on his face.

"Oh no, there are simply too few hours in the day for that. We choose to focus on those that need it, like muggle-borns or those like yourself who are for one reason or another raised by muggles." Harry raises an eyebrow at the unfamiliar term, and Filius is quick to elaborate.

"Muggle refers to those who lack magic, with the term 'muggle-born' referring to magical children born to non-magical parents. Those who have magical parents and all magical grandparents are termed 'pure-blood', and anyone between the two terms are called 'half-bloods'." Flitwick knows that it's a lot more complicated than that, but he's not about to lecture an eleven year old on the intricacies and nuances of blood purity related politics and social norms.

"I see." Harry really doesn't, but he also doesn't care.

In his mind, you were either magical or not. The only logical reasons he could think of to differentiate your heritage would be the possible existence of family grimoires, or blood-line related special abilities. Both were fairly common concepts in fantasy stories, so he was familiar with the idea. Oh, and he supposes money would also be a factor, but if that was all that mattered then a wealthy first generation magician would be higher in the food chain than a poor pure-blood.

Also at the age of eleven, money wasn't entirely a real concept to him. Sure, he knows that having money is important, but he has no idea what anything costs, or why it costs that much. If given the choice between a nice walking stick or new plant and a hundred Euros, he'd take the plant. You can't water money. Well, Harry supposes that you could, but it wouldn't do anything. Before Harry's mental tangent can derail itself any further, Flitwick clears his throat, drawing the emerald eyed boy back into the present.

"So, do you have any questions I could answer for you my boy?" As a matter of fact, Harry has several.

"You said I was muggle raised, not muggle born. Was one of my parents magic?" Flitwick looks perhaps more surprised by this than his display of wandless magic.

"Are you telling me that your aunt and uncle never told you about your parents?" They had, but Harry was now beginning to doubt their words, so he just shook his head. Flitwick sighs heavily.

"I see. A little heavier of a topic than I had hoped to start with, but you deserve to know. Your mother was a muggle-born by the name of Lilly Evans. She was a very bright young lady, and an absolute genius at Charms. She had a fiery temper to her though. She had green eyes just like you, though hers were perhaps a little brighter in shade." Flitwick's eyes glaze over slightly as he ponders times long past.

"Your father was James Potter. Except for your eyes and the fact that James always wore his hair short, you look exactly like him. He was a pure-blood from the Potter family, which was one of our oldest families, though not the oldest and certainly not the most powerful. He was just as good at Transfiguration as your mother was at Charms. He also fancied himself a bit of a ladies man until he met your mother." Flitwick goes silent, and Harry is more than happy to simply sit there and absorb this new information.

Not that it changes anything, but a part of him is glad that his parents also had magic. It gave him a connection to them that the Dursley's and their lies could never take from him. Though this raises several new questions, least of which is:

"How did they die?" Harry assumes a mere car crash couldn't take out two fully grown magic casters. Flitwick's nostalgic smile turns into a small grimace.

"A very bad wizard by the name of Voldemort tried to kill off those of non-magical heritage. The wizarding world lost a lot of good people in the war. Most don't even like saying his name anymore, and prefer to call him 'you-know-who'. Your parents fought against him, and he didn't like that. So one night, about ten years ago, he went to the Potter's residence and attacked them. Sadly, you were the only survivor, including Voldemort. Nobody is exactly sure how it happened, but the entire wizarding world owes the Potter family a debt of gratitude." Harry frowns.

Obviously Flitwick was cutting a lot of information out since he probably expects it to fly over an 11 year old's head. Not that Harry blames him. He knew that he was unusually smart for a child, though not quite as smart as most adults. He'd just have to do some reading and figure out the missing pieces on his own. That was fine by him, so he decides to give the older man an easy out.

"I see. So, tell me about Hogwarts." The man's face brightens considerably, and he starts extolling the virtues of the school, which Harry patiently listens to.

Several subjects catch his attention, such as potions, runes, and of course herbology. Charms sounds like an easy way to pad out his repertoire of day to day spells. Transfiguration intrigues him, if only for the fact that it flies in the face of physics. He couldn't care less about divination, arithmancy, or astronomy however. Defense sounds like it'd be helpful, but he honestly wishes that he'll never need to know a lot about it.

"And about my supplies?" At this, Flitwick talks of a place called 'Diagon Alley'. The part of Harry that's still 11 is greatly intrigued by the thought of a mystical marketplace.

"I see only one issue. I lack any funds of my own to purchase any school supplies." Especially since Flitwick had mentioned off-handedly that the wizarding world used copper, silver, and gold pieces instead of Euros or Pounds.

"Oh, we'll just have to pop over to the bank. The Potters are an old family, and you have certainly inherited an impressive amount of capital even if most will of course be restricted until you finish your schooling." That sounds a little weird to Harry, but he's not a financial expert so he shrugs.

"Very well. When shall we leave?" The short man hops off the couch and gestures to the door.

"Why not now? Unless you have plans for today?" Harry glances back at the house, and thinks for a moment on the chores he's supposed to do today.

"No. Let's go." That sounds like a problem for future Harry to deal with. Preferably by simply not coming home for a day or two.

Flitwick walks outside, and Harry follows. Flitwick then turns to look at Harry, mouth open to say something, before becoming pensive. He gestures to Harry's shoulders, where Twitch and Seras were still waiting patiently.

"Are your companions joining us? I admit, I sort of forgot about them, since they haven't made a noise." Harry turns his head to give each of them a questioning look.

"~Oh, I should probably go. I hate watching people go shopping. So boring. Why don't they just put everything in trees until they need it?~" Twitch then jumps off Harry's shoulder and skitters into the underbrush.

"{Well, I suppose I could come. Not much else to do here besides nap and wait for a rat to come by for lunch.}" Seras then coils herself around Harry's neck, hiding her body under the collar of his shirt with her head just barely popping out. HArry then nods to Flitwick that he's ready.

He looks ready to say something again before shaking his head. Harry wonders what it could have been. The smaller man then holds out his hand, as though he wanted Harry to take it. Figuring it to be a weird wizard thing, he does so with only the slightest hesitation.

"Alright, I'll warn you, this will feel a little strange. I hope you didn't eat anything too heavy for breakfast." Harry raises an eyebrow at Flitwick who just smiles.

And then the world collapses in on itself. At least that's the only way Harry can describe it. He watches with interest as Flitwick's magic wraps around the both of them, a small portion separating and floating in the air just a few centimeters away. The magic on the outside of his body twists in on itself, and the magic covering the two of them pulls towards the twisting 'hole' of magic that's benign created.

Then the world elongates, like everything was being pulled away. Then Harry and Flitwick are 'pulled' into the hole, and Harry's eyes are filled with nothing but the light blue of Flitwicks magic. The sensation of being squeezed into a tube that's slightly too small seems to fit with the visuals Harry is seeing, and he's relieved when they exit the swirling tunnel of magic and are deposited surprisingly gently on a brick road. Harry feels the remnants of dinner from last night try to rise up into his mouth, but he crushes the feeling easily enough.

Flitwick takes a look at Harry, as though to make sure the younger boy is alright, which physically he is. If Harry hadn't had his eyes open when Flitwick did his little teleportation trick, he'd have missed that all since the entire process took less than a full second. Still, the image of being sent hurtling through a tunnel of magic and the feeling of being toothpaste squeezed out of a tube made for an interesting combination that made Harry want to sit down for an hour to process it all.

"You alright there Harry? Apparition can be a little rough, especially when you're side-alonged." the much younger boy slowly focuses back on the present, and nods. Seras is less pleased.

"{If we never do that again, it'll be too soon. Felt like three owls were fighting over my body mid-air.}" Harry absentmindedly pets her head to comfort her.

"That's good. It gets easier with practice, but you have to wait until your fifth year to earn your license to apparate. Now then, welcome to Diagon Alley." Flitwick gestures forward, and Harry for the first time notices the market place in front of him, his eyes widening.

It's simultaneously so much more, and yet so much less than what he expected. The term 'alley' isn't really accurate. It's more of a bazaar. Or a strip-mall. The main street is about fifteen meters across, and each side is lined with shops that have signs loudly proclaiming their wares. There are even a few smaller stalls dotting the place.

In the five seconds Harry spends just taking it all in, he spots a store for flying brooms, an apothecary with a young woman outside holding a sign that reads 'eye of newt, now only 1 Sickle per ounce', a shop that has a 'rune carver set' in the window, and two different clothing stores. The actual storefronts have flashing lights, floating signs, and painted on designs that move under Harry's eyes. He can even spot a few splits in the road up ahead, no doubt leading to other streets with even more shops.

The most impressive part for the young druid though, is how much magic is in the air. Every person on the street glows with their own magical 'core' for lack of better phrasing. Every witch and wizard has an aura of magic intrinsic to themselves, though it takes slightly different forms for each individual. The vast majority simply appear as wispy 'clouds' centered on the magic user's chest and appear in a whole rainbow of colors. Others are more similar to an element, like flickering candle flames, spherical ponds of water, slowly rumbling stones, and so on and so forth.

And that's before he even gets into the myriad of colors and shapes of magic from the innumerable number of enchantments and spells in the area. Almost literally every brick sings with magic, some shops more so than others. Some people even have magic weaved into their clothes, though he's unsure what they could be for. In the few seconds he has, Harry can spot a few pieces of magic that seem to be repeated on nearly everything, though there are probably hundreds of unique 'flavors' of magic just from this quick perusal. Flitwick chuckles at Harry as the boy stands slack jawed.

"Wow." Harry remembers he has a mission, and regretfully tears his attention from the magic in the air.

"Yes, that's the response most first-timers have. I'll be more than happy to show you some of my favorite shops, but first things first we need to pop over to Gringotts." Harry nods, and follows the small professor.

Flitwick leads Harry down the path of Diagon Alley, and Harry is thankful for the professor's shorter legs, as it allows the young druid to take a few extra seconds simply observing the Alley. Soon enough however, his gaze is locked on the large white marble building ahead of him. Gold gilds a few of the higher ridges, alongside glittering lettering proclaiming it 'Gringotts Bank, London Branch'. The doorway however, is made of heavy wrought iron. It is also currently propped open, with two small figures dressed in full armor standing guard.

Harry has seen Dudley play a few video games before, and a few of his fantasy books had pictures, so Harry is familiar with what goblins look like. Green leather-like skin, clawed hands, and beady black eyes that burn with malice. These look almost exactly the same, though far more controlled and sophisticated than Harry would expect of the fantasy race. Perhaps modern fantasy was based on historical fact? Best not ask any of them.

He nods respectfully at the pair as he passes, which seems to catch them off guard if the slight widening of their eyes and the twitch of a confused frown on their lips is a fair indication. Goblins are predictably slightly harder to read than humans. He follows Flitwick into the lobby, and up to a free teller. He watches the goblin teller - dressed in a fine if tiny suit and tie - glance up at Flitwick, a ghost of a ghost of a smile growing on his face.

"Ah, the pale-skin has come to grace my desk. What can this humble goblin do for you today?" Standing behind Flitwick, Harry feels his good mood evaporate like morning dew.

He frowns, and is about to say something when he remembers how out of his depth he is. He has no clue what proper etiquette is for interacting with goblins. Grudgingly, the young druid holds back his anger and makes sure his face remains glacially impassive. Seras feels his body temperature rise, and sensing his anger, she quietly hisses from the collar of his shirt. Thankfully the noise is covered by the various commotion going on around them, not that Harry would really begrudge an excuse to let her bite someone right now.

"Harry Potter, here for the usual 'muggle-born' package and to access his trust vault." Flitwick turns his head slightly to speak to Harry, eyes still locked on the goblin.

"A mere formality. The much simplified explanation is that they're going to test your blood for any latent unique abilities or connections to old families. It's extremely rare, but every now and then a muggle-born is actually a very distant relative of some ancient magic family, with one of their ancestors having been born a squib, which is a non-magical person born to two magic parents." Harry nods, once more not really understanding the importance of what was being said, but getting the gist that it was just something people did.

Even the existence of these so-called 'squibs' made a certain amount of sense if one assumed that magical ability was a recessive trait biologically speaking. Which implies that magic is as much genetic as it is metaphysical. He'd have to do a lot more reading into biology and magic before he'd make any permanent decisions regarding his stance on all of this.

The goblin teller looks very put-upon by the request, but grudgingly presses a button on his desk, causing a door behind him to open up and another finely dressed goblin to emerge. This new goblin approaches the first one, and they speak in harsh tones that Harry instinctively knows is derogatory. Strangely though, it's the first language he's encountered that he can't understand. A small part of him balks at that, and feels a tiny flicker of impotent anger.

This does raise a very interesting question however. As a druid, he should be capable of speaking any animal language. The term 'animal' simply refers to all living species that contain some level of intelligence, meaning that in the entire world the only things he should be incapable of speaking with should be things that lack any language at all, such as plants, microbes, and animals that lack brains sophisticated enough to even have a language.

Point being, Harry has no clue what's different between goblins and the snake around his neck. Aside from the obvious that is. Harry feels a small smile pull at his lips. It wasn't even lunch time, and already he'd been presented with so much new information, and given so many questions. He may not be the most academically inclined, but he can enjoy dissecting a good fantasy story. And what a tale this was shaping up to be!

The new goblin finishes speaking with the teller, and gestures for the two to follow him into the hallway. Harry once more laments the lack of his walking stick, as he's sure the sound of it clacking against the marble floor would be nice on the ears. He'll just have to remember it for next time.

Harry and Flitwick are lead down a long hallway to an office that looks like it was a torture chamber once upon a time. The walls are black marbles instead of white, with gold and silver 'veins' in the walls, and the most prolific decorations are twisting chains made of spiked links. Close to one wall is a very nice looking wooden desk.

Harry recognizes it as mahogany wood stained a deep red. Vernon had the dining room table made from mahogany, so Harry is familiar with it and how expensive it is. He's in no way surprised that a goblin banker would have the same tastes in furniture as his uncle, though he imagines that telling either party would cause them to have a stroke out of sheer outrage. The thought causes a small smile to grace his lips for a second before returning to his neutral mask.

The goblin sits behind the desk and digs through a series of drawers until he eventually pulls out a small stone bowl and a very fancy looking dagger. To Harry's eyes, they both positively hum with magic, though they have wildly differing 'types' of magic on them. He can guess that at least one spell on the knife is to keep it sharp and clean, though he doesn't know nearly enough about magic to even guess at the rest.

The goblin sets the bowl on top of a piece of parchment, and sets the knife atop the bowl, the edge just close enough to stop it from falling inside.

"All the bowl needs is three drops of your blood, and it'll give us your family tree up to three steps removed, as well as any ancient houses that you're related to and your place in line for inheriting them." Harry isn't sure about giving his blood to a goblin, but a look at Flitwick gets an encouraging nod in return.

With a sigh, Harry picks up the knife and forces down his gut instinct to harden his skin. With a steady hand he swipes it across the pad of his thumb. He then holds it over the bowl and lets exactly three drops fall. He then goes to channel some magic to the wound to heal it, only to be mildly impressed when it heals on its own. He watches as one of the several pieces of magic layered into the knife pulses as this happens, and he guesses that he's not the first to think of how annoying it would be to bleed out over this procedure.

He gently sets the knife down on the desk, idly noting another enchantment activate and clear away the tiny speck of blood left on the blade. Then the enchantments on the bowl activate, and he watches with intrigue as they swirl together with his blood in a fascinating psychedelic parody of watching a washing machine spin. The magic then 'funnels' out the bottom of the bowl into the parchment underneath, and he sees a now somewhat familiar enchantment clean up the three splashes of blood on the bowl's interior.

The goblin waits until the magic has finished draining into the paper before removing the bowl. He stuffs it back into the drawer and he picks up the paper to peer at it with an air of intentional disinterest.

"Name is Harold James Potter, age 11. Son of Lily and James Potter. First Heir of the Potter family by blood and magic, First Heir of the Peverell family by blood and magic, Second Heir of the Slytherin family by magic, Fourth Heir of the Black family by blood, and Fifth Heir or lower to a small handful of lesser houses. Current holdings include the Potter Family Vault which is locked until you reach 15, the Potter Trust Vault which is open, the Peverell Family Vault which is closed until you reach 15 or perform a feat deemed worthy of acceptance by the Family Magicks, and once you turn 17 you will have restricted access to the Slytherin Family Vault unless the current First Heir dies or abdicates their position. You currently are not allowed to access the Black Vaults." Harry is a little surprised by the list of names, but Flitwicks expression is positively shell-shocked.

"I see. Could I get a brief listing of the holdings of those vaults please?" The goblin scowls, probably at being asked to do more paperwork, and he roots around in his desk until he pulls out a manila folder which he taps with the parchment.

The folder instantly fills up with several sheets of paper. And it's actual paper this time rather than parchment. Harry wonders if there's some cultural significance to the use of parchment over paper, since his Hogwarts letter had been in parchment as well, despite paper simply being cheaper to make and easier to use. The goblin opens the folder for a second before nodding and sliding it over to Harry, who immediately opens it up.

Potter Family Vault: 42,684 Galleons, 2 Sickles, and 9 Knuts. Assorted material goods including (but not limited to): 31 wands of varying make, 39 assorted potions kept under stasis charm, two dozen paintings of varying ages and places of origin, 76 books both handwritten and printed, four suits of armor in varying states of disrepair, two swords, one 'sword-staff', and the Potter Grimoire. As the First Heir, once you are 17 or older you will gain full access to this vault.

Potter Trust Vault: 1000 Galleons, to be refilled to this amount annually from the Family Vault. Date of refill: July 31st.

Peverell Family Vault: 20,512 Galleons, 5 Sickles, and 2 Knuts. Assorted material goods including (but not limited to): 9 wands of varying make, several hundred pounds of various metals, assorted gemstones valued at a total of roughly 20,000 Galleons, 157 books all handwritten, the skeletons (both complete and incomplete) of approximately three hundred different animals, over three dozen maps of different locations, a stone tablet written in an as of yet undetermined language, and the Peverell Grimoire. As the First Heir, once you are 17 or older, or you complete a task that the Family Magicks declare worthy, you will gain full access to this vault.

Slytherin Family Vault: 8,175 Galleons, 11 Sickles, and 5 Knuts. Assorted material goods (including but not limited to): 3 wands of varying make, 49 books all handwritten, approximately 30 miscellaneous items that appear heavily enchanted but are as of yet unidentified, the skeleton of a 15 foot long basilisk (missing a few bones but mostly intact), and the Slytherin Grimoire. As the Second Heir, once you turn 17 you will be allowed to remove 500 Galleons per fiscal year, and you may enter the Vault to observe and interact with the items inside but you are not allowed to remove anything.

Black Family Vault: Approximately 50,000 Galleons, and assorted material goods. As the Fourth Heir, you are not allowed the full inventory, and you are not allowed access to the Vault at all.

Harry nods his head as he reads. He's not entirely sure of the conversion from these 'galleons' to pounds sterling, but he knows that when your bank account has five digits in it before the decimal you tend to be on the wealthy side of things. Assuming the wizarding economy wasn't in shambles and a loaf of bread cost a dozen galleons, he should have more than enough money for his shopping. He'll have to see if he can arrange a day in the future to peruse the Potter Vault, see what sort of interesting things his dad and his side of the family might have kept. Also, the inventory lists something called a 'sword-staff', and that hits all the buttons of an 11 year old boy obsessed with magic.

"Thank you. Would you be the person I speak to about any businesses or property I've inherited or is that a different office?" The goblin sneers. Harry is beginning to think that it's their default expression.

"You'd have to take that up with your account manager. Send an owl and they'll let you know when you can meet." Harry nods as though that sentence made any sense, which honestly it still doesn't. Who uses birds to send messages these days?

Harry pauses. He can talk to birds. Sending a message with them would actually be insanely easy. He can't believe he forgot about that. Speaking to animals is like his whole thing. Which reminds him that Twitch and Seras were being remarkably well behaved. He'd have to get a few treats for them.

What follows next is somewhat less pleasant. The goblin pulls out another item from his drawer, this one a stone with the shape of a key carved out of it. He very briskly explains that in order to access the vaults at all, he needs a key. The very first one is free - subsidized by the 'ministry', which is a word Harry knows the definition of but doesn't know the context here, yet pretends he does - but any replacements would cost 50 galleons. Even to Harry, who has zero clue on the economy of the wizarding world, this sounds exceedingly high.

Still, he does as instructed and nicks his thumb again with the magic goblin knife, letting three drops fall into the stone cast. He watches raptly as a series of new and interesting enchantments activate, and the cat slowly fills up with what appears to be molten metal. It doesn't produce any heat as far as Harry can tell, but perhaps one of the many spells layered into the stone stops them from feeling it. After the mold fills up, it rapidly begins to cool down until it becomes a surprisingly elaborate golden key.

The teeth of the key are simple, being just three rectangular extensions of varying length, but the key itself is designed to look like a twisting branch, or perhaps several vines entangled with another. The base of it is diamond in shape, with a house crest 'engraved' into it. The crest is at first pure gold, but as Harry watches, color fills in. The crest is blood red, with a falcon that has its wings spread as though mid-flight. At the top is the name 'Potter', and on the bottom is some Latin. 'Honoris Ante Victoria'.

'Honor before Victory'. Harry doesn't speak a lick of Latin, but he knows the difference between 'post' and 'ante', and the other two words are self-explanatory. Either way, he finds it an odd thing to have for a family motto. Maybe this is just the bit they put on the crest and the actual motto is longer? Something along the lines of 'a warrior must have honor before they can achieve victory'? Or maybe 'victory is nothing without honor'? He'll have to add it to the now very long list of things he needs to look up.

Thankfully once he has a key, the goblin is more than happy to rush them out of his office. They're shuffled onto a rickety roller-coaster looking cart which then takes off at a speed far too fast for Harry's tastes. They arrive quickly at a large wooden door with a much larger version of the crest on Harry's key gracing the front of it. Harry places the key inside the lock that takes the place of a knob, and he's grateful when it opens without incident, not that he's sure what he could have expected to happen.

The inside of the trust vault is rather plain, simply being a circular room with a bowl shaped divot in the center, inside which rests a large pile of golden coins. Harry guesses that these must be 'galleons'. He looks to Flitwick, who had respectfully decided to remain outside the vault.

"Professor, about how much will my supplies cost?" The professor smiles, obviously having been asked this several times before.

"If you just want the required materials, it's just shy of 25 galleons. If you plan on buying plenty of books, I recommend about 40. If you really want to splurge and buy yourself a whole wardrobe plus a few souvenirs, I recommend about a hundred galleons. And you'll want another 2 or 3 to buy yourself something to eat on the train rides to and from the school." Harry nods.

He is then introduced to the concept of pocket dimensions, or as Flitwick calls the physics defying bag he hands to the young man, 'a mokeskin pouch with a space expansion charm'. Harry knows not what a 'moke' is, or why anyone would want to skin it, but apparently the result is a reptile leather bag roughly the size of Harry's hand that can somehow hold all one hundred and twenty five galleons that Harry decided to grab while not changing in weight from what he'd put at about a quarter of a kilogram.

Another stomach upsetting ride later, and Harry allows Flitwick to semi-hurriedly escort him out of the building. What follows is a shopping trip that Harry really wishes had been more interesting. First stop was a clothing store.

Harry walked in after Flitwick, and immediately became overwhelmed with color. He'd never imagined so many articles of clothing could exist in so many varieties of color and pattern. Ninety percent were some sort of robe, but in one corner Harry can spot a few racks of more mundane clothing. Though as he looks, he notices that the non-magical clothing was even more nonsensical than the magical clothing, with pieces ranging from the twenties to the early eighties, and no semblance of organization.

"Ah hello there dear. First year?" Harry turns his attention to a woman with greying brown hair, wearing a light green robe.

"Yes." She nods, a wide smile seemingly permanently etched into her face, though Harry notes that it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"Alright, so the full set for a first year is ten plain black robes, five white tunics, and three pairs of black trousers. The set costs 10 galleons total, but feel free to request anything on top of that." Harry ponders this.

"Can I see a robe first? I'd like to know how it feels to walk in one." She nods as though she had been expecting this.

"We've got a plain robe to test out, though I'll warn you that it won't be fitted to you." Harry nods, and the woman leads him to one corner of the shop, noticing Flitwick sneak away to peruse some aisles on his own as he does so.

The robe is a large, annoying, and completely pointless piece of clothing, Harry figures after trying out the 'tester' robe. It gets in the way of most of his movements, and he can just imagine how hot they must be in the summer. Looking at himself in a mirror, he decides to ask a few questions of the woman.

"Do the robes have to be of a specific style, or does Hogwarts just say 'robes'?" This draws her up short, and she pulls a small roll of parchment from a pocket Harry hadn't known she had. Nifty trick, that.

"Well, the Hogwarts charter has a few restrictions, but most of them are based on color, length, and amount of skin covered. We get a few alteration requests every year, but honestly it's a case by case thing nine times out of ten. Anything specific in mind?" Harry nods, and begins giving small instructions, the woman waving a wand and causing the 'tester' robe to change slightly to match what he says.

In the end, the robe looks very different. The majority of it is now much snugger, his chest and arms in particular being highlighted by the fabric, with the arms being made of a thinner material. The front is also left open to show off the shirt underneath, and the hem is lifted up from the ground until it reaches just past his knees. Harry would have gone higher but the lady said that any less and it wouldn't be allowed point blank.

Moving along, Harry makes the robe cinch around his waist. He then makes the lower section triple-layered with somewhat smaller pieces on each higher level. This still leaves him with a small bit left, so he adds that part to the shoulders to pad them. He does a little spin as he looks at himself in the mirror.

Despite most changes being really minor like length and thickness, it looks like a whole new robe. He likes it. He looks much more like a real Druid this way. The woman once more warns him that just because he was following all the rules didn't mean he wouldn't have to come back to get more 'proper' robes. Harry waves off her concern. He'd rather learn magic on his own than deal with those stuffy looking fashion disasters.

With the design now in mind, the woman returns the robe to its former state before whisking it off Harry and ushers him to step up onto a platform so she can start taking his measurements. He supposes it's time for him to settle in for the long haul. He lets his mind wander for a bit before he hears the door open up. It had done so a few times before now, but he'd been busy modelling himself to listen.

Another female attendant walks a boy roughly Harry's age up to another platform nearby, and begins taking his measurements. He's a little shorter and thinner than Harry, with a head of slicked back bleached blonde hair. Well, given the fact Harry doubts that the wizarding world knows what bleach even is, he supposes that the color must either be natural or spell made. Harry must not have been too subtle in his observations, or perhaps the other boy was simply a chatterbox, because he almost immediately starts talking.

"You a first year too? Maybe second based on the size of you." Harry ponders simply not responding for a single blissful second before doing the polite thing and speaking.

"First. I'm just tall." The blonde boy nods imperiously, like he'd known it all along.

"I figured. You don't look like a second year. Any clue which house you're going into? I'm definitely headed to Slytherin." Houses? Harry vaguely recalls Flitwick mentioning a 'ravenclaw' house earlier, but the man hadn't gone into any detail.

"Not sure. Maybe Ravenclaw?" The blond looks him up and down pensively.

"Perhaps. You're quiet like a Ravenclaw. Well, better than a Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff, am I right?" The boy laughs like he'd said something funny, to which Harry just nods.

"Oh, where are my manners? Father always tells me I should remind people who I am. The name is Malfoy, Draco Malfoy." Harry gives the blonde a faint and definitely fake smile.

"Harry Potter."