"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the ninth month dies… and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives… the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the ninth month dies…."

Chapter I: You're a Wizard, Harry

The day of July 6th, two months before his thirteenth birthday, Harry slipped out the front door of 4 Privet Drive quietly, his passing masked by his uncle screaming at the television. In his hand he clutched nothing but the letter that had appeared on his pillow the week before. It wasn't much to go on; just the (frankly ridiculous) name of a school, an address he didn't recognise let alone know how to find. Just a glimmer of hope, a fanciful promise of an explanation for the tragedy that was his life. It may have been a hoax. It was quite possibly a trap. He found he didn't care.

He just prayed they wouldn't make him sleep in a damned cupboard.

Across the street, unnoticed by Harry, Mrs Figg smiled with relief and turned to hurry home. She had an appointment with an owl.

Harry had been walking the streets of Guildford for hours. At first he'd approached his task with enthusiasm, after thanking the bus driver once again for 'helping a young lad with no money find his way home'. He'd asked everyone he met if they'd ever heard of 'Hogwarts School', wisely not mentioning its less than mundane nature, but no-one could help him. Many didn't even stop for him, although they were less bothersome than the pair of old ladies who'd insisted on 'accompanying' him to the police station to help him find his mother. He'd slipped their frail grasp and changed his story a little to avoid a repeat situation.

As time dragged by his hope had waned, and now he found himself dragging his heels and kicking a can down a back street of boarded up shops. He was already taking note of places he might spend the night, and was glad it was set to be a warm and dry summer night, because his best options were all doorways and benches. He stopped to once again pet the silver tabby cat that had been trailing him for the last half a mile, winding about his legs and purring. Even the pleasant comfort of its company was wearing thin, but when it left him to slink into a short alley, he chose to follow. Maybe it knew a good place to bed down?

He almost lost sight of it, just catching the flick of a tail as it dipped into what looked to be a sheltered loading bay. Harry was just thinking how fortunate it would be if the owners didn't lock the place up tonight when he rounded the corner and came face to face with an elderly woman, nearly crashing into her. She held herself with a posture that belied her wrinkled features, and seemed oddly unsurprised by the near collision. She wore long, heavy robes despite the summer heat, and atop her head sat the pointiest hat Harry had ever seen. A wry smile allowed itself to tug at her otherwise stony expression as Harry blustered a stuttering apology. When his apology petered out she regarded him a moment longer, the smile finally reaching her piercing eyes.

"A good afternoon to you too, Mr Potter."

Harry broke from his book at a knock on the door to his room in the Leaky Cauldron. Given that only Professor McGonagall knew he was staying there, or even that he had been introduced (re-introduced?) to magical Britain, it wasn't hard to guess who was visiting.

"Come in!"

The door opened, and Harry found he was wrong in his assumption. McGonagall was there in the corridor, but before her stood two other witches. One was middle aged and stout, the other looked to be Harry's age. Judging by their brilliant red hair, they were mother and daughter.

"Oh!" The elder redhead gasped, hand across her mouth, "Oh Minerva. He really does look just like him." There was a wistfulness to her voice that Harry wasn't sure he was comfortable with. He certainly didn't like the attention, and was glad the daughter appeared to be as shy as he felt.

"Well, go on Ginevra," she continued, pushing the child into the room, "say hello."

McGonagall coughed and gently elbowed the mother.

"Oh! Oh, where are my manners! Harry, this is Ginevra Weasley, my daughter. I'm Mrs Weasley, but please call me Molly." She rushed forward as she spoke, tearing 'Hogwarts: A History' from his hands and replacing it with her own hand, shaking his vigorously. Her other arm hung in the air, halfway to giving him a hug she abandoned on seeing him flinch at her touch.

Harry didn't know what to say, so he smiled meekly at Ginevra and said nothing. She returned the smile with a beaming grin, blushing cheeks and a soft 'Hi."

McGonagall swept into the room and placed a hand each on Harry and Molly's shoulder. Harry noted her grip on Molly was harsher, almost restraining, whereas his was soft and would have been reassuring had he enjoyed contact the way other people apparently did. He was starting to really like McGonagall.

"Mrs Weasley, as much as I share your excitement, that is his wand hand you are currently crushing. He will be needing it shortly."

"Oh yes, yes of course," Molly muttered, reluctantly letting go.

"Mr Potter, Mrs Weasley here has kindly agreed to assist you in purchasing everything you will require for your attendance at Hogwarts. Young Ms Weasley will be joining this year also. It is my hope that between them they will be able to give you a proper introduction into our world."

"Proper introduction?" Ginevra squeaked, finding her voice at last.

"Yes, Ms Weasley. While you are no doubt aware of the Potters' illustrious family history, Master Potter has been in the care of his muggle relatives since infancy. His knowledge of our world and ways is, most unfortunately, severely limited."

"Oh, oh you dear thing!" Molly exclaimed, "Don't you worry Minerva, we'll see that Harry is properly looked after, won't we Ginny?"

Harry stared at the three of them feeling, yet again, entirely overwhelmed. The past two weeks had been a roller coaster of earth-shattering revelations and tedious days cooped up in this room.

Magic was real. He'd read a borrowed copy of 'An Introduction to Magic for Muggleborns' cover to cover twice.

His parents died at the hand of an evil wizard. He practiced spell motions for hours on end without a wand.

He was free of the Dursleys. He ate, slept, lived just as alone.

He also noticed a seeming flaw in the plan that was being sprung upon him.

"Umm… Professor McGonagall… I don't have any money to purchase anything." he said glumly, like it was a confession of sin.

"Well then, you had better stop at Gringotts and make a withdrawal from the Potter vault. I believe a trust allowance has been set up for you." she replied confidently.

"I have a bank vault?" Harry asked, hope swelling in his chest. It would be so nice to finally have a little money. He'd always wanted to buy something, anything, for himself. Maybe a chocolate bar. He wondered how many bars he could afford. He wondered what was so funny as to make the professor laugh.

"Indeed, you do, Master Potter," she chuckled, "Indeed you do."

Harry could only shake his head in wonderment as he stepped out of Gringotts. When they had opened his vault the pile of golden coins had amazed. Petunia would have had a stroke. Even after Mrs Weasley explained that galleons had very little gold content and managed to express their value in terms he could understand, he had been impressed.

So when McGonagall told him that was only the trust fund, and the goblin showed them into the Potter family vault, just for a look, his mind had been blown. Now, the main thing in his mind was why the fuck was he sent to live with the Dursleys? He could have had a house purchased in his name, and a 24 hour professional care team until he was eighteen, and it would have left him a wealthy man. Instead, what he got was… Well, that didn't bear thinking on. It didn't feel like the right time to bring it up either, so he didn't.

"I'm… I'm rich."

"Not exactly, Mr Potter," McGonagall corrected gently. "Rather, you will be rich when you come of age. For now, your trust fund will see you through comfortably."

"Comfortably?" Mrs Weasley scoffed. "There's more in there than my vault, and I've seven kids to see through. You're rich Harry! Rich and famous!"

"I don't want to be famous." Harry remarked. The attentions of one Molly Weasley were enough to make him want to scream; he couldn't imagine how he'd react to a crowd of admirers. He hadn't done anything to deserve them anyway. It was all a bit insane.

"Then perhaps you would be best to keep that fringe in place," McGonagall advised, "and I believe we would do well to just call you Harry for now. Although, do not expect such informalities to extend to my classroom."

"Of course not, ma'am." Harry said, sweeping as much of his messy black hair as he could across his face. "Thank you."

Her only acknowledgement of the thanks was to stand a little taller, which Harry hadn't thought was possible. Her gaze was drawn to something out in the street, and when he followed it he saw a mammoth of a man, beard the size of a schoolchild, looking directly at them from a café chair. The man gave a large - very large - wave to the professor, before his eyes settled on Harry. He stood so fast his chair clattered to the floor and made to approach.

"If you will excuse me," McGonagall declared hurriedly, "I have something I must see to. Do go on without me. Perhaps Ollivanders first?"

With that she swept down the stairs, robe hitched up in her hands, as quickly as dignity allowed. She intercepted the giant, clearly placing herself in his way as she spoke, though with the distance Harry couldn't catch a word of it. By the man's apologetic replies, he was being scolded rather harshly.

Harry looked to Mrs Weasley, who stood perplexed for a moment. Ginny tugged on her mother's arm to break the reverie.

"Oh, hmm, yes: Ollivanders. Come on Harry, this way. Oh, you're going to love this." she stated, leading him down the street, almost directly away from professor McGonagall.

Ollivanders was not at all what Harry was expecting from the premium wandmaker in Britain. The shop was dark, almost too dark considering the size of the windows and the amount of sun outside; it was like someone had a cast a spell to keep the light out. Maybe they had? The air was musky; scents of wood and smoke mixed with others he couldn't identify, and wasn't entirely sure he wanted to. One of those smells was undoubtedly that of the man stooped behind the counter. Wild, unkempt hair complemented robes of the same fashion. A grin graced that time-weathered face, somehow serene and manic in equal measure. Harry was reminded of a homeless man he'd seen whilst walking Guildford. A clearly drunk, possibly insane homeless man. If not for Mrs Weasley's enthused aura, to which he found himself clinging, he might not have taken another step inside.

"Ah! Mrs Weasley, how good to see you again! Ten inches, holly, hippogriff hair. It's still treating you well, yes?" Ollivander beamed, though his eyes were fixed on Harry the entire time.

"Yes it is," she replied, as if there were no other possibility. For all Harry knew, there wasn't.

"And who do we have here?" Ollivander continued, "New students for Hogwarts? A little early for school shopping."

Harry stared. He knew he shouldn't, but he simply couldn't think of anything to say. Mrs Weasley nudged him lightly, but it didn't help.

"We thought we'd beat the rush!" Ginny interjected, coming to Harry's aid not a moment too soon, though she immediately wilted as she drew attention to herself, "A-avoid the crowd, you know?"

The old man's gaze swept across to the girl, leaving Harry to shudder, relieved; Enduring scrutiny was not his forte.

"Well hello, young miss. I'd presume you to be a Weasley, but then it seems you're a girl?" He chuckled lightly at that, explaining "I thought the Weasleys only did sons? Or were your many brothers hiding something?"

Mrs Weasley threw an arm around her daughter and planted a heavy kiss atop her head. Ollivander smiled and beckoned her forward.

"We'll sort yours out first, I think. Should be easy enough, I think," he mumbled mostly to himself. "Unicorn core, I expect. For the wood… Holly, like your mother?" He addressed the question directly to Ginny, who responded with a slight frown. "No, maybe not then… Perhaps ash."

He withdrew a slender box from under the counter and placed it before her, removing the lid. Inside was a vibrant piece of ash, plainly but masterfully carved into a wand, which Ginny gingerly lifted.

"Well," Ollivander prompted eagerly, "give her a try? Just swish it about, and want for something to happen."

Ginny swung the wand across, right to left, and the motion left a trail of brilliant red sparks floating in the air. They fizzled out as Ollivander clapped his hands together.

"Excellent! And first try too. Now, we can try others if you'd like, but I daresay you won't find a better match than that, not without something tailor made…?" Ollivander trailed off suggestively, raising an eyebrow to the elder Weasley, who shook her head.

Ginny frowned again, but didn't look at all surprised. Her hands were idly stroking the wand, as if it belonged there and always had. Harry wondered if she even knew she was doing it.

"Don't fret, lad," Ollivander said to him, "it's your turn now. Come on up, let me see you properly."

Harry did as he was told, stepping up and brushing his fringe aside, like Aunt Petunia had trained him to do when they had visitors he was allowed to meet. He realised as he did it that McGonagall had told him not to, but it was too late to stop. He found himself under an intense gaze, centred not on his eyes but a little above them. His scar, no doubt. What was it about his scar that fixated people so much?

"What's your name, then?"

"Harry, sir." He replied. He didn't give his last name on purpose; McGonagall had said he shouldn't, after all.

"Harry… The Harry? Harry Potter?"

Harry squirmed under the intensity that question had been asked with. He'd been warned that he was famous, accredited with vanquishing some 'Dark Lord' when he was a baby - a baby! - but he was unprepared for this. He'd expected to get a few glances, maybe the odd request for an autograph if someone recognised him. Ollivander was now acting like someone who was trying to remain calm having just seen the true face of their God. The man was shaking, for pity's sake!

"Oh Harry, it's so good to finally meet you!" He declared, leaning across the counter to grasp and shake Harry's hand. Harry barely suppressed his instinctive flinch, and thought it easier to just let him.

"I've been anticipating this very moment for a while now." Ollivander started to ramble, words spilling over his tongue. "Oh yes, quite some time indeed! I've put a lot of thought into your wand. Now, at first I thought I'd tailor something to you specially, but then, well, then I realised that might not be right. Not when… Well… Just last year I had this new thought, in fact. So, are you ready to see what I came up with?"

Harry nodded. In the face of all those words, he didn't feel the need to add any more. Fortunately Ollivander didn't seem to mind, and was already hurrying in to the back room of his shop. He returned moments later, obviously not having had to search to find the sleek box he brought with him and triumphantly flourished before Harry.

Harry studied the box for a long moment. It looked… Well, it looked perfectly normal. Nothing ornate or overly expensive about it, he could barely have told it apart from Ginny's, other than his seemed a bit more faded from age. When it was pushed even closer to him he took the plunge, ripping off the lid like it contained a deadly snake. It didn't.

"Eleven inches of holly," Ollivander offered "with phoenix feather core."

Harry picked the wand from the box and rolled it between thumb and finger. It felt colder than it should have, like it was metal rather than wood. Was that normal? Should he ask? Or should he just… swish and want. He swished it, softly, and it warmed a little in his grip, but he wasn't sure about the want part. Years of living in a cupboard left him averse to wanting things; it only hurt when you didn't receive them. Then again, his life had been changing recently. If he wanted something now, he could just buy it. Vernon wasn't around to tell him 'no'. He was allowed to want. So, that just left the question: What to want?

He remembered wanting what Ginny had, when he watched her. So, sparks? No - Sparks weren't what she had, just the result of it. She had… She had a connection with her wand. She didn't just own it, she hadn't just bought it; She possessed it. It was hers. She asked for sparks, and it obeyed.

He closed his eyes. He focused on that desperate need to be listened to; to have his desires matter; and to truly own what was his. He imagined having all of that within his grasp. And he Swished.

A bright green light flared beyond and through his eyelids. A violent, avian screeching pierced his ears. The wand in his grip was vibrating. His fingers were tingling. No - they were burning! His eyes shot open and, despite the near-blinding light filling his vision, he could see smoke rising from his hand. With a start he dropped the wand; the light and scream cut out immediately as it clattered onto the counter.

Stranger than what had occurred was that no-one in the room seemed the slightest bit disturbed.

"What was that?" He asked, staring at the wand where it lay on the counter, ears still ringing.

"That, my dear," Mrs Weasley answered "was magic."

"It… It felt like it was burning me. And the light…"

"Bonding can lead to a feeling of warmth," Ollivander brushed off his concern, "and the light was a rather decent approximation of the Lumos charm, albeit weak. And a rather queer colour."

"Weak?" Harry sputtered incredulously. Just how bright was this 'Lumos'?

"Don't be disheartened dear." Mrs Weasley half-whispered to him, "You aren't expected to be able to cast a Lumos at all just yet. When you learn, it'll look like this."

She drew her wand, pointed it straight up and muttered "Lumos." The tip shined with a clear white light. It wasn't half as bright as Harry's, and there was a distinct absence of noise or smoke. Nothing like what he had done at all. They must have seen something other than he did. Was he imagining it? A brief glance and painful touch of his fingers dispelled that notion; his skin was blistering like he'd touched a hot pan. Or rather, like he was healing from such a thing. He knew all too well that blisters took hours to form; days to heal. What was going on?

"Not to worry lad." Ollivander reassured, clearly picking up on his confusion, "We can try a few more. Power alone does not make a perfect bonding - it has to feel right."

Harry could only nod, as though he understood. He rubbed his thumb against his finger, feeling the blistered skin crumble away like ash. The new skin it revealed was healthy and free of the callouses he had built from years of housework. Free of pain as well. How?

Ollivander gathered the box and reached for the wand. "I'll just put this back in-"

"No!" Harry shouted. His hand was already stretched out, pinning his wand to the counter, protecting it. Heat flared in his hand again, but it was less focused, diffusing through his flesh all the way to his wrist. The warmth from his wand was oddly comforting. From his wand.

"I'd like to try again."

No-one said anything, so he lifted and rolled his wand back into a comfortable grip. Before his sudden confidence could abandon him, he steeled his nerves and acted. Mimicking Mrs Weasley as best he could, he thrust upwards and whispered "Lumos."

He spoke, and his wand obeyed. Emerald brilliance burst forth from the tip, and this time the whole room could see it for what it was. There was no accompanying screech, no smouldering skin, just a soft gasp from Ginny that swelled Harry's heart with that rarest of emotions: Pride.

To be told was one thing; to prove it another.

Harry Potter was a Wizard.