The Curious Ways of Magic

Harry had never been to London before, but even visiting the city seemed pale and ordinary compared to the knowledge that they were about to be shopping for his magic things.

"We can really buy all this here?" Harry asked. They had passed nearly every sort of shop imaginable, but nowhere that looked remotely magical.

"If yeh know where to look," Mr. Hagrid said, pointing to a dingy looking pub. "The Leaky Cauldron, famous place it is. Come on."

Harry had the distinct feeling that no one on the street actually saw the pub at all, no one was going into it, no one was looking at it properly. He grinned. A hidden magic place right in the middle of London. He hoped its dreary exterior was just a cover, but the interior was dark and shabby enough to match its outside facade perfectly.

Before he could look around more closely, he noticed the atmosphere of the room change. He felt as though everyone just stopped their conversations to stare at him. He held his arms closer to his sides, suddenly very aware of his rolled up pants and oversized shirtsleeves, watched the huge man's back and tried not to attract attention.

"The usual, Hagrid?" asked the barkeeper.

"Not today, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business."

Behind the close conversation, a background hum had started back up. More hushed, more reverent. Harry heard his name at least a dozen times over.

"—right age for it," "Never did hear where the old man hid—" "What is he wearing? I must have it for myself—"

Harry felt his face heating. He would probably die laughing if oversized muggle clothing became fashionable in wizard circles because of him.

The barman peered at him more closely. "Can it be. . .?"

"I'm—" Harry started, but his voice squeaked. He cleared his throat nervously, reached up his hand. "Harry Potter, pleased to meet you."

The barman's grin widened. "Thank you, Mr. Potter." He shook Harry's hand firmly. "Thank you."

"It is him!" a woman in the crowd exclaimed. "Harry Potter, welcome back!"

And then everyone in the room were on their feet, surging forward. Shaking Harry's hand, introducing themselves. Some had tears in their eyes as they thanked him, some stared at him with such pride that he felt even more uncomfortable.

"You're welcome," he murmured back, "Nice to meet you too. Thank you. You're welcome."

Then a familiar face jolted him out of the moment. He reached automatically to shake the hand, then froze.

"This is Professor Quirrell, Harry, I was tellin' you about him. He'll help yeh at the bank and shoppin', I've a few other things to take care of. Diagon Alley is safe, no one'll bother yeh here."

"Nice to meet you, Professor," Harry said, giving a polite nod. He managed not to grin, but it was a close thing.

"Likewise, Mr. Potter. I hope you've had a good summer."

Harry smiled, secretively. "Better than most, thank you Professor."

"Yeh, well, time to be on, come on you two." Mr. Hagrid started off, his massive form clearing a swath through the crowd for Harry and Professor Quirrell to follow in his wake. He reached a walled off area out the back door, tapped a particular pattern of bricks with a bright pink umbrella, and the wall folded itself away, forming an elegant brick archway instead.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Mr. Hagrid said, and here Harry finally had his first proper look into the wizard world.

The shops were partly just like normal shops, but everything seemed to shine as though freshly polished. No everyday grime was allowed to build up, making the street look almost unrealistic. And then there were the items for sale: cauldrons, broomsticks, parchment and quills, an entire storefront dedicated to toads.

Harry heard a pair of witches on the street debating over a storefront display whether the higher point or a folded point hat would go better with her dress robes, and he thought how strange it was that it felt completely natural to think of everyone in sight as witches and wizards.

They arrived at the bank, a great marble structure with bronze doors and a swarthy-faced. . . not-human person, about a head shorter than Harry himself.

"Goblins," Professor Quirrell told him quietly. "No safer place in the world to store valuables."

"'cept maybe Hogwarts," Mr. Hagrid put in.

The red-uniformed goblin bowed as the trio entered. They passed through silver doors with a long poem engraved upon them, but Harry was already looking past them to the row of goblin tellers positioned inside the vast marble room.

About a hundred goblins worked this main area, at his guess, dozens sat at the counter on high stools to talk to customers, others sat at desks behind, measuring and weighing, examining gemstones.

It was a flurry of activity, measured and precise in each of its parts, but overwhelming to take in all at once.

Mr. Hagrid pulled out a small key from his coat pocket and handed it to Harry. "Don't lose that," he said. "I'll need it back once yeh finish. It's very important."

Harry nodded.

Professor Quirrell led him up to the counter. "Mr. Harry Potter would like to access his vault," he said.

The goblin peered down at Harry. "Key?"

Harry handed it up. He saw Mr. Hagrid at another teller, leaning close and talking quietly, place a sealed envelope on the counter.

"Very good." The goblin's voice brought Harry's attention back to his own teller. The creature motioned behind him, and yet another goblin rushed forward. "Griphook will escort you to the vault."

Griphook led them through a side door, down a narrow stone passageway lit with torches and to a small railway track that twisted across their path deeper underground.

Griphook whistled, and a cart rushed forward along the tracks. He motioned them to follow him inside it, then tapped Harry's key against the front of the cart. It set off, down twisting and turning passages, steering itself onto one set of tracks or another, seeming completely sure of itself with no need of further direction.

They finally stopped, Harry grinning and breathless from the wild ride, Quirrell looking less pleased with it. "Didn't remember them going so fast," he mumbled, leaning against the wall.

Griphook unlocked the door, letting out a cloud of green smoke. As it cleared, Harry gasped in astonishment.

He knew intellectually that he was rich, but it was another matter entirely to be confronted with a huge pile of gold, silver, and bronze coins shining in perfect stacks.

"Is this. . .?" Harry asked.

"Yours. Every knut of it."

"Galleons," Quirrell said as he began counting gold coins into a bag Griphook provided. "Seventeen Sickles to a galleon," he pointed to the silver coins. "And twenty-nine Knuts to a sickle. It's a bit tricky to catch on at first, but you'll get it."

"Galleon, sickle, knut," Harry repeated, looking at each type of coin in turn. "Seventeen, twenty-nine." He knew he'd forget, but kept repeating the numbers anyway.

"There," Quirrell said, handing the bag to Griphook.

The goblin weighed it in one hand, listened to the sound it made, then wrote a small notation on his book. "Withdrawal verified," he said. He handed the bag back, closed the door and returned Harry's key, then led them back to the cart.

Harry thought he saw another little vehicle go whipping past them, heading the opposite direction as they headed back up the winding tracks at almost the same speed with which they'd hurtled down them.

He blinked as they emerged from the bank to the bright afternoon.

"I don't think I need to ask where you'd like to go first," Quirrell said, nodding toward a narrow storefront with peeling gold letters. Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

Harry grinned. "You're right."

They entered the shabby little store, accompanied by the tinkle of a little bell somewhere farther in. The cramped interior was quiet and dusty, the exact opposite of most of Diagon Alley, full of shelves stacked with little boxes. Thousands of them. It reminded Harry a bit of a shoe store's back room.

His skin seemed to prickle with the power in the air. He could feel his magic now, sense it waiting, reaching for something. He gave a quiet, nervously excited laugh, but swallowed the sound quickly. He stared at the stack of boxes, following it up to the ceiling and back down, trying to count the tiny long boxes.

"Good afternoon."

Harry almost jumped, startled. He hadn't seen the old man come out from the back.

Mr. Ollivander peered at Harry with wide, pale eyes. "Harry Potter, yes. You have your mother's eyes."

"Thank you," Harry said, not sure what else to say.

"Quirinus, I remember you. Do you still use the wand I sold you? Something feels different about you this year."

"Nine inches, alder, unicorn-hair," Quirrell replied, drawing out the wand, giving it a quick twirl. Harry thought it looked smaller and more ordinary in the light of day, he must have exaggerated it in his memory.

"Hmmm, bendy, good for protection charms. Yes." Ollivander's pale silver eyes seemed to linger on Quirrell for a long moment, then he turned back to Harry. "Which is your wand arm?"

"I'm right-handed?"

Ollivander nodded, brought out a tape measure which set about measuring Harry's body on its own. "Hold out your arm. Good."

He flitted about the shelves, pulling boxes seemingly at random, stacking them on the desk. "Try this," he said, offering Harry the first. "Beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches."

Harry took the wand, had time only to notice a faint shining feeling in his fingers before Ollivander snatched it back. The wandmaker offered him one after another, rattling off the name of its ingredients and its length, occasionally adding a note about what it would be best suited for.

Each felt about the same, the quiet tingle of latent magic, but nothing as dramatic as when he'd used Quirrell's wand. He thought he understood what Ollivander was trying to do, but he couldn't see how the wandmaker would be able to see so quickly whether or not Harry felt anything from the wands. He didn't give enough time.

They worked through the first stack, and Ollivander smiled and flitted about collecting a second. None of these produced any effect, and he set about gathering a third pile.

He seemed to be growing more and more eager as they went through dozens of wands, the stack of rejects on the desk growing higher and higher. Harry wondered how long it would take him to put them all back in their places.

Then Ollivander hesitated. He looked at Harry, then slowly reached up and pulled out a single box. "Why not give this one a try," he said quietly. "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple."

Harry took the wand, expecting something dramatic to happen. The wood felt smooth and sparkling under his hand. Nothing happened for a long moment, but Harry did feel a distinct warmth from the wand. He got the impression it was waiting for something from him.

"Curious," Ollivander said. "I've never seen such a strong, yet subdued reaction. Give it a wave, will you?"

Harry brought the wand up in front of him like Quirrell had showed him, whispered "Lumos," though he hadn't planned to. The tip flared to life, momentarily brightening the dim shop, casting sharp shadows across Mr. Ollivander's face. Then the light flickered, faded.

"Hmm, most curious indeed." Ollivander took the wand, replaced it in the box, but didn't move the box to the pile of rejected wands. He tapped his long fingers on the box instead, watching Harry with an amused expression. "I dearly wish I had another wand with a matching core. I feel like the holly wood is the problem here, but no two phoenixes are the same and they are temperamental in the extreme. Alas, the only other feather from that phoenix is long since gone into the world."

Ollivander tapped his fingers again on the box. "We could keep searching, but I have a feeling on this, a very strong feeling that this is the wand you are destined for. Which is curious in its own right. But its subdued reaction to you is even stranger. The wand chooses the wizard, you see, but this wand seems to have reservations about you. Curious."

"Does that mean it won't work right for me? It will be hard to control?" Harry asked, worried. He didn't want a picky wand to get in his way.

"It is a supple wand, which should adapt well to you given time, if it decides you are the right fit. I would worry, though, sending you out with only two-thirds of a proper match. It could go either way, you see."

"Should we keep trying?"

"If you wish. I have a few more unique combinations we could try." He whisked away to the back, returned a minute later with another armload of wands. "Acacia and dragon heartstring, ten inches, bendy. Very tricky combination."

Harry felt the wand as sharp, not uncomfortable but obvious. There was a connection, but it was not strong. He brought the wand up in front of him, but felt no particular reaction.

"I thought not. I've had this one back there for over fifty years now, tricky combination. Needs a firm hand, but the right mind. Cyprus and unicorn hair, nine and a half inches, rigid."

Harry shook his head, handed it back. He knew what he was looking for now, understood the way a normal wand would feel, knew the slight variations that marked their types. He was worried, now, his reaction to Quirrell's wand had been stronger than his own, and none of these rare combinations seemed to be working out any better for him.

Ollivander returned to his front shelves, offered Harry an array of his more standard combinations, tried various woods with various other phoenix feathers, but his smile seemed wistful or contemplative now, not entirely genuine.

"I fear we shall not find a better match for you," Ollivander said, tapping on the single box. "Curious are the ways of magic. But I now believe you will come to an accord. Rarely have I seen so strong a connection."

Harry nodded. He hadn't realized so much effort went into choosing a wand. He paid the wandmaker and took the wand in his hand again, felt the waiting and warmth, the tingle through him of magic at rest. He nodded, his worry fading. Reluctant or no, the wand felt right.

"Thank you."

"I think we must expect great things from you," Ollivander said softly. "The brother to this wand you have already encountered and defeated once, and that wand was destined for great things. Terrible, yes, but none can deny the greatness. You and this wand, I suspect shall go farther than most of us could imagine."

"Lord Voldemort was the one who bought the other?" Harry asked, turning back to Ollivander.

"Yes. If I'd known then what that wand would go on to do, if I had guessed when creating it the terrible places it would lead our world. . . but it also crafted new magics unheard of in our time, the dark mark alone is an unparallelled piece of magic. Understanding even a fraction of the genius that led to our near-destruction would be a great gift to wizards for centuries to come."

Ollivander shook his head. "The future, the past, they can be altered but never changed. Rewritten, but never undone. It is not well to linger on what might have been. Learn from what is, what has been. That is all we can seek to do."

Harry nodded, not exactly following.

"Nice meeting you," Harry said, though the wandmaker seemed a little off. Harry wished he would blink more often.

"And you, Harry." Ollivander's voice was quiet. He bowed in farewell.

"Thank you." Harry said, and followed Professor Quirrell back outside.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief as they emerged into the brightness and fresh air of Diagon Alley. The stuffy, magic-heavy atmosphere inside Ollivanders had been invigorating, but stifling at the same time.

He and Quirrell walked down the street, crowded with wizards and witches and children. A pair of boys were arguing over which one got to ride a toy broomstick, a girl stood with her face pressed against an apothecary shop window, a pair of black-robed wizards swept down the street like it belonged to them, engrossed in their own conversation. . .

They purchased the rest of Harry's school equipment, as well as a hefty trunk that was a bit larger than its outside would indicate. He was fitted for robes, stood quietly while the shopmistress measured and pinned, and then waited while she made a few modifications with a dozen needles that flashed as they flew about at her wand gestures.

Harry couldn't wait to get home and start reading his school books. The Standard Book of Spells, grade one, seemed especially promising.

Mr. Hagrid met them outside the seamstress's shop, carrying a cage with a lovely white spotted owl. "It's a few days early, but I thought yeh'd like to have her now. Happy birthday, Harry."

Harry grinned. He'd never had such a nice birthday present, and he didn't care that it was a few days early. He felt like he'd never smiled so wide before in his life. "Thank you, Hagrid, she's wonderful."

He remembered to give back his bank vault key, though that brought to mind thoughts of Albus Dumbledore, headmaster, Watcher. He glanced at Quirrell, cursing himself for not having thought to ask for more information the whole time they were alone shopping.

That veil in his memory was proving more trouble than he'd have anticipated. It didn't prevent him from thinking about anything, but it did make it harder. Despite his attempts to practice using it back at Privet Drive, it seemed that only when he had a reason to allow it open did all his questions come flooding back to the forefront of his thoughts.

With Mr. Hagrid back in charge of Harry's trip, Professor Quirrell bowed his farewells and strode off down the street.

Still, Harry had an owl of his very own now, he could send letters any time he wanted. He just couldn't ask about anything sensitive.

How had he gone a whole afternoon ignoring something so mysterious?

He reached in his pocket, wrapped his hand around the warm wand handle. He knew how. The world of magic was just opening up to him. How could he worry about some nebulous feud between a professor and the headmaster, when there was _so much_ to see?

He put it out of his thoughts.

All too soon, the whirlwind of shopping and magic came to an end. As they were about to leave Diagon Alley, Mr. Hagrid stopped.

"Harry, I think I should tell yeh, underage wizards aren't allowed te do magic 'cept in school or when bein' supervised by an adult wizard or witch. The Ministry of Magic can track wand use, so make sure yeh don' get too carried away with yer studies. Got it?"

Harry nodded, disappointed. He'd looked forward to practicing spells, but if it was illegal he didn't want to get in trouble. He could wait a month. And he could still memorize everything in the standard book of spells.

Though, he remembered Quirrell's emphasis on pronunciation and rhythm when teaching him lumos. Maybe it would be best to not risk learning it wrong, wait until he had teachers to mimic the correct sound and flow of the words.

Mr. Hagrid left Harry with his tickets for the train, the Hogwarts Express, on September first. "Platform Nine and Three Quarters, remember," Hagrid said.

"The Hogwarts letter had instructions to reach it," Harry said.

Mr. Hagrid laughed. "Used to be they'd just trust people to work it out. These days everythin' has ter be spelled out so exact."

Harry shrugged. "I wouldn't have been able to work it out. It's not exactly intuitive."

"To a wizard—"

"Raised by muggles," Harry pointed out.

Mr. Hagrid grunted. "Well."

He delivered Harry to Four Privet Drive, by which time Vernon had returned from work. They had a loud discussion, which ended with Hagrid glaring threateningly at Harry's uncle as though he would spear him through with the pink umbrella, and Vernon agreeing shakily and grudgingly that they would be sure Harry was able to write and that they would bring him to King's Cross station at the correct time.

Mr. Hagrid accepted their concessions, waved cheerily to Harry, and walked off down the street.

"It's time you cleared out Dudley's second bedroom, that place is a mess," Aunt Petunia snapped. "And put that horrid owl somewhere out of sight."

Harry shoved his trunk into his cupboard, moved his mattress on top of it, though it left him with barely enough room to lie down, he wouldn't be able to sit up without ducking his head. He set his owl's cage on top of the mattress, though he couldn't think where he could put her when he needed to sleep.

He smiled to her anyway, patted her feathery head before hurrying about his chores. It wasn't her fault he didn't have any space, and he would be sure to take care of her as best he possibly could.

Author's Note:

The initial rewrite for Part One is in progress; anything after the prologue is subject to change over the next few months. I'm not sure if I'll be handling Hedwig the same way, or at all. Something about it feels a little forced, like I'm trying to push too many elements from the original in without a good reason. The wand has to stay, for obvious reasons.

I'll probably post another chapter this month, but most of my attention is on revision at this point. I don't want to have a broken beginning that sets the whole story on the wrong track, and I believe with my wonderful beta's assistance we can prevent any such disasters. :) However, it does mean that after this month there will be a significant lull while I update the first ten chapters before continuing.

Thank you for reading!