Chapter Two: The Sun I

AN: Rights are to JK Rowling and Warner brothers. Please write a review, feedback would go a long way to improve my work. If anyone likes this maybe, we will get past chapter 5. This story idea that I have is a Harry who is not good at wand magic but excels at esoteric magic, namely divination, enchanting, necromancy, and blood magic. He will never be able to stand toe to toe with Tom Riddle or even Snape as a duelist, he will never be able to transfigure like McGonagall or even Cedric. This will be a story with Harry in more of a supportive role but will have to defeat Tom Riddle. Note I enjoy naming characters. If they speak, they will most likely have a name. That does not mean that they are a major player, or even that you need to remember it. Shoutout to my first beta ever in jinxwalnut25 for their wonderful support in helping this mess of thoughts that I have!

The Sun.

Harry stood frozen; his eyes widened with disbelief. A letter for him, only him. Such an occurrence was unheard of in the Dursley house. Closing his eyes, Harry breathed to center himself, opening them again only to see that the swirling handwriting had stayed the same. Further blinks and several seconds of staring only had the same result; shimmering in the dim light of the foyer, the green ink proudly addressed itself to him. It was odd seeing his name staring back at him in an unfamiliar script, handwritten and personal, a stark contrast from the typed letters of his report cards. This envelope, addressed to him, was written in a flowing work of calligraphy that Harry had never encountered before; smooth and precise, ebbing and flowing, the writing was a river forming the shape Harry Potter. Harry remained in the same spot, his breathing smooth and calm despite the clenching of his stomach and shaking hands. This was his divinely predicted present; The Sun had finally made its appearance. A warmth crept through the drawn shades, a confirmation of his theory, a guiding light leading Harry to embark into a new future.

His breathing sped up slightly, as Harry attempted to make sense of the events surrounding him. The Sun contained a warning, yes, but also hope; was that enough to risk opening the letter? Should he share it with the Dursleys? No, absolutely not. Harry's leg began to give out, a reminder of the last time they had seen his interests, as well as how long he had been standing there. His mind made up; Harry sought to act normal. Pocketing the message in his baggy pants, the pockets easily concealing evidence of the paper, he brought the rest of the mail to Vernon and proceeded to the kitchen as nothing had happened. For once he was grateful at the lack of attention the Dursleys paid him; a single glance at the bounce in Harry's step would have given his entire facade away.

Harry continued his chores, certain that the clock was moving slower than ever before. Every little action incited a 5-minute check over on the single most important paper he had ever received; he nearly had a panic attack as he washed the dishes, paranoid whether it damaged the letter, or that the ink had smeared. Thousands of questions flitted through Harry's mind throughout the course of the day, all of them revolving around the letter, and all of them sending him into a cold sweat as he assumed the worst: Was the letter safe? Was it still in his pocket? Did the Dursleys know? Each time a voice was heard from the sitting room, Harry jumped a foot in the air, an excuse and an apology on his lips, but the Dursley's remained in the sitting room, and the letter remained unseen. He had taken to periodically placing his hands into his pockets, just to rub the sharp edges of the envelope. To an unknowing stranger, Harry acted much like a baby with undeveloped object permanence, checking its mother was still there. No matter how many times he checked, his stomach clenching and throat constricting, Harry remained constantly paranoid and on watch, slowly biding his time until he could safely open it.

After what felt like an eternity, but in actuality was only an hour, the Dursleys all parted for the day, leaving Harry alone. Ignoring his list of chores, he grabbed the letter knife, opening the envelope that had been twisting his stomach into knots in anticipation. Carefully severing the folded edge, he gently pulled out the folded thick parchment from inside. Not paper, parchment, a strange thing to write on nowadays. Opening the enclosed letter, he is met with more of the elegant script; however, this time the calligraphy is less advanced, a simpler print than the ostentatious writing on the envelope.

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.

The term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headmistress

Moving on to the next paper, Harry reads through an unusual shopping list. With items including, but not limited to: A standard book of spells, dragonhide gloves, and a disclaimer over broomsticks. With a sinking heart, he realizes the implications. Harry was sent a letter regarding witchcraft and wizardry, a joke. Despite the sun still shining into the household, he shivers and struggles to hold back the tears brimming in his eyes. The hope that had been growing since the drawing of The Sun shattered. The harsh reality of his life wrapping its presence around him once more. What should have been a manifestation of change from Harry's life, was instead a cruel prank.

At least, it must be a joke, there's no way that this is not real. Magic does not exist, and there was no such thing as a "wizard", those were things from films and books, a way for Tolkien and Disney to make money. And a magic school? None of that was real, only a game one would play on the playground. Magic was something out of fantasy, a farce, to set good people to the devil and a life of sin. Harry's breath caught in his throat, the Dursleys. What if they found it? What if they saw him with this letter? What if they sent it as a trick, a trap? This trail of thoughts caused him to begin panting, his breathing accelerating as if a game of Harry Hunting had just finished. His shoulders collapsed on himself beginning to resemble a turtle, retreating within his shell. In an attempt to calm himself down Harry reasoned through the possibilities of the letter, slightly regaining his composure. Could this be a test, a path for Harry to take to get into their good graces? In case it was, he repeated for a second time, but aloud, reinforcing the idea within himself, "Magic isn't real." However, the response he got was not that of Vernon or Petunia, whom he expected, but came from himself instead. 'If magic isn't real, then what of your divinations?'

The inner realization brought back his sun, the warmth seeped back into his body, and the sliver of hope took hold once more. If his divination had predicted the coming of such a fantastical letter, why couldn't both be true? Once more, his mind raced for a solution for his current predicament. Following the speed of his mind, Harry ran to his cupboard. In another first experience in his life it was not out of fear or shame, but instead in a need of knowledge. Ripping the door, he frantically reached inside for his deck. Grasping the well-worn box, he slid them out, shuffling the cards within. He worked his way slowly into a trance, perched just outside the doorway under the stairs. Feeling the cards shift and mold in his hands he suddenly stopped, flipping over the top card. Staring him in the face was a card Harry had never pulled before: a man in white draped with a crimson stole. His face was stoic, standing proud in an illuminated garden. He stood behind a small table, holding a lit candle while above his head sat an infinity halo underneath the number I. The table held the four suits of the minor arcana, the cup, wand, pentacle, and sword, displaying that the man could choose all forms. The Magician.

The Hermit. The Sun. The Wheel of Fortune.

It was as if the deck was speaking directly to Harry, giving him the most obvious confirmation he had ever been given by the cards. He had to accept it; he was a Wizard. This was no mere prank, this was no mere trick, the conversation with the deck had informed him this was the real deal. Now, Harry just needed a way to respond. He turned towards another form of divination, cleromancy. Cleromancy is a form of divination best for yes and no questions. Putting his deck away, he grabbed a small bag of 26 rocks, all black or white. Luckily it was a Wednesday, so the method could be trusted. He began by asking it the important unanswered questions,

"Should I tell the Dursleys about the letter?"

As he spoke, he transferred the rocks to a second sack. Harry focused intently on his question, shoving all his thoughts, insecurities, and physical matters away; he needed this answer. Letting his entire being be consumed by the one question, all properties of Harry's self disappeared, all that mattered was the question. His mind voided, he shook the bag thrice, asking aloud as he performed the ritual,

"Should I tell the Dursleys about the letter?"

The verbalized question echoed around his brain. It resonated deep inside him, bouncing off his bones and finding its way towards his very soul. Once more, he shook the bag and again questioned the world around him.

"Should I tell the Dursleys about the letter?"

Finally, reaching into the bag, Harry grasped a handful of rocks and deposited them on his cot, his eyes already assessing his draw: Five dark, three bright. "All that for a no," He mumbled, pondering what his next course of action should be. The text of the letter appeared in his mind's eye, 'We await your owl by no later than the 31 July.' He shot up, for that was today. Disregarding the connection to his birthday as well, he felt the room grow colder as he realized his chance to follow the path set by The Sun was slipping away. The school needed his response today, but the mail had come already, taking away his method of sending something back. He sat back down, confused, how would he get an owl?

Shaking his head, Harry attempted to take it one step at a time, starting with writing the letter needing to be sent. He stepped into the hall, creeping up the stairs to the threshold of Vernon's study. He took a deep breath, mentally encouraging himself to break one of the major rules that had been beaten into him, literally. "Well in for a penny in for a pound," he said aloud, and with that he stepped into the room, a prepared cringe ready as he remembered the last time he had done so. Shaking his head to remove that thought, he located the pen and paper, writing the neatest he had ever written, intently focusing on his task.

Dear Deputy Headmistress,

My name is Harry Potter and I received your Owl. I want to attend Hogwarts but have no equipment, and school starts next month. If you could send assistance, I would be very happy.

Yours sincerely,

Harry Potter.

Harry signed his name with a flourish, rereading his response a few times to ensure everything was perfect. Having confirmed that it was the best he could do, he folded and put the paper into a nearby envelope, licking the outside to seal it. Marking the cover with Hogwarts, aware it wasn't a comprehensive address, Harry slowly began to make his way to the front door, his heart thumping as if trailed by a marching band. Walking outside with the letter, he attempted to make his way to the postal box before he was approached by a beautiful owl. He was all white except for a brown heart around his face brown tips on his wings. The owl stretched out its leg expectantly, looking at Harry like he could read his mind. Harry took a moment, breathing slowly, to quell the panic he had felt when the bird had come out of nowhere. As soon as he twitched the letter slightly forward the owl snatched it, grasping onto the letter. The owl began beating his wings and taking off from his perch without a single look back, leaving Harry to stare at its retreat with a glazed look full of awe and a slight tremor.

Drained from the motion ordeal, Harry trudged inside to begin his neglected chores. The tasks, normally completed with an automatic efficiency, were long and arduous. It was almost as if his spirit and will had flown into the sky with the letter. He kept dropping cleaning supplies, creating extra work for himself, yet only picking up the dropped items with a half-hearted carelessness. Added to the game of pickup was a halfhearted promise it would happen again. A promise that never lasted long. To make matters worse, time passed slower than it had in the morning: taking hours to move once around the clock. After eons had passed, the door of the house finally opened, and Dudley barreled home. Looking at his cousin, Harry could tell that it had not been a good day for Dudley at school. Making eye contact Harry saw a flash of a girl, tall and pretty. Her actions reminded Harry that not all people saw Dudley the way he did. Others did not see him as though he were the epitome of perfection. On the contrary, classmates outside of his circle of friends would often make fun of Dudley, teasing him for his weight. They weren't subtle about it either, calling him elephant man or walrus. Today specifically was over a girl he had liked. Dudley's attempt at helping her in a class that she was struggling in did not reward him with a new friend, but another day of being called a know-it-all.

Having recovered from the snippet of Dudley's life, Harry wordlessly passed his cousin some chocolate cake he had baked for one of Petunia's social gatherings. Dudley, just as quietly, munched quietly on the dessert, his blue eyes, exactly like his mother, gathering water on their edges. The two sat in silence, content with the company the other provided. Dudley was the only one to show his cousin kindness and had once even offered to help him in maths. Unfortunately for both, Vernon found out rather quickly, ending the session before it could begin. Thus, Harry Hunting began, a half-hearted Dudley attempting to appease his parents. Harry watched as Dudley as he slowly ate the cake, empathizing with how hard it was to be Dudley; to have so many expectations forced upon you would drive anybody mad. He looked away from him and fiddled with the radio, hoping to tune into a comedy duo to cheer Dudley up. When the station picked up, it only took around twenty minutes before Dudley began smiling due to the antics of the hosts.

It was at that same time when the sound of the knocker interrupted the playing radio. Harry perked up at the sound, waiting for Dudley to hurry and open the door for what could be the next step in The Sun's journey. Dudley, however, did not share his cousin's excitement. He slowly stood up from his chair, taking time to brush off the crumbs before making his way to the door. Vernon's dislike of solicitors was well known to all in the neighborhood, so it was reasonable for Dudley to suspicious of anyone willing to face his dad's wrath. Opening the door cautiously, he greeted the visitor in a clear, calm voice learned from his father, "Hello, this is the Dursley household. I'm sorry, but my parents will not be around for the next couple more hours. Could I have you return at a later time, please?"

The voice that answered his greeting was female. It was rhythmic, soft and comforting, a reminder of the lullabies. She responded, "That's quite alright young lad, you wouldn't happen to be Mister Potter, would you?" Her question was sharp and accusatory, contradicting her sweet and gentle voice.

Harry, still seated in the kitchen, lit up as The Sun warmed him from the nearby windows. Someone was here for him, and the letter was no prank. Harry felt himself sit up straighter as a weight was lifted off, he would no longer be the Hermit, no, he was moving on. In fact, he would be the true first card, his confirmation; The Magician.

As if the woman was influencing him, Dudley's response came out gentler than it usually would, the ten-year-old replying, "No ma'am, I am Dudley, Dudley Dursley."

Her reply came softer still, her tone completely abandoning the bite there just a moment ago, forgiving the boy for some transgression both boys still in the dark about, "Well it is nice to meet you, young man. I am Professor Sprout, a teacher at the school that Mister Potter will be attending."

Dudley's responded apologetically, attempting to placate the authority figure in front of him, "I am sorry ma'am, but whatever he has done to get himself in trouble at Stonewall Secondary Comprehensive, I am sure it can be replaced." Harry had his heart sink. She wasn't here from Hogwarts; she was yet another teacher believing him to be the troublemaker and delinquent everyone else saw him all. Harry felt the weight settle itself back upon his shoulders pushing his whole body into a slump as he remembered the first instance that solidified everyone's perception. He had been walking home from school, attempting to ignore the teasing he faced for not knowing his family after a, particularly insensitive family tree project. Harry had been berated by the teacher in front of the class for having only his mother's side of the family, ignoring the fact that his parents had died as an infant. Hearing one too many jokes about a lack of a real home, Harry snapped and somehow broke a bike belonging to one of the name-callers.

He tried to defend himself against the backlash, explaining he hadn't even been near the bike when it broke, but Vernon was adamant Harry face the consequences. He wove the story to the dean, about how his parents were no good drunks, and left the boy on their doorstep, expecting them to feed and clothe the boy. Now, being the fine upstanding citizens they were, they treated him just like a son at first trying to make him a valuable member of society, but alas the bad genes were so strong, nothing could be done to help him. The Dean listened to the entire rant, but still found the grounds to expel Harry, starting the beginning of his 'delinquent career' To this day, he still didn't know how he had done it. But that one action led him to resign himself to a lifetime of misfortunes blamed on him, with schools only accepting him because while he may be a bit of a menace, he still deserves to be schooled. The only good that had transpired because of the ordeal had been a result of that project. The first mention of his mother, Lily Evans. While the connection to his mother was a treasure, it wasn't enough to stave the loneliness away. He often felt like a ghost on the world, alone and without help, unable to influence the events of it in any way.

Harry was brought back from his musing by the visitor's sharp reply, "No, I am not here from, what was it Stoneywall? I am from Hogwarts, a school for magical children such as Mister Potter." The sharp bite was back, but a small bit of concern had been mixed in.

Dudley gasped at her response, giving her a scathing accusation would have made Vernon proud, "That can't be true, magic isn't real. Dad says so. He says that anyone who thinks magic is real actually worships the devil."

The woman sighed, breathing disappointment and regret into one syllable before silence settled in throughout the house. After a small eternity and what Harry imagined to be a staring contest of epic proportions, she responded in an even tone, as though it were a well-rehearsed line she had spoken many times before, "Magic is real, as are witches and wizards. We live in a society separate from your own. You, Mr. Dursley, live with one such wizard." She then spoke a short incantation, in what sounded like the Latin spoken in church, causing Dudley to gasp and a thud to reverberate around the house. "See, that is magic. Normally a muggle like yourself would never be allowed to see it, but since Harry lives with you your circumstances are different. Now, could you please show me to Harry, we have much to discuss."

After a few minutes, Dudley entered the kitchen to find Harry doing a poor job of pretending to clean a single spot on the counter. A look of wonder was plastered on the young boy's face, giving his act away, and his grin stretched from ear to ear. Dudley mumbled to Harry that he needed to go to the sitting room, walking to the stairs mumbling about pigs. Harry brushed off his clothes, suddenly very conscious of how he looked. The stares and whispers of the children at school sprang to mind, and he hurriedly tried to fix his glasses and adjust his large clothes. There was nothing to be done now, and he hoped that there was some sort of magic to help with his appearance. Pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, Harry feels the gentle caress of The Sun's warmth, and, inhaling a final time, enters the sitting room.

The Hermit. The Sun. The Wheel of Fortune.

"Hello Professor Sprout, my name is Harry Potter," He sputters when he sees her, cursing himself for the rude greeting. In an attempt to make up for his mistake, he stretches out his hand in greeting, shooting his hand forward like it was shot from a bow. Unfazed, Professor Sprout firmly takes the offered hand and shakes it, revealing callused and hard hands. Her hands are the only part of her that oppose her soft voice, as their first meeting reveals a plump and motherly looking woman, with gentle visage. Comforted by her appearance, Harry inches slightly closer than the large gap he had initially left between them, breathing in the distinct smell of fertilizer and pollen, a familiar smell from his work in the garden. The kindly-looking woman seemed to be just shorter than Petunia, gazing at him with warm hazel eyes. They glimmer at the anticipation of meeting him, inciting whispers saying, 'the boy-who-lived' to crawl around his head.

"Please have a seat." He offered, gesturing to Petunia's chair while sitting on the couch. The epithet puts a furrow in Harry's brow, wondering what such a title could have to do with him and their meeting. The woman took the proffered chair, doing as asked while keeping her eyes on him. He felt a sense of unease creeping over his body, but it wasn't from himself. Something about Harry was making the house guest nervous, but Harry couldn't decipher the reason any further than its relation to 'the boy-who-lived'.

"Hello, Mister Potter. As I am sure you have heard, I am Professor Sprout from Hogwarts. Hogwarts received your acceptance letter and I was the lucky Professor to have read it first," She began triumphantly, warmly smiling at him with pride, her features lit up. Harry already liked her, appreciative of how she wore her emotions on her face and heart on her sleeve. She continued, "I would like to take you shopping today if that is alright. For your school supplies, I assume you got the supply list?"

"Yes ma'am, I would like that very much," He responded with a smile, radiant as the sun.

The Sun.

The pair shortly thereafter made their way outside. The duo content walking out into the warm afternoon air. Attempting to look around for the professor's automobile, Harry turned every which way. Seeing no car out of place he looked at Professor Sprout expectantly, she must've traveled by other, more magical, means. He voices his question with his expression tightening, afraid to offend her by asking. Fearing one misstep would end their trip before it could officially begin.

She surprises him, laughing heartily at the question before saying, "I forget the ignorance of the muggle-raised sometimes, and certainly didn't expect it from you, Mr. Potter. You see, there are many methods of travel in our world, with Floo, broomsticks, and apparition being the most popular. However, how I arrived here is not nearly as important as how we are getting to Diagon Alley." She pulls a piece of wood, around a foot long, out of her sleeve and sticks it out with purpose.

Immediately, the sound of squealing tires erupts from down the street, where it had been empty before. Much faster than the recommended speed limit, a purple triple-decker came speeding into view. Harry's mouth was on the floor, in disbelief by the sudden appearance of a bus coming into existence from nothing. It came closer, closing in on their position, showing no sign of slowing down and stopping. Then, just as the bus seemed like it would ignore them about to move past them, the large, multi-tonne vehicle comes to a full stop with a large crack and a puff of smoke. His first demonstration of magic, other than what he overheard from the kitchen, Harry's eyes shine and a lighthearted happiness bubbles in his chest. The large doors soon open to reveal a young woman reading from a tabloid, a peculiar issue proclaiming Most Eligible Bachelor Gilderoy Lockhart Back in Britain, Who He's With Will SHOCK You on the cover.

"Where to?" She asked, despondently, her brown eyes never leaving the magazine. Harry looks around taking note of his neighbor's making no reaction to the purple bus. A jogger across the street continues to run, not even a single glance at the vehicle that stands out next to the well-kept lawns of Privet Drive.

Wagging her finger slightly at the young woman, Professor Sprout sternly reprimands her, "Ms. Wilson, we have known each other for how long now? Is that any way to greet an old friend?" Startled, Ms. Wilson looks up from her magazine, doing a double-take when she sees Professor Sprout and breaking into a large, beautiful smile. Slipping the book away she gives the professor a large hug, closing her eyes tightly in the embrace.

"Professor, you know you can call me Julia," She chided back, still caught up in the hug. Harry shifts his weight back and forth, stumbling slightly on his left leg, not knowing what else to do during the reunion.

"Just like how you've stopped calling me Professor?" She rebuked in mirth. Though he couldn't see her face, Harry felt the affection in her voice as if it were tangible, sweet and warm like honey. Professor Sprout finally released Julia, keeping her hands clasped on her shoulders, looking the young woman up and down. Blushing at the attention, Julia stared down at her feet. Professor Sprout spoke softly, "Ms. Wilson, if I remember correctly, you were going to go into agriculture. I even gave a recommendation to Bovaline Farms. What are you doing on the Knight Bus?"

Julia blushed again, a deeper reaction than due to the initial scrutiny. Looking at her, Harry felt blood rush to his cheeks as well, the feeling of shame flooding into him from her. Underneath the surface, he felt tears begin to prickle his eyes, a feeling of loss mixed in.

"Well you see," She began, tapering off. Blinking hard, Julia continued, "I met this wizard from Yorks Public while working there, and we dated for a bit. He wasn't the type of man he said he was, so I broke things off." Her attempt at holding back the tears finally failed, dripping into the rest of her explanation, "It was messy; under normal circumstances working together would be a nightmare. Then, it turns out he was the president's nephew, and things escalated from there. Finally, I couldn't take it anymore, and I quit." Taking a moment to compose herself before continuing with her story, Julia wipes off her tears, and takes several deep breaths, looking composed and together in a surprisingly short amount of time. A wave of tears threatens to hit Harry, exposing the lie that her face is telling. "So, I got this job as an in-between while I look for other employment. Besides, I've always liked plants more than animals. Just last week I sent in my resume to Irish Enterprise, so hopefully, I will get an interview soon," She finishes her story with a false cheery tone, still internally distraught over admitting her failings to her old teacher.

Professor Sprout, who had remained quiet during the entire story, pulled Julia forward and initiated a second hug with her, this one deeper and even more heartfelt. As touching as the moment was, Harry had to fight the urge to turn away, feeling like an intruder on such a private moment. "You were very brave to do that my dear, and, if you need it, I can write another letter of recommendation. You may not believe it, but my word has a little bit of say." Professor Sprout said pulling away to look her in the eye. Julia laughed at the last sentence, a far cry from how she had been recounting her story.

Composing herself once more, she cleared her throat saying, "Well it was nice to see you again Professor." Looking down she saw Harry, her eyes widened slightly seeing a third member of their party, flushing again at the realization that he had heard the sob story. "Two to the Leaky Cauldron I'm guessing. Muggleborn?" She asked. At Professor Sprout's nod of confirmation, she pulled her wand out and spoke in another language, followed by, "Two for the Leaky Cauldron." A number flashed in bold blue, boldly proclaiming '17 knuts'

The Professor opened a pouch hanging on her hip, calling out the number before dropping the contents in a small bin as she entered the bus. "Come along Mister Pot- young man," She called, stopping herself from saying Harry's name. Tilting his head, he followed behind her. Did she dislike him already? It was as if for every new thing introduced, two more questions took its place. Quelling the thought, he entered the bus, moving to the seats on the side. Professor Sprout took her seat, and Harry copied her next to him. She began, "So Harry-may I call you Harry?" Though confused at being addressed so informally, especially when she still referred to Julia as 'Ms. Wilson'. Opening his mouth to ask, a glare of sunlight hit directly in his eye, warning him to stop his intended line of questioning. Listening to The Sun, he agreed. At Harry's nod, she continued, "Do you have any questions for me? I realize this may be a lot to take in."

"Actually, Professor Sprout, I was wondering, how will I buy everything today? I don't exactly have money, and I especially do not have any 'nuts'." Harry had been wondering this since he got his letter, as it made no mention of tuition fees, something uncommon for an obviously exclusive school.

The professor looked at him softly, asking, "Do you not have your key? If not, I'm sure they can get you a new one." Harry was confused, key? She continued before he could voice his confusion, "And our world uses a different system of money since we have near-autonomous economies to that of our non-magical brethren. Though we do follow some of their ways, just recently we switched our ratios of Knuts, Sickles, and Galleons. From 29 Knuts per Sickle and 17 Sickles per Galleon to 100 and 50 respectfully. Much easier to work with. Sometimes these muggles do have the right ideas." The last remark was uttered low, Harry could barely make out the words sitting next to her. She took a deep breath and turned to him, "Anything else?"

"Yes actually, are there tuition fees? Where is the school? Is it horribly out of the way, I would hate to have Vernon drive me every day," Harry rambled, already flinching at his punishment for what he was doing today, and beginning to shake at the thought of how angry Vernon would be if he had to rely on him for transportation every day.

The kind professor smiled at him, answering all his questions patiently, "The day you were born, James and Lily paid your tuition in full, and Hogwarts is a boarding school in Scotland, Harry." The rather stoic face Harry had been wearing all day broke after hearing her speak that one sentence. Another large smile, crooked teeth and all emerged and threatened to split his face in half. He had known that his mother's name was Lily, but this was the first he had heard of his father's, James. The first real connection he Harry had ever felt to his dad, he could imagine James holding him, protecting him, loving him, acting to him as Vernon acted towards Dudley. It clicked. His parents were magical like him. His parents went to the same school he would be going to, had possibly taken the knight bus before and sat in the same seat he sat in. His knowledge of his parents had grown more in one day than in the past ten years. It was truly magical.

He was about to ask more about his parents when Julia announced their arrival at, "The Ministry of Magic". As the bus came to a halt, the sun, peeking out behind a building, momentarily blinded into Harry. The Sun was warning him about the parent's topic, so instead, he decided to ask about the school itself.

"Will I have to do placement tests for my Maths and such?" He asked, silently hoping the answer was no, he didn't want to have to be outshone by more Dudley's.

"We do not teach Maths at Hogwarts," She responded, much to Harry's relief. "Instead, the classes you shall take first year should be Herbology, Transfiguration, Charms, History, Astrology, Potions, Transportation, and Preservation against the Darker aspects of Magic," She continued, reciting the list like it were a common question. Again, Harry was confused, wondering why he had to go to his school if none of them were taught at Hogwarts. The last class seemed to be quite the mouthful. The class list just made Harry confused, what of everything he had learned until now. With a knowing smile, Professor Sprout answered his unasked question, "These classes incorporate aspects of Languages, Sciences, Maths, and English. Meaning that it was needed to go to school."

Before she could continue, Harry asked a clarifying question, "What is the presser… verses the Dark Stuff?" He looked down, flushing slightly for already forgetting the name of the class. Peeking up, Harry was met by a somber and mournful look instead of her usual smile.

"The teaching position seems to be cursed. The Headmaster believed that by changing the name of the course, the curse could be bypassed, but to no avail; the previous teacher of the class vanished," Professor Sprout explained quietly, her resolve failing on the last statement, a small waterfall of tears careening down her face. Like running into a brick wall, the realization that Harry had indirectly caused his professor's current state hit him in the face. The previous professor had likely been close friends with Professor Sprout and was likely dead.

"I am sorry Professor, for your-" his apology was cut off as Julia announced that they had arrived at 'The Ministry of Magic, Norwich Branch'. Slightly bewildered, Harry looked outside, noticing the classic older buildings of Norwich, a far cry from the Surrey suburbia he had left. The distance traveled between the two was far too great in too short a time for any regular type of transformation and was just concluding the presence of magic as the Professor wiped away the last of her tears.

"It is quite alright young man, not something you should be worrying about. Did you have any other questions?" She asked, looking much more collected than she had moments before. Remembering the last question, he had asked had hurt the sweet woman helping him, he debated whether or not he should continue his line of questioning. After a few moments of internally going back and forth, a word that Julie had mentioned to Professor Sprout popped into his mind, a 'muggleborn.'

"One more, I think, what is a muggleborn?" He found himself asking, already done with the question before he had decided to voice it. Harry cursed his lack of self-control, his slip-ups usually rare occurrences.

Professor Sprout looked at him with a furrowed brow, her tone coming out slightly uncertain as to why she had to explain it, "Well, a muggleborn is someone like your mother: a wizard or witch who has no magical parents" The implications struck Harry, if only his mother was a muggleborn, then his father must've been born to at least one magical. Why then had Harry been raised with Vernon and Petunia? Given a choice, Harry would have picked any magical relatives, or any other relatives really.

Slipping into a slight daydream that he had been raised in the magical world, filled with laughter and flying brooms, Harry was startled out of it as he was struck by a strange thought. "Sorry, but I think I actually have another question; why do muggles not know about magic?" He asked. If magic was real, how could problems in everyday life exist, surely there were spells that could help those who couldn't cast it themselves?

"You will learn this in History of Magic, but in 1692, due to years of bloody encounters, between muggles and wizards, The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy was enacted. The combined forces of wizards across the globe cast wove a web of spells over the world that caused everyone without magic to forget that it existed but did not stop later discovery of magic for the muggleborn. It's really interesting actually, as the spells utilized a sort of modified Fidelius charm.," She explained, her voicing getting faster and bursting with excitement over the prospect of explaining the intricacies of the methods the wizards had employed. Just as Harry's eyes were about to glaze over, the bus stopped suddenly, and Julia called out that they had reached the 'Leaky Cauldron'.

The Professor immediately stood and began walking off the bus. Harry dutifully followed, standing behind her while she said partings to the young witch. The pair made their way into a dingy pub, not the place Harry had in mind as the start of his magical adventure. Entering the building, a man behind the bar greeted Professor Sprout warmly through the murmur of the pub. He was of average height, but his smile distinguished him, filled with warmth and welcome, giving off an aura shimmering with kindness. "Pomona, in for a drink?" He asked in a slightly Scottish accent.

"Sorry Tom, I've got one new to the Alley today," She responded, her voice carrying clearly across the room.

"Oh, a new muggleborn eh? Well, the name's Tom. Welcome to the wizarding world," he said, smiling down at Harry. Others followed his lead, doffing their caps or waving cheerfully. However, a few looked at him with disdain; one man sitting at the bar looked downright murderous.

"Filthy Mudbloods, taking all the jobs," he muttered loud enough for everyone around him to hear, provoking a reaction out of Tom.

"That's enough outta you Nott. I don't care if you've lost your job or not, that language is unacceptable and not tolerated in my pub," He said, the warmth in his eyes dimming as he turned towards 'Nott'. Those who had greeted Harry kindly shared Tom's sentiment, looking at the man with complete and utter disgust. Tom continued, "If I hear that again you'll be banned from this establishment, and I'll be sure to let others know as well."

As the rest of the patrons began adding their two cents, Professor Sprout grabbed Harry's hand, not noticing the flinch that it provoked, and led him to the back of the pub. Grabbing her stick again, she tapped four different bricks, each with small numbers chiseled into them, causing the wall to disassemble and create an archway. The sunlight that spilled through the newly created doorway was radiant, though nothing compared to the sight that was Diagon Alley.

The Sun.

Stepping into the sun and through the arch, Harry was bombarded by the image of a narrow street bustling with life. The street itself was an old-fashioned, cobble road, somehow very clean despite the traffic. The people walking to and fro were dressed very strangely, in apparel nearly indistinguishable between the men and woman. They all wore cloaks that hung just past the knees, an unpractical choice considering the unusually warm air that the summer given in the typically rainy England, with every color of the rainbow represented by those in the crowd. Underneath the robes many wore a strange blend of clothes; amongst the sea of people, Harry could see one particularly distinguishable woman dressed in an ugly, yellow, floral patterned top with purple and green dungarees. Most had also donned hats, a gamut beginning with small caps and ending with wearable perches that had real animals atop them. It was bizarre, the experience of stepping into a new world so similar yet so different.

Harry felt his jaw touch the floor as he looked further than the people in front of him. The buildings, it seemed, were just as diverse and unusual. A row of shops stretched in front of him and the street he was on, defying many of the laws of physics. One such shop, Wrights Right Wears, had a display of hats completely arched over the alley touching down on both sides of the street. The lack of doors momentarily threw him off, until he witnessed several shoppers walk directly through a window, unfazed by the absurdity of it. Other shops, like Agatha's Animal Apothecary, seemed to be just large enough to store a few of its ingredients in a storage closet, but on further inspection seemed to be much bigger inside with its winding shelves and gaggle of customers. An image of a blue police box came into his mind, tempting him to exclaim about the doctor and a sonic screwdriver, but he pushed the temptation down. His eyes darted from storefront to storefront, trying to take in every bit of detail, even as he remained rooted in place, mouth catching flies. If this was a dream, it was an exceptionally imagined dream and He impressed himself with his imagination. Professor Sprout let him gape at the world he had been introduced to, her smile directed more towards the shine in Harry's eyes than at the Alley.

After a few moments, and a few nudges by impatient shoppers, the professor began slowly walking forward. Harry followed absently, paying too much attention to everything around him to notice their movement. A few other streets branched off from the main Alleyway: Knockturn, Upturn, Loud, Cross-section, the names continued well past the dimensions of the post the names were hung off of. At the intersection of Cross-section and Diagon Alley, the pair found their first stop. Their destination was a large white building, standing at least four stories tall held up by large marble pillars going up. The steps matched the marble of the pillars, and the face building seemed to be made from a single, smooth piece of quartz. A short poem was engraved in gold on the door, flanked by two statues in full plate armor. They stood at the same height as Harry, holding massive spears made of a strange silvery metal. Harry moved closer, his eyes gliding over the smooth, gold inscription.

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.

As he finished reading, a movement caught his eye: the statue had moved. Harry began to stare at what he thought had been made of stone, correctly guessing a similarity to the Queen's Foot Guards in how they stood. The rationalization, however, did not prevent Harry from giving his best fish impression, his eyes glued to guards, Seeing this, and hoping to shake Harry from his current predicament, Professor Sprout opened the doors to reveal an interior as dazzling as the exterior.

The room was as wide as the outside had suggested. The floor was paved in solid gold, pillars of silver erupting every ten meters. Between the pillars were mahogany desks taller than any man that Harry believed possible. The walls, instead of another precious metal, were made from dark wood and the paneling led up to the large domed ceiling. Windows that had not been seen from outside were scattered around the room, lighting the space. Not unlike a cathedral, the windows were stained glass, giving a reddish tint to the light in the room. Thousands of battle scenes were depicted on the stained glass, ferocious-looking creatures fighting with medieval weapons. The warmth from the windows reached Harry, softly reminding him he was on the correct path.

The creatures in the stained glass were very similar to those behind the tall desks as well. They all seemed to be cut from gems, their features sharp and hard. The sickly color of their skin gave the impression of trapped and swirling sulfur and, given the slightly rotten egg smell, the sulfur had more to do with their appearance than a first glance would have one assume. Professor Sprout led him to an open desk, gesturing for Harry to sit in the chair opposite of the creature. He paid no attention to the duo and their antics at first. Upon sitting in the chair, it propelled him up so that he was sitting slightly lower than the teller. It looked at him and spoke, its teeth glinting dangerously in the red light, "What business brings you to Gringotts today." It folded its hands and looked at Harry expectantly. At first, Harry assumed it was annoyed, looking like how Vernon often did at him, a glance in his eyes showed that its no-nonsense manner was simply a matter of how it was.

Harry looked down out of habit, confessing softly, "I don't actually know." Cringing at speaking so informally, he corrected himself quickly, "I mean, I do not know, sir."

Professor Sprout used his statement as her opportunity to interject softly, "Harry, this is the wizarding bank, Gringotts. This is where we can get your key and access your money." Harry much preferred her soft and musical voice to the sharp and brusque voice the teller had used, too much like Vernon.

About to respond, Harry was cut off as the creature spoke again, "Unfortunately, I cannot help with a new key, here is your number we will call you when you are ready." The chair suddenly floated back down to the floor. Harry hopped off, following Professor Sprout to the middle of the bank.

"What are they ma'am, if I can ask that. They aren't human right?" he asked nervously, hoping he wasn't being rude or disrespectful.

The professor was quick to answer, her voice adopting a malicious tone that did not suit her, "They are goblins, Harry, they are the race that wizards most commonly do battle against, wizards notwithstanding." It was apparent that she did not like the goblins, and Harry would be hard-pressed to disagree with the sentiment. However, just as he thought this, the same voice that reprimanded him for disbelieving in magic spoke once more, "Yet, you are also mistreated for being different, is that any different?'. As he thoughtfully digested the question, a voice rang out, as though through an intercom, "now serving number 83." The voice was different from the goblin who had helped them, warm like the sun in the evening. Harry hoped this meant his next experience would be as positive as before.

It wasn't. Curse The Sun.

Professor Sprout brought him to the main counter, presenting the number to the teller, "83 here for key replacement." The goblin looked down at her, tilting his head at a small gate. The gesture caused the gate to open, and Professor Sprout led Harry to it. Beyond the gate was a seemingly infinite hallway. The doors opened out, strangely enough, demonstrated by the third door on his left, into which Harry was led into. After walking him in, Professor Sprout left, the door closing behind him. Again, a totally different layout than before, Harry stepped into a warm room resembling the room Harry had written his response letter. What was days ago felt like years for the small boy, so many events had transpired since then? Shaking his head, Harry focused back on the present, at the goblin sitting in a large ornate chair. Harry was about to greet him politely when the goblin spoke,

"Affairs between goblins and families can only be held between goblins and families. As you need a key, this is a family affair." He put one of his hands on the table, showing off his sharp nails. "Take a seat. I am Gugkrat," the goblin introduced himself. Harry immediately did as he was told, sitting in the simple chair, in comparison, opposite the goblin. "Who is the key for?" Gugkrat asked gruffly. Harry wondered if they were attempting to be intimidating or if the stained glass was a correct demonstration of their direct manner.

"Harry Potter?" His voice trembled, asking more than telling. The goblin continued, not caring about the inflection used to answer his question,

"Date of Birth?" Harry slowly answered, and the goblin proceeded to pull out a quill and a long piece of parchment covered with letters Harry did not recognize. "Sign here," He instructed, pointing to a line, "That is a blood quill, a cursed item, it will hurt to write with it." Harry did so obediently. Gugkrat snatched the parchment away and walked over to a letter slip, pushing it through. "We have a few minutes Mr. Potter; do you have any questions about Gringotts that I can help with?" the goblin asked, his tone implying the answer better be negative. Harry was about to say no, eager to end the meeting. He imagined that is what The Sun wanted, as no ray of light had spilled onto him during his contemplation of the decision. That is, he assumed so until the goblin knocked over a small bowl, dead insects falling to the ground. With three landing legs in the air, and four with their back to the ceiling, his answer was changed; he trusted cleromancy.

"Yes, sir. The money system, what is its conversion to Pound Sterling?" Harry inquired.

"A knut is worth 20 pence, a sickle comes in at 20 pounds, making a Galleon worth 1,000 pounds," the Goblin answered, looking annoyed at the conversation being continued. Harry felt slightly dazed, this world used such extreme amounts of currency. Gugkrat continued, "For example, I believe Hogwarts tuition is seven and a half Galleons a year or about 7,500 pounds a year."

"What is the interest rate that Gringotts provides?" Harry asked, trying to match the pointed talking style of the goblins and failing immensely. Gugkrat glared at the young boy in front of him, sharpening his tone as he responded.

"Gringotts bank does not have interest, nor does it have holding fees; good for an account like yours, which has done nothing but sit for 10 years." Harry wondered why this was, voicing his confusion aloud.

"Do you not invest the money in the bank?"

The goblin gave him a hard stare, spitting out his words at Harry, "The Goblin Nation does not see it fit to gamble with the precious items that we are given to protect. Investing would be foolish."

"Then how do you get money?" Harry questioned; the goblin's responses were contradicting everything he had overheard Vernon teach Dudley about money matters.

"The goal of Gringotts bank is not to make money, it is to protect it," Gugkrat defended.

"Why is that?" Harry asked bravely, excited to have finally reached the heart of the matter. The goblin took a moment before speaking,

"Goblins do not reproduce. A goblin is brought into this world when a certain amount of magical gold is held within one place. However, the gold must be infused with a wizard's magic to bring a goblin. Thus, it is in the best interest of The Goblin Nation to hold as much gold as we can," The goblin said without changing the expression, or lack thereof, on his face. His tone was even, riling up Harry at the strange and rather farfetched response. Replying to what Gugkrat had explained, Harry realized he didn't know if what he was just told was the truth or a lie, he was unable to read his emotions. It was a very odd feeling, not knowing. Fighting to return his heart rate to normal, he took calm steadying breaths, hoping that the world of magic didn't end up destroying what little he had.

A knock on the door sounded in the room, preceding another goblin entering. Stretching out his arm towards Harry, he presented what was in his hands: a shining, gold key.

The Sun.

AN: I will try to update every week on Monday. The next chapter is done and just needs to be betaed (which is the most time-consuming part of the process). Thank you for reading. Please review, I want to know what you like, what you don't, and how I can improve as a writer. Feel free to even give me a review about how much it sucks, every bit helps!