4: The Lord of the House
Griphook guided them toward a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. Harry, who had expected more marble after leaving Morbruk's office, was surprised. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in – Edward following closely after his nephew – and were off.
At first, they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harry tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn't steering.
Harry's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of the passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late – they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.
"I never know," Harry called to Edward over the noise of the cart, "what's the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?"
The man rolled his eyes in response and replied, "I kinda forgotten. It's been years since I was assigned a muggle science project, you know, but a stalagmite's supposed to have an 'm' in it."
Finally, the cart stopped beside a small door in the passage wall. All three of them got out with Griphook leading the way. As soon as he unlocked the door, fumes of green smoke came billowing out, and as it cleared, Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.
"This is only one of the many gold vaults that belong to the Black Family," Edward explained. "When you come of the right age, not only you will inherit all of these, but also quite a few vaults that will fall under your lordship in a few years' time."
It was incredible. Harry knew their family was well-off, but he didn't expect them to be this enormously wealthy.
Edward piled some of the gold and silver coins into a bag he brought with him. "I apologize I made you get more used to muggle money these past few years," he said. "But one important thing is understanding how wizarding money works. The gold ones are Galleons, seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy enough."
Harry nodded. He was good in math back in school so he knew he could get it in his head so easy.
"Good. This should be enough," Edward piped up, and then added – "I wish the goblins would start implementing debit cards by now, no offense" – toward Griphook's direction who simply wrinkled his nose in a slight annoyance.
One wild cart ride later, they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts.
"Twilfitt and Tattings – that's where we're heading next," Edward announced happily next to Harry who was going through his Hogwarts list. "They make finer robes than Madam Malkins', and their designs are more in line with the current trends." he added. "Besides, I don't think I can stand the crowd in that crampy store right now."
They entered an upscale looking shop located in the Southern side of Diagon Alley. Both men were greeted by a lanky young man wearing tight flowery printed shirt at the doorway. Judging by his clothing sense, he must be one of the store's couturier ready to attend to their needs.
"Welcome to Twilfitt and Tattings, good sirs!" he peeped. Then the young man gave Harry's muggle clothing a once-over that led him to the idea why exactly they were there. "Getting ready for Hogwarts?" he asked politely.
"Yes," Edward replied, "and a complete set of new wardrobes for my nephew here. We need quite a few and probably a few more of your latest designs."
Hearing the man's request, the couturier looked like his feet had sprouted wings underneath them. He guided Harry to stand on a footstool while his assistant, a younger witch went running around to get the best fabrics their shop could offer. "I know exactly what you need, Darling," he purred whilst taking the boy's body measurements. He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and round his head. As he measured, the boy turned to his uncle who had taken ownership of a nearby couch whilst scanning a few magazines that showed the store's latest fashion designs.
"Why do I need to change to a complete set of new wardrobes?" he asked.
"Because you're not wearing muggle clothing from now on," Edward replied behind the men's magazine he was reading. "– well, except perhaps if the occasion calls for it," he amended. "Nonetheless, a Lord of the House is expected to wear the finest robes at all times. And that crosses muggle clothing out of the list."
Harry tried not to comment nor roll his eyes from his uncle's statement. He decided to drive his attention elsewhere, and that was when he suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing all the measuring on its own. Next to it was a long roll of parchment hovering in the air while a quill is writing down a list – probably taking notes of all his body measurements.
"That will do," the young couturier said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. Then he whirled around facing Edward's direction and asked, "are we also going to include a set for his everyday use, sir?"
"Yes, please."
More assistants were called to help. It was chaos. One of them slipped a long robe over Harry's head and began to pin it to the right length.
"In less than a short time, you'll be good as new, Darling," the young man cooed while flicking his wand so that a pair of scissors started shearing a sheet of fabric shaping it to what looked like a pair of grey trousers.
Soon enough, Harry and his uncle left the shop laden with boxes, a house elf's aid was needed to take their purchases back home. Also, a completely transformed Harry came out with a whole new look. Gone were the muggle jeans and trainers he wore along with the horrid jumper his Uncle Edward called a rag. He was now dressed impeccably much to the older man's approval.
"Dragon hide suits you the best," the man commented turning another gaze at the shiny Onyx black footwear Harry was wearing.
"I look like a ponce," the boy huffed with a tinge of protest.
"You look fit for a proper Lord of your House," Edward corrected him, "now where to go next?"
Harry once again scanned his Hogwarts list. "I still got plenty of things I need to buy."
"Don't worry. I know just the place."
They bought Harry's school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Edward almost had to drag Harry away from 'Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian.
"I might need it for self-defense in case I come across a bully at school."
"I'm not saying that's not a good idea, but you are not to use magic outside school hours," Edward told him. "And anyway, you couldn't work any of those curses yet, you will need a lot more study to get to that level."
His uncle wouldn't let him buy a solid gold cauldron either. ("it says pewter on your list. Quality is good but relevance is more important"), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotten cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Edward asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, the boy himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five knuts a scoop).
Outside the apothecary, they checked Harry's list again.
"Just your wand left. Ollivander's it is then," said Edward.
A magic wand… this was what Harry had been really looking forward to this whole time.
The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivander's: Makers of Fine Wands since 382. B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.
"Listen, champ. Why don't you go ahead, and I'll pick you up here in a few minutes?" Edward blurted all of a sudden. "I have something very important I need to buy, and it can't wait. I'll be back in a jiffy, yeah?"
His uncle looked weird, but Harry didn't mind, so he entered Ollivander's shop alone, feeling nervous.
A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as he stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair for customers to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.
"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped because there was a loud crunching noise. An old man was standing before him, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.
"Hello," said Harry awkwardly.
"Ah, yes," said the man. "Who do I have the pleasure of rendering my services today, eh?"
He was startled for a bit, and the moment he gained back his composure, Harry apologized for his lack of manners. "Oh, sorry sir. I'm Hadrian. Hadrian Black."
Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Oh, how he wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy.
"My, my... a descendant of the Blacks," he remarked. Harry wasn't sure if it was a good thing or not. "It seems only yesterday when your great ancestor was in here himself buying his first wand. Twelve and a quarter inch long made of alder wood. Nice wand for charm work," he told him.
The old man had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. The boy could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.
"Well now, let's see." He pulled one of Harry's arms and examined it. "Which is your wand arm?"
"Er – I'm right-handed," said Harry.
"Hold out your arm. That's it." As he continued examining the boy's arm, he went on explaining, "every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Black. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."
Mr. Ollivander went to the back of the shelves and retrieved one of the boxes on display. "Right then, Mr. Black. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."
Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.
"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try –"
Harry did – but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by the old man.
"No, no – here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, try it out."
Harry tried again, and again. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.
"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere – I wonder, now – yes, why not – unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised it above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on the walls. Mr. Ollivander clapped and cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"
He placed Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in a brown paper, still muttering, "curious… curious…"
"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"
Mr. Ollivander fixed him with his pale stare.
"I remember every wand I ever sold, Mr. Black. Every single one of them. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather – just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why its brother became one of the most fearsome wizards of time."
Harry swallowed.
"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen."
"And who owned that wand?" He couldn't help but ask.
"We do not speak his name," said the old man in an audible whisper. "The wand chooses the wizard, remember… It is not always clear why… but I think it is clear that we must expect great things from you, Mr. Black… after all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things – terrible, yes, but great."
Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for his wand and waited until Edward returned and picked him up. Mr. Ollivander bowed at them as they left his shop.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and his uncle made their way to a small café in Diagon Alley. He didn't speak at all as they walked down the cobbled street and was greeted by the host upon entering the establishment.
"You alright, champ? You seem very quiet," Edward asked in the middle of selecting their orders from the menu.
Harry wasn't sure how he could explain it. He'd just had the best birthday of his life – and yet – he chewed his lip, trying to find the words, until he decided to relay to his uncle what Mr. Ollivander had told him in his shop.
"Nah, just leave it be." His uncle reassured him. "That old man loves to make creepy jokes all the time. He must have only said that to spook you out. Perhaps, thinking you're a part of the Black Family, he must've thought you're destined to turn into a Dark Wizard or something."
"Is our family that bad?" Harry eyed the older man with those innocent pair of emerald eyes.
Edward laid down the menu he was holding and leaned closer so that he's seeing eye to eye with the boy. "Listen here, Harry. A lot of people think our family is bad because it had a tainted reputation – years and years of resentment against half-bloods and muggleborns and all of that stuff. When you reach Hogwarts, you'll find out there are people who despised us because of it. BUT… I want you to keep in mind that no matter what, just be yourself. It is not our name who defines us for what we are, but our actions."
Harry nodded. It may come as vague at first, he knew, but he understood. He was well aware of the Black family history and all the dark deeds his ancestors have done in the past. Thanks to the enormous number of dark artifacts and creepy stuff hidden in Grimmauld Place he became well informed. But he believed in his uncle's words, and he knew well enough not to be swayed by anyone else's opinion.
"Perhaps your next birthday present will lighten up your mood, eh?" Edward told him all of a sudden.
Harry's face brightened. To his surprise, the café host brought in a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. He thought it was the best birthday present he had ever. Harry couldn't stop stammering his thanks.
"Don't mention it," Edward waved a hand. So, this was where he went to when he left him at Ollivander's shop – to buy him his pet. He must have gone to the owl emporium at that time. "Now, tuck in, so we can go home. And I meant we're staying at the Black Manor for the rest of the week. You have your big night to get ready for the whole afternoon," he reminded him.
Harry nodded. Tonight's event is the least of his problems. Today, he just wanted to enjoy his day, and the wonderful meatloaf he was having for lunch in that tiny café.