Title: The Sorcerer's Stone: Alternate Year One
Author: Jade Hunter
Disclaimer: The characters and properties of Harry Potter all belong to J.K.R. May her genius never end. Bury Lawn school actually is a private school in England, but only the name is really used here.
A.N.: I've been reading through the reviews left from the very beginning, and the sheer number of pleads for me to update for Merlin's sake is simply quite mortifying for me. Makes me feel terrible, but my muse is a fickle beast - I am, quite simply, one of those types who can only write when the wind takes me there. Willing myself to write results only in myself staring at a blank screen for hours on end. Still, I must offer my apologies to all my old readers, though they may never read this at all, having abandoned all hope, as they had more than ample reason to have done so.
When Minerva McGonagall apparated to the Cabot estate at half-past noon, the pre-arranged time, she found two of the three Cabots waiting patiently for her.
"My husband was called to work on an emergency," Adelaide Cabot explained calmly, clad in an elegant navy-blue suit obviously designed and tailored specifically for her. She wore low heels, for practicality's sake, and carried a small matching purse in one perfectly manicured hand. "I hope you'll excuse his absence, Professor McGonagall."
"Of course, Mrs. Cabot," Professor McGonagall responded graciously. Dealing with these Cabots were somewhat akin to dealing with some of the matriarchs or patriarchs of the wizarding families, and this was something she was used to. "And good afternoon to you as well, Mr. Cabot."
Her second view of Tristan Cabot was a bit less shocking than the first. He was dressed quite handsomely in a pair of pressed trousers, a light blue dress shirt, a navy blazer with matching tie - and it was much harder to be reminded of James Potter now, who had always managed to find himself in one scrap or another, and would never have been half as well behaved or as patient as young Mr. Cabot was being.
As if to lend testament to her thoughts, Tristan smiled politely, "Good afternoon, Professor."
"Marcus, our driver, is bringing the car around for us, Professor McGonagall," Adelaide informed, as the three of them stepped off the porch and onto the cobbled driveway, Zachary closing the door behind them.
The car was sleek and silver, the windows heavily tinted, and probably cost more than most people's homes. The driver, wearing a black uniform and cap, got out of the front seat to come around and open the back door for them; he held it open until all three piled in, then went back around to settle himself in.
"Where to?" Marcus asked politely.
Adelaide and Tristan both looked at Professor McGonagall in askance, and she produced a scrap of paper with the address on it. Rather than read it aloud, she passed it up to the driver, who scanned the address, nodded, and drove out of the driveway and through the tall black gates that had been opened from the house.
The drive was quiet, everyone immersed in their own thoughts until Professor McGonagall asked him, "Do you have your letter with you, Mr. Cabot?"
Silently, Tristan took the parchment envelope out of his breast pocket inside his blazer.
"You'll find a list of items you need to purchase before the start of term," she said.
Tristan frowned a little; he was sure there wasn't any list. He'd thoroughly examined the envelope and its contents the week before. To his complete surprise, there was, indeed, a second piece of paper he had seemingly missed, and it read:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
UNIFORM
First Year students will require:
Three sets of plain work robes (black)
One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
One pair of protected gloves (dragonhide or similar)
One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS
Tristan's mind was bursting with fresh questions added to the ones he had come up with over the course of the week. Was there actually a place in London where they could buy all of these things? What did the list mean by robes? A pointed hat? For wearing? Dragon hide? Transfiguration? Dark Forces? An actual cauldron?
But, of course, any questions he posed now would be overheard by Marcus, who was entirely unaware of his young Master's magic. And so, despite it all, Tristan kept a tight rein on his curiosity and his mouth, simply choosing to read the list over and over again in an effort to will the distance away.
Eventually, the car came to a stop.
"Park the car," Adelaide ordered the driver. "I'll call as we come out, so you can look around in the stores, but please don't wander too far, Marcus."
Marcus tipped his hat in response and drove away to look for a parking space. The Cabots followed Professor McGonagall as she led them past the large bookstore they had been dropped off in front of.
"Here we are," Professor McGonagall announced. "The Leaky Cauldron."
It was a tiny, grubby pub.
Tristan glanced at his mother, fully expecting revulsion, and found it in her eyes, though the rest of her expression was composed. He himself was a bit disgusted, but also fascinated - this had to be the most run down building he'd ever seen in his entire life. It was strange, though, how he hadn't noticed it until Professor McGonagall had stopped in front of it and announced its presence; considering how shabby its appearance was compared to the bookstore and the record shop, Tristan would have thought everyone would be looking. Instead, it seemed as though no one even saw the dingy pub at all.
The inside was better, but not by much. It was very dark and shabby, and there were a few old women sitting in a corner, drinking tiny glasses of sherry. One of them was smoking a long pipe. A little man wearing a top hat, of all things, was speaking to the old bartender, who looked just as old and worn down as the establishment he worked in. The low buzz stopped when the three of them walked in; there were some curious glances, but most seemed to recognize Professor McGonagall, smiling or inclining their heads respectfully.
"Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall," the old bartender said, smiling, and that one act made him far less haggard looking. "Hogwarts business?"
"Quite, Tom," Professor McGonagall replied. "I'm introducing young Mr. Cabot and his mother here to the wonders of the wizarding world."
'Well, if this is the wonders of the wizarding world, I don't think my parents will approve anymore,' Tristan thought, glancing at his mother. She was holding herself stiffly, purse clutched tightly in her hand, and looking around with darting glances that always came back to rest on Professor McGonagall.
"Ah, another muggleborn, eh? Well, Mr. Cabot, welcome to the wizarding world," Tom said, grinning widely.
Tristan smiled back politely, but refrained from saying anything.
A pale young man made his way forward, looking somewhat nervous. An eye was twitching, and Tristan wondered if he was mentally unstable. That would explain the purple turban and the...dress? Or were those the robes that the list was talking about? As the new man and Professor McGonagall traded greetings, obviously being familiar with each other, Tristan looked around again, this time taking in the clothes the people were wearing. If it wasn't a top hat, it was a man wearing a robe, and if it wasn't that, it was a woman with frilly, high-necked dresses - not a single one of them wore simple slacks and shirts. Fashion wise, Tristan was forced to conclude, these people were stuck centuries behind the modern world.
"Mr. Cabot," Professor McGonagall said, snapping him out of his thoughts, "this is Professor Quirrell. He will be your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts."
The young professor tried to smile, but it came out as more of a grimace, and he stammered, "P-p-pleased to m-meet you, C-c-cabot."
Tristan ignored the stuttering, as was proper, and replied politely, "Pleased to make your acquaintance as well, Professor."
This seemed to reassure him a little, and the stuttering went down. A bit. "You'll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on v-v-vampires, myself."
Professor Quirrell looked terrified at the very thought, and Tristan privately wondered how such a nervous man could teach students defense against anything, much less the Dark Arts.
"Well, we must get on," Professor McGonagall said, nodding at Professor Quirrell, and ushered Tristan and his mother through the bar and out back into a small, walled courtyard, where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds. Here, Professor McGonagall paused to sigh a little, and said to Tristan, "I hope you don't judge Professor Quirrell too hastily, Mr. Cabot. In truth, he is a brilliant mind. He was perfectly suited to his position when he taught out of his books, but... He took a year off to get some first-hand experience, and that was how he came back to us, poor thing."
Tristan was a bit skeptical - what could possibly make a man so...nervous? And then, as he realized that the world was not as he'd known for all his life, and things were different in the magical world, the question took on a different tone. What was out there in the wizarding world that could make a man so nervous?
Professor McGonagall pulled out her wand and tapped a brick three times.
It quivered, wriggled, and a small hole appeared in the middle. Rapidly, the hole grew in size, becoming wider and wider until they were facing an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.
Tristan heard his mother gasp, was hard pressed not to gape, but managed to keep his composure, swallowing hard instead.
Professor McGonagall looked back at them and smiled, "Come along, please."
Adelaide reached out to grasp her son's shoulder as she stepped through the archway with him; Tristan turned around just in time to see the archway shrink back into a tiny hole that eventually disappeared, leaving behind the solid wall from before.
The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop. Cauldrons - All Sizes - Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver - Self-Stirring - Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.
Tristan knew from his list that he would need one, pewter, but Professor McGonagall passed it by without thought. "Excuse me, Professor, don't I need a pewter cauldron?"
"You will be needing one, yes, Mr. Cabot, but first, we need to go to Gringotts," Professor McGonagall said firmly. "For money."
"I have money now," Adelaide spoke up.
And that begged the question - did wizards use regular money?
"You will need them exchanged from muggle currency to wizarding currency, Mrs. Cabot," Professor McGonagall explained, answering Tristan's unspoken question.
Tristan sorely wished he could turn his head every which way as they walked along, gaping at every new incredible thing that he saw, but he could not. He was a Cabot, even if these people didn't know it, and Cabots did not go around gawping like mindless fools. Still, Tristan was an eleven-year-old boy as much as he was a Cabot, and so sneaked a few rapid glances when he thought his mother wouldn't see.
There was an Apothecary, a dark shop that had a sign saying Eeylops Owl Emporium - Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. There were kids his age, pressing their faces against a display window, shops selling robes, telescopes, and strange silver instruments that Tristan had never seen before. There were windows stacked with bat spleens and eel eyes, piles of books...
"Gringotts," Professor McGonagall said. "The wizarding world's only bank, run by goblins."
Tristan felt his mother start at that, and he, too, felt a little strange as a mixture of skepticism and anticipation welled within him. Goblins? Real goblins?
They walked closer to a snowy white building that towered over all the other shops, with burnished bronze doors. His mother's fingers dug into his shoulder, but that was all forgotten as Tristan caught sight of the figure standing beside the doors, wearing a sharp little uniform of scarlet and gold. A little more than a head shorter than Tristan himself, the goblin was nonetheless a bit intimidating, as well as dignified. He - it - the goblin, that is, had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard, and very long fingers and feet.
The goblin bowed as they walked inside.
Now they were at a second doorway, silver doors this time, with words engraved upon them:
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.
The last line sounded like a serious threat, and Tristan quickly forgot his amazement that goblins could rhyme in favor of wondering who, exactly, would be mad enough to try and steal from goblins.
A pair of them bowed the trio through the silver doors, and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these.
Professor McGonagall let them to a counter, "Good morning. We are here to have muggle money exchanged for wizarding money."
"How much, ma'am?"
The Professor turned to Tristan's mother, who stepped forward daintily, hiding her nervousness quite well, in his opinion. "Do - do you take credit cards?"
The goblin peered at her, "As a matter of fact, we do, ma'am. We can also create an account for you here, linked to the credit card account. This way, you won't be inconvenienced by having to exchange currencies each time you visit - and when you access your account at Gringotts, it will automatically draw money from your muggle account and exchange it."
"That would be better, I should think," Adelaide said in a firmer tone of voice than before. This was a bank, she reminded herself, and she could handle banks. Even if the tellers were goblins. "What is the exchange rate?"
"Wizards deal not in pounds, but in Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts," the goblin explained, and brought out three different colored coins. "The gold ones are Galleons, the silver ones are Sickles, and the bronze coins are Knuts. There are twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, seventeen Sickles to a Galleon." Tristan furrowed his brows, repeating the phrase in his head in an effort to memorize it as the goblin continued, "A Knut is equal to about £0.01, a Sickle around £0.29, and a Galleon is £5.00."
That gold coin was only worth £5.00? Tristan wondered if it was pure gold, because if it was, that was entirely ridiculous. Of course, it was in their favor, but...
Opening her purse, which simply folded out once the snap was undone, Adelaide chose a platinum credit card at random, handing it to the goblin. Tristan couldn't see what the goblin was doing with it, for he - it - whatever, worked behind the counter, but he could hear the faintest hint of surprise when the goblin asked, "You are aware that this credit card has no limits?"
"Yes, I'm aware," Tristan's mother answered.
The goblin nodded slightly, "And under whose name should the account be formed?"
"My son, Tristan Harold Cabot," Adelaide replied firmly, and this time earned a shocked look from Professor McGonagall.
Tristan could almost imagine what she was thinking - an unlimited account for an eleven-year-old boy? But, of course, Professor McGonagall couldn't possibly understand that giving him an unlimited access to money wasn't any different from every day life. If Tristan wanted something, all he had to do was ask for it, and it would be there the next day. Some people might consider that spoiling a child, but it was all done with the knowledge that Tristan would earn this money back twice over when he took over the company.
The goblin, however, simply nodded, and continued to fiddle. At length, he finally looked up, peering down at Tristan from his perch, "Your hand, please?"
Confused, he stepped forward and offered his right hand, palm up. The goblin dropped a small, gold key onto his hand instead of doing something nefarious, and Tristan retracted his arm with no little amount of relief.
"I shall have someone take you to your vault," the goblin said. "Griphook!"
Griphook was, of course, another goblin. At Professor McGonagall's fervent advice, Adelaide chose to remain behind as Tristan went to retrieve his money, following this new goblin towards the hall with the numerous doors. Griphook held the door open for him; Tristan, who was expecting more marble, was surprised when he was confronted with a narrow stone passageway with flaming torches lighting the way. It sloped steeply downwards, and there were little railway tracks on the floor. The goblin whistled sharply, and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks.
Like any sensible person, Tristan was wary of climbing into a vehicle (of sorts) with an unknown person (creature) that led down a darkened hallway. In the end, however, he decided that this was a bank, after all, and since he was a client...
At first, they hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Initially, it was a little alarming when he noticed that Griphook wasn't steering, but the goblin didn't seem worried, so he let himself relax and enjoy the ride. Tristan felt his stomach rise and drop several times - he couldn't help the laughing whoop that escaped. Roller coasters were his favorite kind of ride, specifically because of the tingling sensation created by his stomach dropping unexpectedly. Any ride that made his adrenaline pump and his heart beat rapidly topped his list of favorite rides, but roller coasters were supreme.
The cart came to an abrupt stop, in front of a vault door that was about two-and-a-half feet in length and width. Griphook opened the door, and Tristan saw that the depth of the vault wasn't much more than a foot. It was, however, filled with piles of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts.
"For your type of unlimited credit card account, a smaller vault like this is used," Griphook said suddenly. "Once you empty the money in this vault, more will be transfered from your muggle account to replace what you take out."
Tristan nodded; he could see the sense in that, rather than having a vault as large as a room. Unlimited was unlimited, but Tristan was sure his father would not want all of their wealth exchanged into wizarding money and placed in a wizarding bank. Although the security certainly seemed impressive - he didn't think anyone could remember their way to a particular vault, not with how wildly the carts sped through the tunnels.
Griphook offered him a black velvet pouch, which Tristan filled with handfuls of money. He was surprised (once again) by the fact that the weight of the pouch did not seem to change, no matter how much money he poured in. Nor did the appearance change - even when he had emptied half of the vault's contents into the pouch, it still looked limp and half-empty, especially when he pulled the silver drawstring and closed the pouch.
'Nice way to deter thievery,' Tristan thought admiringly as he climbed back in the cart for another stomach-dropping ride. In some ways, magic was proving itself to be far more useful than he'd originally anticipated, even.
"We should get your uniform first, Mr. Cabot," Professor McGonagall said, gesturing towards Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
'Robes? Joy.' Nonetheless, Tristan smiled politely and nodded, the money pouch tucked in the breast pocket lining the inside of his blazer. Still there was no weight greater than that of an empty pouch, nor was there a telltale bulge that spoke of money. It was intriguing, but as they entered Madam Malkin's, the thought was quickly chased away by more questions on robes.
Or, specifically, if he absolutely had to wear them. But that seemed rude to ask in a store that dealt in the very item, so Tristan kept his mouth shut as a squat, smiling woman dressed in deep peridot came up. She introduced herself as Madam Malkin herself, exchanged pleasantries with Professor McGonagall, shook hands politely with Tristan's mother, and smiled down at Tristan himself.
"Hogwarts, dear?" she asked unnecessarily, and pointed him towards a stool. "Get up on there, and we'll see about getting you fitted up."
Tristan wondered if there was a place to get robes specially designed and tailored for a person, but stopped himself short. The list had said that the robes were to be plain, and, besides, how much could possibly be done for robes to make them look better? He stood quietly on the stool as Madam Malkin slipped a long black robe over his head, quickly and efficiently pinning it to the right length, with a little leeway for possible growth during the year.
He had great experience with fittings and kept perfectly still in order to avoid being poked, and it wasn't long before Madam Malking said, "That's you done, my dear."
Stepping down from the stool, Tristan paid Madam Malkin the cost of the fitting and the robes, and was surprised to get a neat package in return. His robes, Madam Malkin explained at his confused expression, all of them adjusted for him already. Another benefit of working with magic instead of by hand alone, he supposed.
Next was purchasing parchment and quills. As he looked over the different kinds of ink wells, Tristan wondered how hard it would be to get used to writing with a quill. It would be so much easier to simply use a fountain pen. He asked Professor McGonagall about it, and, after recovering from her surprise, she told him that it was just the way Hogwarts worked. As he paid for his purchases, Tristan thought privately that, well, that was just idiotic, wasn't it? And Cabots did not do idiotic things, especially just to conform, so he made a note to himself to stock up on spiral notebooks and pens, both fountain and ball-point. Assignments and such, he would use parchment and quills, but notes were his to take and his to keep, and wasn't worth the extra effort. Plus, the spirals would help keep all the notes from one class together. Organization was the key to efficiency, after all.
Then they went to a shop called Flourish and Blotts, which was a bookstore. The shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the sizes of postage stamps covered in silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Here, Tristan wandered between the stacks for a bit, to see if there were any books he could read about the wizarding world aside from his school textbooks. He found more than a few that caught his interest, including Hogwarts: A History, The History of the Ministry of Magic, and other such historical books to add to the pile he was planning to purchase.
In the shop that sold cauldrons, Tristan was amused to find that there was a solid gold one. Just how gaudy did a person have to be, to buy something like that? Tristan had been taught that people with real wealth did not seek to flaunt it - they bought expensive things, yes, but only because they deserved the best, not because they wanted others to see how rich they were. This was also how you could tell new money from old money - new money always put in that telltale effort to show off and prove that they were "just as good." If you were truly better, however, you didn't need to advertise it, because people knew.
He purchased the pewter cauldron his list called for, as well as a particularly nice set of scales that didn't seem like they would break easily, and a collapsible brass telescope. Then Professor McGonagall led them to the Apothecary, where upon his mother insisted on waiting outside due to the overpowering smell as Tristan bought a supply of some basic potions ingredients.
"Is that all, then?" Adelaide asked as Professor McGonagall and her son trooped out of the foul smelling Apothecary.
Professor McGonagall smiled faintly, "Just the wand. And an owl, cat, or a toad, if your son would like."
"Why would I need a pet?" Tristan asked, confused. The Cabots had a chateau in France with its own stables, of course, and a few hounds and even hunting birds, but none of their animals were actual pets. Animals, Hugh Cabot insisted, like people, had to be good for something if they wished to be kept. Pets did nothing, and just as Hugh Cabot did not tolerate useless people, neither did he tolerate useless animals.
"Although I'm more of a cat person myself," here, Professor McGonagall smiled, as if enjoying a private secret, "I would recommend you purchase an owl. A toad is all but useless, but owls are what we use to deliver mail."
"Owls?" he repeated in amazement.
Professor McGonagall nodded. "But the school has owls for students to use in the Owlery, if you prefer."
With a glance at his mother, Tristan shrugged slightly, "It can't hurt to look, can it?"
They lingered in Eeylopes Owl Emporium for close to twenty minutes, simply because of Tristan's inability to make up his mind. Originally, he had wanted a Great Hawk Owl. Then he had spotted a larger owl - a Eurasian Eagle Owl - and had been torn. He'd debated between the two male owls to the point where the owls themselves were puffing up and hooting threateningly at each other in an effort to be the one purchased. But then he'd spotted a Snowy Owl so beautiful it had drawn a delighted smile from his mother, even, and that had been that. The three of them trooped out, leaving two despondent male owls behind as Tristan carried out his new owl, fast asleep in her cage, with her head under her wing.
"Now, for your wand, Mr. Cabot, there is only one place to go: Ollivanders," Professor McGonagall said.
A magic wand... Recalling all the tricks the Professor had done in order to convince him and his parents of the existence of magic, all with her wand, Tristan eagerly picked up his pace.
The shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters above the door read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window display.
A tinkling bell rang as they stepped inside, Tristan with great anticipation, Adelaide with a bit of wariness, and Professor McGonagall with an indulgent smile on her face. It was a tiny place, except for a single, spindly chair that Professor McGonagall cleaned up with a wave of her wand for Tristan's mother to sit on in the meantime. It was very silent and still inside the small shop, and Tristan's excitement quieted and stilled in his heart. It was almost like being in a museum, this, with the hyper awareness of the unusual level of silence.
"Good afternoon," said a soft voice.
Tristan jumped, and he heard his mother stifle a gasp. An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.
"Hello, and good afternoon to you as well," Tristan replied, recovering swiftly from his shock.
Mr. Ollivander (or so Tristan assumed) moved closer, a furrow slowly appearing between his brows. His eyes became even more sharper, if that was possible, and he tilted his head as if presented with a puzzle that he couldn't quite decipher. Tristan decidedly felt uncomfortable with this regard, so similar to that of Professor McGonagall's during their first meeting, and yet so much more powerful and intense.
To his relief, Mr. Ollivander's eyes slid away and landed on Professor McGonagall, "Minerva McGonagall! How nice it is to see you once more. Lancewood, twelve-and-a-quarter inches, rather elastic, isn't it?"
"Quite correct, Mr. Ollivander," Professor McGonagall replied, seemingly unperturbed by the wand maker's eccentric personality. "And it still continues to serve me well."
That seemed to please him. "Good, good." Mr. Ollivander turned back to Tristan, "I remember every single wand I've sold, you know." He seemed to be proud of the fact, so Tristan tried to smile as if he were impressed. "Well now - you are?"
"Tristan Cabot, sir," he answered promptly.
Mr. Ollivander nodded sagely, as if this had been words of unparalleled wisdom rather than a simple name, "Mr. Cabot. Let me see." He pulled out a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"
Wand arm? Uncertainly, Tristan replied, "Well, I'm right-handed, sir, if that's what you mean."
"Hold out your arm - that's it," the old man said. He measured Tristan from shoulder to finger, from wrist to elbow, which almost made sense. Then he measured from shoulder to foot, knee to armpit, then around Tristan's head, which Tristan couldn't see any purpose in at all. As he measured, Mr. Ollivander said, "Every Ollivander wand as a core of powerful magical substance, Mr. Cabot. 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 just the same. And, of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."
With a start, Tristan realized that the tape measure, currently measuring the distance between nostrils, was doing it quite on its own. Mr. Ollivander was piling long, thin boxes into his arms from the shelves.
"That will do," he said, and the tape measure flopped to the ground. "Right then, Mr. Cabot. Try this one. Juniper and phoenix feather, nine inches, quite rigid. Just take it and give it a wave."
Feeling more than a little foolish, Tristan took the offered wand and gamely waved his arm, and started when Mr. Ollivander lunged forward to snatch it away at once.
"Ash and unicorn hair, eight-and-a-half inches, quite bendy."
Tristan took it, raised his arm to give it a wave, and had it snatched right out of his grasp.
"No, no," Mr. Ollivander muttered to himself, digging through the boxes. "Hickory and dragon heartstring, six inches, tough."
No, no, no, and no.
The pile of rejected wands grew as the minutes passed, and each new wand that Mr. Ollivander snatched out of his hand seemed to make the old man happier. Tristan simply stood there, dumbfounded, taking the wands and getting used to the friction of having it whisked away before he knew it. What, exactly, was Mr. Ollivander looking for? Some kind of reaction?
Mr. Ollivander picked up another box, opened it, hesitated, until finally he offered this wand to Tristan, "Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple - unusual combination."
A reaction indeed, as Tristan found out the moment he grasped this wand. Warmth filled his fingers, welled up from somewhere inside him, and it was an exhilarating feeling that he couldn't possibly hope to describe. Prompted by an urge that he didn't even realize existed, Tristan raised his arm and brought the wand swishing down through the air - and in its wake, a trail of blue and gold sparks burst out like fireworks.
Professor McGonagall clapped, smiling, and his mother gazed wide-eyed at the sparks, even as Mr. Ollivander cried out his triumph. Tristan paid the seven gold Galleons for his wand, and, shopping all done, the three of them headed back to regular London and the waiting car, back through the Leaky Cauldron.
It wasn't until that night, as Tristan lay in his bed deep in slumber, that the words Mr. Ollivander had muttered to himself while he'd created the sparks came to haunt his dreams.
"Curious...very curious...how very...if anyone, I'd have thought...hmm...curious, indeed..."
TBC…
A.N. 2: The exchange rate between muggle pounds and wizarding money was taken from The Harry Potter Lexicon, which is a site I advise any fanfic writer to visit. It is THE source for any kind of minor or major detail you need for writing a HP fanfic. And if you were really curious, a Galleon would equal less than eight American dollars - crazy, ain't it? A wand, however, costs a little over seventy-one dollars. Ouch.
Rosie W - This isn't the first time you've reviewed one of my fics, but it is the first time I'm responding, because most of those fics in question have been one-shots. I've always wanted to say that I appreciate your reviews, for they've always touched me, simply because of how short and succinct they are. :) It is my hope to keep Tristan toeing that delicate line between confident and arrogant, though he will always be something of a spoiled lad. More society-boy than spoiled-boy, though, unlike Draco.
Birdgirl - It is my sincere hope that I won't have to do that. :)
athenakitty - No, the Dursleys will not die. At least, not that I know of, yet. My muse may be keeping secrets from me, though. As for Tristan...just wait and see. :)
Jarno - Oh, yes. Loads different, I'd think. But just the top layer, mostly. However, the core of what makes Harry will still remain, because, otherwise, it really wouldn't be Harry at all, would it?
rigal - I think it was the same story. My old version, that is, which did, indeed, have four very short chapters before I woke up and regained enough senses to erase it.