Chapter 2 – Diagon Alley
Vernon stopped his rant abruptly and looked the small man up and down. Now that he had stood up, Harry thought he was even tinier – perhaps shorter even than Harry and Dudley were, although he couldn't be sure without standing up himself.
"And who are you, then?" Vernon said, brandishing his fork at the small man. "This is a family matter, as you yourself said, sir!"
"Ah! I should introduce myself," he said and turned towards Harry. "Forgive me, Mr Potter! Mr and Mrs Dursley," he added as an afterthought. "My name is Professor Flitwick, and I am the Head of Ravenclaw House and Master of Charms at a school called Hogwarts. Perhaps you are familiar with the institution?"
Harry shook his head. He'd never even heard of a 'Hogwarts', which was a funny sort of name for a school. Harry supposed it had been Hogwarts sending the letters, then, and it seemed like an appropriate name for a school that would employ someone like this Flitwick fellow.
"Is that where the letters came from? Only, I didn't get a chance to read them, sir," he said with only a brief glance towards his pale-faced aunt and apoplectic uncle.
"He'll not be going," said Vernon. "There you are, we've declined his place."
Professor Flitwick ignored Vernon and addressed Petunia instead. "Mrs Dursley, your personal experience notwithstanding, I was led to believe a letter had been written detailing both the general and the specific points and left with you both, many years ago," he said, addressing the elder Dursleys, and then paused. "Forgive me the intrusion, but... Does Mr Potter even know the circumstances surrounding his placement with you? What his parents did, who they were? How they died?"
"He knows that they died in an ... accident," Petunia said, her voice shaky. "But the rest was—well, there was never a good time to tell him..." She didn't seem able to look Flitwick in the eye, and instead looked down at the table.
"That is quite irresponsible!" admonished the little man. "It is hardly as if Mr Potter can stop being a wizard, no more than you can sprout wings and fly!"
"Now listen, you," said Vernon, who had got up from his seat, "you've got no right to interfere like this! My wife has lost enough—Bloody magic wands and secret wars nobody needs! He's happy enough at Stonewall High, and that's the end of it!"
Professor Flitwick ignored Vernon and instead smiled kindly at Harry, and took a letter from his pocket and handed it to the wide-eyed boy.
"Mr Potter, I have come here today to offer you at place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the premier magical school in Europe and dare I say, perhaps even the world. It is a great honour to attend, and your name has been on the list since you were born." The man smiled again. "I had the pleasure of teaching both of your parents, in fact. But it seems that you have not been told the relevant facts, so I shall set it out like I would for a prospective muggleborn student. May I sit?"
"Hang on," said Harry. He needed to get to grips with one important fact before anything else happened. "My parents were—were wizards? Actual magical wizards, not—not stage magicians?"
Without waiting for permission to sit, the diminutive professor took out a long, thin stick from his suit pocket that was far too big to have fitted, waved it about, and a chair appeared out of thin air. Dudley made a funny squeaking noise, Petunia buried her face in her hands, and Vernon sank back down into his own chair, defeated. Flitwick simply sat down.
"This is a wand," said Flitwick, "and what you have just witnessed was a magical spell. Wizards and witches use wands to perform feats of magic both simple and complex! Our world is largely separated from the Muggle world you know already, and most wizards and witches – although not all! – live in communities separate from Muggles or on isolated homesteads. Your parents were, of course, a wizard and witch of considerable talent and standing in our community, and so it is not surprising that you yourself inherited their magical abilities and therefore have been invited to attend Hogwarts. Do you understand so far?"
Harry nodded. It was easy to follow, even if it would have sounded absolutely bonkers had Flitwick not demonstrated magic—or if Harry didn't already have a string of strange occurrences to his name.
"Wonderful!" said Flitwick. "We'll make a Ravenclaw of you yet, mark my words! Some years before your birth our world experienced a period of turmoil culminating in a war against a man whom most people called You-Know-Who."
"Stupid name," muttered Vernon just loud enough to hear, along with a string of other comments Harry tuned out.
"You-Know-Who targeted his strongest and most vocal opponents, amongst whom your parents numbered, and eventually targeted them personally," said Flitwick after flicking his wand at a now-silent Vernon. "He killed your parents and after, attempted to kill you but was, inexplicably, unable to do so. You-Know-Who disappeared, and you were left with that scar and entered into the care of your remaining family."
"My parents were murdered?" said Harry finally, staring at his aunt. "You told me—you told me they died in a—a freak accident! You said they were just, just—unemployed—but they were fighting in a war!"
"It was to keep us all safe," Petunia said, tears in her eyes. "Murdered by a man with no name because of some stupid war over nothing! How could we have told you that? And then that one day, they'd expect you go to back even though nothing had changed!"
"The war is over now," said Flitwick simply. "It ended the night your sister and her husband died, madam!"
"The last time one of your lot got in contact with us," said Petunia eventually, her voice like steel, "it was to tell me my sister was dead. They said that we still had to—had to remain vigilant, that we were—and Harry was—still in danger from—well, from whoever was left. It's why we've never taken him out of the country! And now you want to—you want to take him back? To the place you said wasn't safe? Forgive me if I'm not jumping for joy at the thought."
"I appreciate your concerns, madam," said Flitwick. "But the situation has changed. Harry will be thirteen soon, and it is time for him to attend Hogwarts. This recent news regarding Sirius Black is admittedly of concern, but you can rest assured that any and all practical measures have been taken to ensure the safety of all students, including and especially Harry, again given the circumstances."
Petunia frowned at the mention of Sirius Black.
"The murderer? From the news? I thought it had to be one of us because otherwise it wouldn't be on television... but surely it couldn't be... It isn't the same Sirius Black, is it?" Petunia said. "I knew there was something odd when they didn't say where he'd escaped from..."
"There is reason to believe," said Flitwick after a long and tense pause, "that in addition to the murders for which he was convicted, Sirius Black was involved in the death of Lily and James. This is, of course, part of the reason why we must insist that Harry attend Hogwarts on time with the rest of his cohort: it will be much safer for him there than at your home." Flitwick paused again. "Safer for you three, as well."
"Safer? Safer to go to a place where a man's best friends are involved in his murder?" said Petunia.
"I want to go," said Harry, interrupting. Flitwick and his aunt had argued long enough in his opinion, and Harry wanted his own say. He looked down at the letter Flitwick had given him. He was happy at Stonewall High, but to be given the opportunity to attend his parents' old school, to join a secret society full of wizards and learn how to do magic was like something out of his wildest fantasies.
Suddenly everything about the strange events that happened around him, like the disappearing glass and the weirdness with Olivia's fortune teller, had an explanation. Not a particularly normal explanation, but an explanation nonetheless. He wasn't mad. He wasn't weird. He was a wizard.
Everything else seemed inconsequential.
Vernon slammed his fist down on the table, and after a brief motion from Flitwick, immediately started shouting.
"When did your lot plan on telling us, sir, about the escape of that bloody lunatic? How long has this gone on, then?" he said. "We've been swanning about with no fucking idea—"
"Black is believed to have escaped this past Wednesday," said Flitwick, cutting Vernon off, "a fact which would have been relayed to you and your family, and its significance, had you responded to Harry's letters promptly."
"You want the boy to uproot his entire life—he has friends, he goes to a normal school and gets good marks—to go someplace where an escaped murderer knows he's going to be for most of the bloody year?" asked Vernon. "Where his parents and God only knows how many other people were killed? It's bloody madness! Pet told me about what you lot are like, but I didn't believe it! I should have!"
Harry, who had been day-dreaming about attending a school for magic, came crashing back down to Earth. He hadn't thought about the particulars, but he realised that he would have to leave his friends behind. Hogwarts was a secret magical school, after all. The news about the escaped murderer did dampen his enthusiasm, but not nearly as much as the idea of leaving behind all his friends. Wizards would surely have police to deal with escaped prisoners, but making new friends was hard.
"Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain," stated Flitwick. "There is nowhere safer for Harry in the entire country, and I daresay he would not be safer anywhere else in Europe. And indeed, he is not being asked to do anything more than any other muggleborn student has been asked to do—his own mother included. You should know that Aurors – a kind of magical police officer – will be present at the school, and will of course be watching your home until the situation with Black is resolved. You and your family, Harry included, will be completely safe, Mr and Mrs Dursley."
"We shan't be paying," said Vernon suddenly, as if that solved everything. To Harry's surprise, his aunt placed her hand in Vernon's own and shook her head.
"That shall not be necessary, Mr Dursley," said Flitwick. "Hogwarts is a non-fee-paying school, and—"
"But the boy's things—" Vernon said.
"Stop, Vernon," Petunia said. She didn't look happy, but she had stopped crying. "We always knew—this is what they do—If Harry wants to go, he can go. We had to try, but—It's what—it's what Lily would have wanted. We knew that, even if... But we had to try." She sighed. "I just pray to God they know what they're doing this time."
Harry sat back in his chair, stunned. He certainly hadn't expected his morning to turn out like this, and once it had, he hadn't thought he would get a choice. His aunt's response worried him, but at the same time...
"You're sure it's safe? Even with this Black escaped and everything else?" Harry asked.
Flitwick nodded.
"As safe as can be."
Harry didn't think that was quite the same as everything being safe, but it didn't seem to matter, not next to the thought of learning actual magic.
"I'll go, then."
Harry opened his letter and read through it whilst Flitwick made arrangements with a thoroughly pacified but decidedly unenthusiastic Dursley family, and marvelled at the list of strange things he would need to bring to school.
Cauldrons and brass scales, books about mushrooms and plants and Transfiguration (whatever that was), and not a single maths book in sight! He would need a wand, of course, but he knew that because Flitwick had already said—and wizards dressed even more strangely, it seemed, since he was meant to bring a 'full set' of robes, including lounge-robes, night robes, outer robes, school robes, and a pointed hat (unadorned).
It all sounded great, if more than a little odd, but Harry couldn't even begin to think where he would go about purchasing all of these things. He would be allowed to bring an owl, a cat, or a toad, and he supposed he could get a cat from just about any pet shop, although an owl might be more difficult.
"Professor?" he asked quietly once the adults had stopped talking. "Where do they sell things like wands?"
"In Great Britain and Ireland, most of us buy our wands in Diagon Alley," said Flitwick, "which is where we shall be going promptly. It is in London," he added.
He stood up, made his chair disappear, and offered his arm to Harry.
"What I am going to do next is called 'Side-Along Apparition', and it is difficult magic which you will not learn until you are seventeen at least!" he said. "We are able to do this here only because I have made sure that the Muggles who run this hotel will not check on us. Wizards must always be careful not to attract the attention of Muggles who do not already know about magic; you must understand this as it is foundational to wizarding law. Take my arm, please."
Harry stood up and took the small man's arm with only the briefest of looks back at the Dursleys, and found himself sucked into some sort of spinning, whirling vortex through nowhere.
Harry stumbled as he rematerialized out of some odd magical void, and only avoided falling flat on his face because Professor Flitwick – who was evidently stronger than he looked – held him in place. The older wizard had transported them into what Harry thought was an alleyway attached to some sort of yard. Harry started to head towards the only door, but stopped when prompted by Professor Flitwick, who instead turned to the brick wall behind them where a single dour-faced wizard stood.
"Pay close attention, Mr Potter," said Flitwick after nodding briefly to the man stood in front of the wall. He took out his wand and pointed it at one of the bricks. "You see this brick here? If you tap it with a wand like so," he said, "it will open a doorway into Diagon Alley."
Then Flitwick tapped the brick. As soon as he had done so the wall began to fold in on itself and rearrange its bricks to reveal a wide archway leading onto a crooked street filled with people.
"Wicked!" said Harry. "But how do I get here on my own? I mean, if I can't do the Appeary-thingy until I'm older?"
"Behind us is an establishment called The Leakey Cauldron. It is quite famous in our world," said Professor Flitwick. "It hides the entrance to Diagon Alley, and we will exit through there later today. I will show you how to return here, never worry! But for now, allow me the honour of welcoming you Diagon Alley, Mr Potter," said Flitwick with a smile.
Harry stared down the crooked street with a burning desire to see more.
"Where do we go first?" he said.
"The bank," said Flitwick. "Your parents left behind more than enough money to see to your education." The small man stuck his hand in his pocket, then kept going until nearly his whole arm had disappeared into it. "Just a moment!" he said as he fished around in his pocket, until eventually he withdrew his arm and presented Harry with a small metal key.
"In accordance with the relevant Ministry laws, and as a Hogwarts representative acting in loco parentis to a Muggle-raised student of wizarding ancestry," said the small man in an official sort of tone, "I present you with the key to your Gringotts vault, Mr Potter. Keep it safe!"
Harry took the key and grasped it in his hand. Getting a key to a secret vault full of money was the sort of thing that happened in spy dramas, not to Harry. But apart from the circumstances being what they were, to Harry the key just looked like a normal – if heavy – key.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
As Professor Flitwick guided Harry towards Gringotts, Harry took the opportunity to look at the shopfronts as he passed them by. Posters containing a grim photograph of Sirius Black had been stuck to the walls of many of the shops, vying for attention with all sorts of different advertisements put up by the shopkeepers. The entire street had been built in a hodgepodge of different styles, all of them to some degree dated by Muggle standards, and almost every shop advertised things Harry had never even heard of.
"BILLYWIG STINGS! THREE KNUTS A PAIR!" shouted the letterbox of one door as Harry passed it. Harry looked above to doorway to find that the shop was something called an apothecary.
People in all sorts of different robes moved out of the way of Harry and Professor Flitwick as the pair walked down the street, and many of them shouted greetings to Professor Flitwick as he passed. Harry swore that several people had stopped to get a better look at him, too; Professor Flitwick had said he was a matter of historical record, but he hadn't realised people would actually recognise him. Harry assumed it was the scar so he tried covering it with his hair, though he realised it hadn't worked once he caught his reflection in a shop window.
"That's him, the Potter boy," whispered one woman loudly as she passed Harry.
Soon enough Professor Flitwick stopped at the very end of the narrow and crooked little street that opened onto a plaza. Two small cobbled roads led in opposite directions from the plaza, and opposite him and Flitwick Harry could see Gringotts Bank as it rose up from the street and towered above the other nearby buildings.
"A word of caution before we enter, Mr Potter," said Professor Flitwick. "The goblins of Gringotts are a serious lot and view the gold in your vault as a sort of trust allowed to your family by Gringotts. The Ministry takes a different view of things, naturally, but it is always best to be aware of any potential points of conflict long before they can occur. So long as you have your key there will be no issues, but should you lose it, the Gringotts Dispute Resolution Team will make every effort to frustrate your ability to access your gold. It is even rumoured that the lowest levels of the bank contain security dragons, but how true that is I am not sure."
"Right," said Harry. "Then why do wizards have the Gringotts goblins handle the gold?"
"An excellent question, Mr Potter," said Professor Flitwick, "but a question I feel is better handled by your History of Magic classes. It should suffice to say for now, this situation is a compromise between wizards and goblins and is best not discussed with the goblins themselves."
Harry nodded. He hadn't been expecting to find out goblins and dragons existed, but now that he knew, his mind raced with thoughts of all the various creatures he had already heard about that might exist as well. He did spare a thought for Flitwick's warning, especially when he read the poem displayed by Gringotts warning against theft, but as Harry had no desire to become a bank thief and wasn't about to lose his key, he didn't spend too long dwelling on it.
Inside, Harry saw that the bank looked even more grand and opulent than the outside suggested: columns of marble adorned with gold and silver reached towards vaulted ceilings whilst goblins moved piles of gold, silver, and a diversity of gems and jewels Harry didn't even have names for throughout the gargantuan room. At one end stood a collection of windows manned by goblin tellers, each one framed in delicate metalwork. Above one, written in an elegant curved script, was a sign saying MUGGLE CURRENCY EXCHANGE. It would even give Vernon cause for envy, thought Harry, at least until he saw a goblin.
The goblins themselves were not entirely as Harry had expected them to be: in general, they looked mostly human to Harry, although much smaller and with strange ears and noses, and not at all like the slimy, green, and hairless goblins from Dudley's cartoons—even if some of them did have skin that wasn't quite in any of the tones Harry recognised from humans. Unlike their wizard customers the goblins of Gringotts wore suits in a somewhat similar style to those worn by Professor Flitwick, although unlike the Professor several goblins sported ornate gold or silver jewellery as earrings or finger rings and, in one case Harry found particularly noteworthy, a gigantic golden nose ring.
Professor Flitwick led Harry towards an open teller, and nudged him forwards gently.
"State your name and present your key, and then ask to visit your vault," he said quietly to Harry, and then stood back slightly.
"Er… Hello," said Harry. "I'm Harry Potter, this is my key," he said, and pushed his key through the window. "I'd like to visit my vault, please."
The bespectacled goblin at the teller window took his key, stamped something Harry couldn't see, then looked at Harry over the rim of his glasses.
"Slackhammer will be with you shortly. Next!"
Slightly bewildered, Harry moved out of the way even though nobody was waiting behind him, and soon enough another goblin appeared.
"Follow me," said the goblin, and Harry found himself and Professor Flitwick being led through a set of doors into what looked like some sort of old-fashioned rollercoaster track that seemingly led deep into the bowels of Gringotts bank underneath London, complete with a rickety-looking mine cart which seemed incongruous given the splendid bank just beyond the door.
"This bit is always rather exciting," admitted Professor Flitwick, "although it isn't for everyone, I suppose. Grip tightly, Mr Potter," he said after Harry had sat down in the cart.
"Now departing for the Potter Family Vault," said the dour goblin. "Keep your hands inside the cart at all times; Gringotts Wizarding Bank will not be held liable for self-inflicted damage to person or property whilst this vehicle is in operation."
The cart lurched forward and hurtled along the narrow track, and although Harry was sure that magic of some kind made everything safe, he held onto the small metal bar as hard as he could. The cart led them deeper and deeper underground, passing through natural caverns and tunnels carved or magicked out of the rock. The goblin halted the cart suddenly and it came skidding to a stop in front of a small stretch of vaults set into the cavern wall.
Dudley would have had Harry's aunt pay good money for a go on this, Harry decided as he got off the cart when it had stopped. Not that he would have been allowed to, Harry thought with a grin. It looked far too dangerous for Petunia to allow either of them a go on it, if she'd had her say.
Slackhammer took Harry's key and used it to open the Potter Family Vault. Harry hadn't been expecting to see quite so much money: he had piles and piles of golden coins, mounds of silver ones, and the rest of his vault seemed nearly filled with little bronze coins stuffed in what space remained.
Bloody hell! thought Harry.
"This is… it's all mine?" said Harry. "How much is there? What do the coins mean?"
"There is in the region of two hundred and ninety thousand galleons in your account," said the goblin. "A further itemised breakdown is available for a nominal fee."
"That is approximately one and a half million pounds, if my conversion is correct, Mr Potter," said Professor Flitwick. "As to the money – galleons are worth most, then sickles, then knuts. There are seventeen sickles in a galleon, twenty nine knuts to a sickle, and four hundred and ninety three knuts to a galleon."
Harry had very nearly stopped listening after 'one and a half million pounds', which was an astronomically large sum to a small boy who had never had any money before. It was, he thought, even a large sum to his uncle Vernon, who had had the house valued at well over a hundred thousand pounds the previous year and hadn't shut up about it for days.
"How much will I need for Hogwarts, sir?" he asked Flitwick.
"I would suggest no more than one hundred galleons in all three denominations, Mr Potter, although it is of course, up to you. One hundred should be enough to cover today and leave you with sufficient pocket money for the school year, including sweets on the train and some magical games if we have time to visit the shop!"
Harry nodded and reached into his vault. He started the laborious process of adding up sickles and knuts so that he didn't take too many out when, eventually, Slackhammer reached inside and finished the job in what seemed to Harry no time at all. Slackhammer presented Harry with a small sack filled with coins and shut the vault door firmly. He gave Harry back his vault key, and soon enough Harry and Professor Flitwick were once more outside the bank in the blinding light of day.
"Where do we go first, Professor?" Harry asked, cradling his money bag. By his calculation he had about five hundred pounds on him – more money than he'd ever held at once before – and he didn't want to lose it.
"If you are comfortable with it we should go to Madam Malkin's first," said Flitwick, "where you can be fitted for your robes while I go and get your potions equipment ready for collection."
Harry nodded, and the two set off back down the winding, crooked street in search of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. A stony-faced witch stood outside the door holding her wand. She looked quite young, not all that much older than Harry himself—perhaps nineteen or twenty at most.
"Professor," she said to Flitwick. "Good to see you."
"And you also, Auror Peakesbury! Congratulations on your appointment," replied Flitwick. "I taught Miss Peakesbury for her NEWT in Charms, you see, Mr Potter," explained Flitwick to Harry. Professor Flitwick stopped to talk to his old student and left Harry to go into the shop alone. The shop's interior appeared much more modern on the inside than it had on the outside.
Inside the shop moving mannequins modelled various different styles of robe on raised platforms, from shorter and lighter 'warm-weather robes' to thick and heavy 'winter robes' and everything in between, most with 'all the usual' Charms included. Racks with robes stood in clusters filled the rest of the room, except for one spacious area with stools where a short woman watched as floating tape measured up an older-looking boy.
"Hogwarts, is it? Just a moment, dear," said the woman, "and I'll be right with you!"
Harry grunted in response and started to browse the robes. He had no idea what styles were popular, or which ones were the kind of thing people like his aunt and uncle would wear, or even which robe went with which occasion. It seemed, too, that wizards only ever wore robes and things that looked like robes, given that the shop had only a tiny 'Mugglewear' section that looked to Harry at least a hundred years out of date.
Harry rifled through the 'night-robes', which seemed to be like pyjamas but for wizards, until he got to the 'under-robe' section and grimaced. What was wrong with a good old pair of pants? He supposed he would have to get used to it – the robes, the money, and everything else that had turned upside down in the space of a single morning.
"I'm ready for you, dear," said the woman.
Harry made his way back to the fitting section and stood up on a little stool. The older boy was still stood there, although by now bits and pieces of fabric were winding themselves around him to create a brand-new set of robes.
"New this year?" said the boy. "I'm Cedric Diggory, Hufflepuff third year. I'd shake your hand but I'm a bit tied up at the moment," he said with a grin.
"Er—yes," said Harry. "I'm Harry," he said. Diggory had given his surname, so Harry assumed that was what was expected of him, too, even though he didn't want to draw attention to himself. "Harry Potter." The woman jumped as if startled, but soon went back to measuring Harry for his robes.
"Are you really?" said the boy. He looked at Harry's forehead, no doubt to find his scar. "Well, so you are," he said. "Sorry about that, I just didn't expect to meet Harry Potter while shopping!"
"If it helps, I didn't expect to meet Cedric Diggory either," said Harry. He thought it a poor joke but wasn't sure what he was supposed to say when people treated him like some sort of celebrity, so felt that it was better than nothing. Cedric didn't appear to notice.
"What House do you want to get?" asked Cedric. "I know it's probably Gryffindor, but Hufflepuff would be thrilled to have you, really."
"I don't know much about Hogwarts or Houses," admitted Harry. "I grew up with my Muggle aunt," he explained.
"Oh, right, um, sorry," said Cedric. He looked embarrassed, although whether for Harry or because he had made a blunder, Harry couldn't say. "Well, at least you're here now, eh? I'll just do a quick list then, shall I? Hufflepuff, Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin are the four Houses at school. You sleep in your House, have classes with your House, win points and stuff like that. Every House has got, you know, a theme—Hufflepuffs are loyal; Ravenclaws are smart; Gryffindors are brave; and Slytherins are ambitious. Or so they say. The Hat says all sorts of things about the Houses but—well, you'll see soon enough, I suppose. Still, we'd love to get you in Hufflepuff, so do have a think on it!"
Almost nothing Cedric had said made any sense to Harry, but he supposed he'd get used to it all in time. Harry tried to think of a response but by then, Cedric's robes had sewn themselves together as he wore them, the result an entirely new and bespoke set of robes. The robes sailed off him and folded themselves neatly onto the stool between the older boy and Harry.
"Take those up to the counter, dear," said the woman absently, "the witch there will have the other ones and you can pay when you're there as well."
"Well, it was a pleasure to meet you, Potter," said Cedric. "I'll be seeing you at Hogwarts, then. Good luck with everything." He stepped down from his stool and left Harry alone with the fitting witch.
"Just the uniform or is it the full set you'll need, Mr Potter?" said the woman.
"Er—the full set, I think the letter said… I've never owned any robes before," said Harry. The woman nodded and waved her wand a few times, although she kept it out to make some sort of adjustment every so often. Several times Harry found various bits and pieces of fabric winding their way around his limbs as they stretched or shrunk into place whilst the shop assistant fitted him for the various kinds of robes included in a 'full set'. Harry was glad she hadn't asked for his input into colours or styles, because even in the Muggle world he wouldn't have known what to say—his aunt always chose his clothes.
After what seemed to Harry like forever, but which he supposed couldn't have been more than half an hour, Harry paid for his new clothes – a whopping twenty galleons, which Harry thought was about a hundred pounds – and left the shop to find a patiently waiting Professor Flitwick outside.
"All done?" he asked cheerfully when Harry appeared, and then led Harry towards two separate potions shops where all Harry had to do was collect his things and pay. Their next stop was Flourish and Blotts to buy books, and although Harry had never been an avid reader he found himself lingering over more than one non-assigned title.
Based on Professor Flitwick's guidance Harry chose to buy an introduction to the wizarding world for muggleborn children, the first book in an adventure series about wizard pirates, and a book about You-Know-Who's War that contained references to him and his parents. He had wanted to buy a book on jinxes and curses, and another on tricks and jokes he could use on Dudley, but Professor Flitwick had managed to convince him that the Hogwarts Library had vastly more useful offerings, and for free.
After buying his telescope (at 'a special price for Mr Potter', which had embarrassed him greatly), and other assorted items the only thing Harry had left to buy, and the thing which he had most looked forward to buying, was his magic wand. From what Flitwick had said, it was nearly impossible to get magic done without one, and Harry didn't want to wait any longer.
"There is another wandmaker in Britain," said Flitwick as he led Harry towards the wand shop, "but Ollivander is the best. They've been in operation for over two thousand years, you know."
Harry wasn't sure he believed that – it sounded both amazing and absurd, not to mention completely implausible – but the description over the shop, 'Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC' confirmed it.
As with many of the shops in Diagon Alley, Ollivander's had at least one Auror stationed outside of it wearing their characteristic robes, and quite possibly others in plainclothes. Before they entered, Flitwick pointed out a second, much better hidden, Auror across the street.
"They think Black will be looking for a wand, you see," said Flitwick to Harry quietly as they entered the shop. "Better safe than sorry."
Dim light forced itself through the dirty windows of the shop and into a smallish room filled, wall to wall and floor to ceiling, with little boxes. A small counter area stood in front of a closed doorway where a wild-haired old man lurked in the gloom.
"Filius Flitwick," said the old wizard, "walnut and dragon heartstring, a powerful wand in need of a strong mind… Which proved a fine match indeed." The old man moved across the room to look closely at Harry, his eyes lingering over the lightning bolt scar. Harry looked away.
"Here with Mr Potter, I see. I had been expecting you around this time, of course," said Ollivander finally, when he was done examining Harry's scar. He stepped away from Harry and took on a thoughtful look. "I remember when your mother stood here, all those years ago. She was chosen by a willow wand, good for charms, with a tail-hair from a magnificent unicorn! Your father, of course—an excellent wand for transfiguration. What will you choose, I wonder?" he said, then chuckled to himself. "Or rather, which wand will choose you? Which is your wand hand?"
"Oh, er—I'm right handed," said Harry.
With a gesture from Ollivander several boxes of wands sailed from their places and onto the small counter.
"Let's try this, Mr Potter," said Ollivander, pulling out a long and minimally decorated wand. "Ash wood with a dragon heartstring core, this is a powerful wand suited most to the resolute in belief or purpose. Go on, give it a wave!"
Trembling, Harry took the long, thin stick of wood from Ollivander and waved it around. To his utter disappointment nothing at all happened, and he wondered for a moment whether he was even a wizard at all. He didn't have much time to ponder it as Ollivander had already taken the wand away.
"Hmm, perhaps not," said Ollivander. "Perhaps the blackthorn and unicorn tail hair next?" he muttered as he took another wand out of the box. "Try this one," he said.
Harry took it and thought desperately about doing a piece of magic—even just a little something to prove to himself he was actually a wizard. To his shock, the wand seemed to warm up in his hand, although all he managed to do was knock several boxes off the walls with a loud and sudden crack. Ollivander took the wand away from him quickly and put it back in its box.
"Well, perhaps not that one."
Ollivander repeated this process nearly a dozen more times with ever more exotic combinations of wood and core, in one case resulting in the combustion of the dingy room's curtains, until he asked Harry to wait just a moment while he fetched another wand from the back room. When he returned, Ollivander presented Harry with an eleven inch long wand made of holly.
As soon as Harry grasped the handle the wand felt right in his hand, like something that had always supposed to have been there—more an extension of himself than a mere tool. Feeling confident that this time that the wand would work in the way it was supposed to, Harry waved the wand. A stream of gold and silver sparks shot out of the wand and danced through the air like fireworks before fading away.
Professor Flitwick, who had waited patiently throughout the fitting process, burst into a round of applause.
"Well done, Mr Potter!"
"Yes, although it is most curious… Most curious indeed," said Ollivander. "An unusual combination of wood and core, fitting perhaps for an unusual young wizard… But even so, most curious. This wand contains a single phoenix tail feather, and its donor only ever gave one other feather to me… This wand's brother gave you that scar, Mr Potter."
"You don't mean to say…!" said Professor Flitwick, almost jumping to his feet. "I am not well-versed in wandlore, Ollivander. What does this mean?"
The old eccentric wandmaker stared at Harry, silent for more than a few moments.
"Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything," whispered Ollivander, his gaze lingering over Harry's scar. "Brother wands are an unusual phenomenon, perhaps best viewed as unique in each and every case I have ever encountered. I am sure that this wand and its bearer will do great things in time, oh yes, but more than that, who can say?"
Harry wasn't sure that he'd go on to do 'great things'. That sounded quite a lot more grandiose than he'd ever thought about his life, or his future. He was Harry, not... whatever it was Ollivander had in mind. Harry thought that he would settle for just fitting in to his strange new world, and leave 'great things' to the people who wanted them.
The old wizard reached forward to take the wand back from Harry to put it into its box, although he took quite a long time and seemed to spend more time examining it than Harry thought strictly necessary for someone who had literally built it himself. Harry paid seven galleons for his wand, which he thought was very cheap considering the cost of his new robes, and left the shop with Professor Flitwick.
Once outside, Flitwick drew Harry away from the main thoroughfare and away from the crowd.
"We're a bit late for lunch, I'm afraid," he said, "but I'm sure we can get a little something at a lovely little café just along the Alley. My treat!"
Harry, full of questions he didn't quite know how to articulate, simply nodded and followed the small middle-aged wizard towards the café.
