Hidden by clouds the moon rode high in the sky and a fearsome chill had gripped Surrey and her greater townships, making it so that one's breath could be seen in the air. The ordinary streets of Little Whinging were still, their ordinary residents returned to the safety of their ordinary homes. Then from quiet, came the steady rhythmic sound of feet hitting concrete echoing in the night, a sound made enormous by the silence of the rest of the world. A young man, moving at brisk speeds, ran past the houses that made up Magnolia Crescent, his misty breath mixing with the night air.

Little Whinging was a town that prided itself in it's ordinariness, when the sun went down the people went inside, ordinary people didn't go for runs by the moonlight. Suddenly he turned down the alleyway which connected Magnolia Crescent to Wisteria Walk. The figures pace grew faster, his breath quicker as he sped by manicured gardens with manicured houses that sheltered manicured people who lived manicured lives. The figure, now at the end of the street turned right onto Privet Drive, sprinting now at full tilt, his feet thundering off the pavement. Then, all at once, he stopped. Collapsing on the ground, his chest heaving as he recovered from his exertions. Briefly the clouds parted, the moonlight revealing the features of the young man for the first time. Messy black hair framed an angular face with pale skin and emerald-green eyes that glowed with an unusual intensity in the soft light. The glow quickly faded, returning to their, still vibrant, but usual non-glowing green as the young man caught his breath. Pulling himself to his feet to shake off the tightness in his muscles, one could now make out his physique being of an average but wiry build. At this point he began to walk up the driveway of one of the many non-distinct houses of Privet Drive, before disappearing back into the shadows as he exited the scene via the side gate of the house, allowing the streets of Little Whinging to once more return to their ordinary stillness. As the clouds began to converge on the moon, to once more return the world to dark, we see, illuminated by its final rays a letterbox at the end of the driveway of that ordinary house that reads – No. 4.

Harry James Potter sat hunched over his desk scribbling on some parchment in the smallest room at Number 4 Privet Drive, despite the hour and his best efforts to exhaust his body, sleep still evaded him. His mind was restless, and he knew why, as not but a fortnight had passed since the end of his fourth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A tumultuous year to say the least, even by his standards, his fourth year having been marked quite spectacularly by the rebirth of the Tri-Wizard tournament, an ancient competition which pitted three students from the three best schools in Europe against each other in a series of three magical tests, designed to awe spectators and push the three exceptional young magicals to their limits. Harry had originally been looking forward to this year, he figured the tournament would give him a chance to retreat for a while into the background and afford him the opportunity to focus on schoolwork and developing his magic, spending time with friends and maybe even flirting with girls as his godfather had wished him to. His life it seemed though was not destined for such normalcy. On the night of the choosing of the champions a fourth name was produced by the Goblet of Fire… his. So, it came to be that he would have no time for school, or friends or girls, as his life and magic were at risk of being extinguished should he not survive the tournament.

So survive he did. He fought a dragon, ventured to the depths of the Black Lake, and fought nightmarish creatures in a homicidal maze, and he did so admirably, able to outperform, on some occasions, his senior competitors. It hadn't really mattered though as it turned out, he was after all just a pawn in a greater game. For when he had reached the end of that maze tying with Cedric Diggory for first to reach the cup, they had both been portkeyed away to a dank and misty graveyard. Neither had been given a moment to recuperate before cursed words followed by a glowing green light crumpled Cedric's body leaving his eyes vacant with death. Harry in his shock had not the awareness to defend himself before he was bound and confined by the animated stone reaper belonging to one of the headstones. He had then bore witness to, and unwillingly assisted in, the rebirth of the greatest Dark Wizard since Herpo the Foul, Lord Voldemort.

The Dark Lord had proceeded to summon his minions through their connection to his mark, and then had held a sort of twisted sermon in which he proclaimed his greatness above all others. Citing his power over death as proof that he would soon hold the world in his palm and restore it once more to the correct order, that those pure of blood would rule and those whose blood had been tainted would serve. He had gloated then to Harry about how he had orchestrated his involvement in the tournament knowing that Harry would eventually find himself here in this graveyard, with him. He had then forced Harry into a mock duel where he overwhelmed the teen with his magical prowess before casting one final spell to end his life. It was here something he did not expect to happen happened. As he cast the Killing Curse to end the life of Harry Potter he had not expected the boy to still possess the will to fire one last spell, he had also not expected for their spells to meet in the space between them and clash, nor was he prepared for the battle of wills that took place between him and his opponent resulting in the appearance of the ghostly visages of the last four lives taken by his hand followed by a seismic pulse which knocked him and his Death Eaters off their feet. When he had regained his awareness, it was to realise that the boy had left with the spare's corpse and the cup.

The events after returning from the graveyard were a blur; the sorrow of Amos Diggory, the horror of the crowd, being ushered away by Moody only to have to once again do battle to stay alive, Dumbledore's timely intervention, the unveiling of Barty Crouch Jr, his short stay in the hospital which included an unsatisfying conversation with Dumbledore before being whisked back to No. 4 Privet Drive where he was told he was to stay put until the end of the summer when he would be collected to prepare for the new year. Also, the revelation that he would have to refrain from having any contact with the Wizarding World for fear of Voldemort finding his 'sanctuary' and coming to finish him off. Two weeks had passed slowly, Harry had at first busied himself with homework but that had been finished far quicker than it ever seemed to take at school. He had then taken to exercising like a lunatic to try and help his mind escape through quasi physical torture, that helped during the day, but his sleep was plagued by images of snakes, robed figures with bone masks and Cedric's empty haunting stare. So left with no other options Harry did the one thing he had never done before, he confronted his thoughts.

Harry stared down at the piece of parchment in thought, mentally cringing at its untidiness, but nonetheless happy with its completion. At the very top of that page in large writing were the words 'Voldemort is Alive'. How was this possible, was something Harry was unsure of, even though he had watched the process himself rituals weren't exactly a topic covered in the Hogwarts curriculum. Thinking back on that time in the graveyard made him remember some things about what might have happened. That homunculus Wormtail was holding was definitely Tom Riddle, so to say the ritual resurrected him would be incorrect, perhaps what it did do was simply give him a more…. human form. That still begs the question, how was he still alive? Then Harry remembered that shade of Voldemort from his first year, perhaps it had fully possessed another poor creature, an infant maybe. It was here though Harry realised, that figuring out the how was not going to do him any good. The fact of the matter was that Lord Voldemort had restored himself to, presumably, full physical and magical power.

Next was the Why. Why him, why was Voldemort so obsessed with Harry Potter, why did their faiths seem to be intertwined. Everybody knew about that night, when Voldemort sought out the Potter's from their secret hiding place, killing the two adults before turning his wand on the infant. What no one seemed to ask though was why, why the Potter's in particular. What about them was so special that made Voldemort decide he needed to personally deal with them. For that matter why had his parents gone into hiding, they fought against the Dark Lord sure, but so did many others, why was it so necessary to conceal themselves using the Fidelius charm. The only answer Harry could come up with was... him. But what was so important about him that would cause Voldemort to seek him out as he did. The why was certaintly more important than the how but equally elusive. Harry thought that there was probably only three people alive who knew the why: Dumbledore, Lord Voldemort and maybe, maybe Sirius Black. Knowing this however didn't make things easier as Dumbledore would likely be about as forthcoming as Lord Voldemort on the matter and Sirius, if he did know something, would have probably told him already as the man was the only person he could count on to not keep him in the dark about things that concerned him. So, the why for now would remain unanswered.

Finally, there was the What. Knowing that Voldemort was back and that at the very least he held a grudge against him, which probably put him somewhere near the very top of the Dark Lord's 'People I Need to Kill' list, what was he going to do about it. Usually, he would have relinquished control to Dumbledore so that he could go back to trying to live a somewhat normal life away from the stares. But that could no longer be the case, back in the hospital wing when he had asked the venerable Headmaster what they were going to do, the former professor had given a predictably Dumbledorish response, in that it had been long and vague but amounted to little more than a 'don't you worry about it, I've got it all under control'. This answer was no longer acceptable to Harry, he realised that if he continued to relinquish control of his fate to others, he wouldn't make it to the end of his seventh year. No, from here onward his life was his own and he would continuedo as he had always done, every year of his life, survive. By any means necessary.

In spite of his conviction there was a more rational part of Harry's mind that made itself known – how on earth are you going to survive in a fight against the Dark Lord, you couldn't even beat Crouch Jr. in a duel. Granted you were injured but it's not as if he was in peak physical health, having been in Azkaban about as long as Sirius, and without an animagus form to stave off the effect of the Dementors. One thing was for certain, he would have to get stronger, fast. However despite his awareness of the approaching perils, he was unusually calm, for all intents of purposes he should terrified, hysterical even. But no, a feeling of self-assurance had gripped him, as was becoming increasingly commonplace these days, and he turned his head looking now with unwavering focus to the final two words on the page in front of him.

The Feeling

For he didn't know what else to call it, even though it was something that had been with him for as long as he could remember, although it had taken him until his dance with the Horntail for him to finally recognise it as something… unusual. It really had only ever surfaced during times when he was completely sure that he was going to die, like when escaping Dudley and his gang of miscreants, in the Chamber with the Basilisk and facing down the Dementor horde. Then the tournament happened, and The Feeling had come more frequently, its effects more pronounced. He could still remember almost every detail of the first task like it had just happened an hour ago.

Flashback

The canon boomed signalling the start of his turn, his nerves forgotten he walked at an even pace from the tent out into the light of the arena. He felt the temperature increase instantly, like he had just walked into Hagrid's hut, the fire ablaze in the corner, on a snowy winter's day. He gazed across the rocky terrain at the fire breathing natural disaster given flesh and wings. Green met gold and no words were needed for Harry to understand the fury behind them. This was a being that would eviscerate all that stood before it, but not him. Suddenly he sprung into action effortlessly unleashing the shining brilliance of Prongs upon the world, who took off, understanding that his mission was to distract the great beast long enough for its master to finish the rest of his plan. Confident in Prongs' ability to distract the Horntail Harry sprinted towards the centre of the arena taking cover behind a large boulder that would keep him from the dragon's vision.
Taking a moment to collect his breath, he leapt out from behind he the stone and, without giving the beast enough time to process the closeness of this new threat, he fired the spell Aguamenti. What followed was a veritable geyser of water which flew with the strength to push the Horntail back a few paces, drenching it in the process. The beast however possessed a thick hide and so was quick to recuperate as it regained its footing, now determined to unleash its fury upon that which had wounded its pride. Harry however was not going to give the beast the time to do that, so pressing forward he waved his wand in a small loop before jabbing it forward and shouting "Bararaq". From his wand, piercing blue lightning lanced forth and struck the Hungarian Horntail, who, still drenched in water convulsed harshly under the effects of the lightning spell before collapsing in an alive but convulsing heap on the ground.

Flashback End

This Feeling was difficult to describe, it was like some sort of enhanced awareness, it was like his whole body was operating at double speed. His perception of the world around him changed, time seemed to slow slightly, his reaction time increased and he gained this ungodly level of focus. It made him feel… powerful. After the first task the Feeling came to him more often, and not just when he felt his life was in danger but whenever he began to feel anxious or unsure of something a sudden surge of assurance would swell within him, and he would know exactly what he needed to do. So, as he mulled over thoughts of Dark Lords and strange feelings, the foundations of a plan began to take shape in his mind.

Brown hair and hazel eyes stared back at him in the mirror, "I look like I could be Oliver Wood's younger brother." Harry proclaimed with some mirth in his voice. Indeed, he bore a striking resemblance to the former Gryffindor keeper, which suited him just fine as the entire point of the hair dye and coloured contacts was to make him look like anyone but Harry Potter. These changes along with some 'borrowed' make-up from Petunia would hopefully allow him to walk, unmolested, through the wizarding world for a day. This would enable him to put his plan into motion. He needed to train, that much was certain, but he was extremely limited with what he could accomplish now. He could train his body as much as he wanted but unless Voldemort wanted to engage him in hand to hand it would be nowhere near enough. No, it would be through magic that he would defeat the Dark Lord, and magic that could not be learned from his schoolbooks. Besides even if it were the case that his Transfiguration textbook held the secrets to vanquishing Dark Lords, he had no wand to practice with. As fantastic as his Holly wand was, it, like all wands belonging to underage wizards, held the trace. Which meant that the only way he would be able to perform magic with it outside of Hogwarts, was if he was in an extremely magically dense area, and though Little Whinging possessed many 'great' qualities, that was not one of them. He was confident though that a particular shop in Knockturn Alley would hold the answer to this problem.

Satisfied that he would not be recognised and with a bag containing his hooded winter cloak slung across his back, Harry went to the back garden and made for the back wall separating No.4 Privet Drive from No.7 Privet Avenue, knowing full well that the Dursham's were on holidays in the Canaries and would likely not mind him using their side gate to hide his disappearance from the Dursley's home. He put his hood up to further obscure his features as he made the short run to the end of Magnolia Road, passing the park where Dudley and his friends usually hung around, until he was just outside of Little Whinging. Feeling sure that he had gone far enough, he retrieved his wand from his waistband and held it out.

Like it did the first time the Knight Bus appeared instantaneously, and Harry was soon greeted by the pimpled face of the conductor Stan Shunpike. "Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard just stick out your wand hand, step on board, and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this morning. The fare is 13 sickles, but for 15 you can also have a hot water bottle and a toothbrush in any colour you wish". Harry handed over the 13 sickles and said, "Standard ticket is fine, I would like to get to Charing Cross Road.". Harry quicky found a seat as Stan yelled to the driver. "You 'erd the man Ern, Charing Cross, step on it.", in the blink of an eye the bus was now at full speed, zipping passed, around and between muggle vehicles as it quickly approached London. "I didn't catch yer name mister…", said Stan looking at Harry. "It's Wood, James Wood.", replied Harry not missing a beat. Seemingly satisfied with that answer the young conductor took out a copy of the Daily Prophet, turning to a middle page and quickly becoming engrossed in whatever was written. This meant that the front page had been turned to face Harry who saw clear as day the words 'The Boy-Who-Lived-To-Tell-Lies' across the front page. Underneath was a picture of Fudge dismissing the notion of 'You-Know-Who' having been resurrected. "That lying sack of shit." Harry whispered under his breath as he took a few breaths to smother his rage. Suddenly, the bus came to an abrupt halt, "'Ere we are, Charring Cross, and thank you for choosing the Knight Bus for your transporting needs."

Harry left the bus to make the short walk to the non-descript entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. Pausing for a moment to adjust his hood, Harry entered the old pub and briskly made his way to the back, thankfully there were only a few patrons at this hour and Tom was not in his usual spot behind the bar. Harry stood in front of the brick wall separating himself from Diagon Alley, here he took off the navy hoodie he had been wearing and put on the cloak he had stuffed in his bag. The hooded garment likely going to draw less attention to him than the muggle clothing. "Three up and two across.", spoke Harry as he tapped his wand against the brick as Hagrid had shown him all those years ago. His senses were immediately bombarded by the sounds and smells of Diagon Alley. As he strode down the cobblestone path, he once more admired Britain's biggest wizarding hub. It was no less incredible in his eyes today than it had been when he first came here as a scrawny eleven-year-old.

Soon though he arrived at his first stop, Gringotts. The snow-white marble building towered imposingly over all other shops in the alley. Climbing the steps to the burnished bronze entryway of the bank, Harry noticed the fierce looking goblin guards in scarlet and gold armour that flanked the door. Passing by them with a nod, he made his way into the vast hall passing dozens of tellers before arriving at the till manned by a goblin he knew to be Griphook. "Good morning Griphook, I wish to make a withdrawal from my vault.", he intoned quietly. Peering over his station the ornery goblin took a moment before replying. "Your key?". Without any delay he fished the item out his pocket and handed it over to the banker. Thankfully Harry had retained possession of his key over the summer as Dumbledore had not seen fit to acquire it from him. "Follow me then sir.", Griphook then led him down a stone passageway before turning left into a small alcove that held one of the magical carts used by the bank to ferry wizards to and from their vaults.

Just like the first time the ride was thrilling as they descended deeper into the bowels of the bank, passing numerous vaults before finally stopping in front of vault number 687. Here both goblin and wizard exited the cart, and Griphook made for the vault door. Inserting the key Harry had given to him into a small hole at head height, he muttered a few words in Gobbledegook, before standing back as a series of loud clicking sounds preceded the opening of the vault doors.

Harry moved forward into the room holding the collective wealth of generations of Potters before him and marvelled at the diversity of riches his family possessed. When he had first entered the vault, he had only noticed the chest high mountains of coins. Now though he was able to see the many suits of armour that lined the walls, the chests filled with gems and the many, many trinkets that haphazardly decorated the interior of the vault. Turning to Griphook he asked, "Do you sell money bags? I doubt I'll be coming back here for some time so I would like to take a more significant amount of coin from here.", "For 10 galleons we can give you a bag that will store up to 2500 galleons. Weightless, obviously.", was the goblins brusque reply. "Perfect. I'll take a full bag.", the goblin snapped his fingers and a brown cloth bag engorged with coin appeared in his left hand. As he passed the bag over to Harry he recited the instructions on its use, "To withdraw a specific sum, think of the amount you wish to take while your hand is in the bag. A smaller pouch containing that specific amount will be dispensed by the bag.", Harry nodded his understanding, before turning to leave. However, something across the room caught his eye and beckoned him to it. A single black book lay open on the floor, its spine facing the ceiling. He picked it up curious, and turned it over, extremely tidy calligraphy greeted him as he scanned the contents of the page. His eyes widened in surprise at he words, 'tis a feeling unlike any other, the world slows, and you begin to perceive details you ought not be able to. You become a conduit for power as…' here he closed the book and stuffed it in the pocket of his cloak along with the money bag.

Not wanting to keep Griphook waiting he returned to the entrance of the vault. Voicing his satisfaction to the goblin who nodded and closed the doors with a wave of his hands, he then removed the key from the vault door and handed it to Harry. The journey back to the top was less impressive than the one down. Griphook once more led him down the same tunnel they came through earlier. Before parting ways at the end of the tunnel Harry pushed his hood back up to hide his features and extended his hand towards Griphook, "For your silence.", the young wizard said. Immediately comprehending the request, Griphook extended an open palm towards Harry, who proceeded to place 5 galleons in the goblins hand before turning on his heel and making his way out of the bank.

Sun now higher in the sky and his pockets laden with coin, Harry began to make his way to his next destination, Borgin and Burkes. It was here that Harry was sure he would be able to find a traceless wand. While venturing into Knockturn posed some risks, the necessity for a second wand outweighed them. As not only would he not be able to practice magic over the summer without one, but the revelation of Priori Incantatem created some hurdles. While it had saved him in the graveyard, its effects worked both ways. In Harry's mind it was inevitable that he would be forced to do battle with Voldemort again and should the opportunity present itself he would not want his own final blow to be blocked by the phenomenon.

So, into Knockturn Harry went, the atmosphere immediately changing to something seedier, the air itself tasting harsher, but Harry forged on with a confident gait until he reached Borgin and Burkes. Before he entered, he cast a voice deepening charm he had found in a book of 'harmless' jinxes and hexes. It wasn't a particularly useful spell, unless you wanted to prank your friends, or appear a lot older than you actually were. Entering the dimly lit store, the first thing Harry noticed was the size, back when he had accidently floo'd here in his second year he had been so eager to leave that he hadn't noticed, but the store was quite big. The room was packed, wall to wall, with all manner of artifacts and trinkets, most, likely being of an unsavoury nature. Harry however had no interest in perusing the store, his business was with the slippery looking man behind the counter who had yet to greet him and so was obviously waiting for him to make the first move. "I am in need of a wand, one of decent quality and at a fair price.", his deeper voice lending some much needed credibility to countenance of authority he was trying to project. "Certainly sir. We carry many high-quality wands all for a fair price, traceless of course.", as he said this Mr Borgin reached into a cabinet behind the till and retrieved a small chest filled with a multitude of wands, each varying slightly in colour, length and design. Suspecting something was off Harry decided to play out a hunch he had, so, taking one step closer to the man he tried to push a hint of anger into his tone as he spoke, "Mr Borgin, you should know I hate having to repeat myself. When I said high-quality, I meant it, not some poorly made dross that probably belonged to some half-breed. Now if you don't have what I'm looking for say so and stop wasting my time." Feigning a turn to leave Harry was quickly stopped by the frantic looking salesman who sputtered out, "Please, wait just a moment. I merely misunderstood what you were asking, old age you know. Give me one moment we keep our finest stock in the back." Rushing through a door behind him Borgin soon returned carrying five rectangular boxes, which he laid out on the counter in front of Harry. Harry motioned for him to open the farthest one to the left. From the light brown box Borgin revealed a similarly light brown wand with a narrow and sleek design. "Larch, 9 2/3 inches, with the hair from a particularly feisty unicorn.", Harry reached out to touch the wand within the box, as soon as his fingers made contact he felt a sense of rejection, so he nodded in the negative and motioned for Borgin to continue. Opening the next box Borgin said "Yew, 10 inches, heartstring of a Ukrainian Ironbelly.", the familiar pale white wood was immediately off putting to Harry, but not as off putting as the visceral negative reaction he felt from the wand. Shaking his head, again Borgin quickly moved to the middle box, which held an intricately carved black wand. "Ebony, 12 inches, with a tail feather from a Thunderbird", as soon as his skin met the dark wood, he knew he had found a match. An intoxicating rush of heat spread rapidly from his hand to the rest of his body. It felt even better than holding his holly wand for the first time had.

Regaining his composure, he looked at Mr. Borgin and voiced his satisfaction, "This one will do.", a flicker of emotion passed through the man's eyes briefly, before he spoke, "This wand unlike the others has had no previous owner and is the final creation of the late Shikoba Wolfe, procured by Mr. Burke some years ago at an auction in New York, so its cost is significantly higher than the others.". "How much", replied Harry. "70 galleons". Wanting to leave the store as quickly as possible Harry quickly retrieved a bag of 80 from his pouch, before placing it on the counter. "70 for the wand and 10 for your discretion.", Harry declared as he made his way towards the door, new wand safely stowed away within one of the pockets of his cloak. "Pleasure doing business with you sir.", came the parting words of Mr. Borgin as the door closed behind him, and he was once more enveloped in the murkiness of Knockturn Alley.

He quickly made his was back towards Diagon Alley, not eager to spend too much time among the denizens of this unpleasant ginnel, passing by stores selling shrunken heads, poisons and even House Elves. As he passed a set of narrow cobbled steps leading down to one of the narrow side streets that branched off from the alley, he noticed in his periphery a metal sign with a book in the centre of it. Curiosity piqued, he ventured down the short laneway until he stood in front of the decidedly average looking storefront, he couldn't see into the store as the windows had been blacked out, but the words Obscurus Books was plastered across them. Interested in what a bookshop in Knockturn might have to offer, he entered. A bell jingled when he opened the door, scanning the interior Harry raised an eyebrow in surprise as whatever he had been expecting, this was not it. Like the outside the interior was similarly average, the room was not very big and was rectangular in shape, the right and left wall were packed floor to ceiling with books, but the centre was completely bare. At the back of the store was a counter, behind which sat an old looking woman, whose face held a slightly green pallor and was dotted with warts. Her eyes were hidden behind large muggle sunglasses, like the ones one might see on a blind person. Not a sound came for her as she sat behind the counter and Harry would have thought her asleep if not for the fact her head turned to follow him as he made for the books on the left wall.

Ignoring her actions for now he began to peruse the books, noting that they were stacked with no order to them and varied hugely on topics as well as condition. He had yet to come across anything he would describe as potentially evil, sure most of the books would have been locked in the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library but that wasn't really saying much. He had thought he had found something befitting the term Dark Arts when he came across a title called 'So You Want To Be A Necromancer', but upon further inspection it was more a warning to the dangers of the art than a manual. Some time had passed now, and he had moved onto the right wall at this stage, with three books under his arm. The first was an old copy of The Auror's Handbook, illegal to possess if you were a civilian but he felt it too useful to pass up, the next was 'A Guide to Spatial Expansion Charms', which he thought would be necessary if he wanted to perform some more significant pieces of magic at the Dursley's, and lastly 'Charms for the Modern Warrior', which seemed to possess a huge wealth of information about offensive and defensive charms as well as numerous shield spells.

He continued to scan the titles on the right wall and while many books seemed to cover interesting topics, none he felt would be particularly useful for combating dark wizards. Until his eyes landed on a worn leather-bound book entitled 'Commanding the Battlefield with Advanced Transfiguration', opening book to the first chapter he read the title 'The Dying Art of Transmutation', curious he continued. 'Transmutation is a branch of Transfiguration unlike any other, and, due to its nature exists almost entirely separated from the laws that govern standard Transfiguration. Once upon a time it was a more commonly practised field, in fact, for a time one could not call themselves a master of magic if they could not perform some Transmutation. It was an extraordinarily powerful branch of magic, with those who mastered it being either revered as gods or feared as demons, as it allowed them to seemingly command the base elements in ways no mortal should be able to. Overtime though as the more standard disciplines of Transfiguration grew in popularity thanks to their easier and more versatile use, Transmutation began to fall into obscurity, as the will and power it asked of a magical was more than most could answer for. Before long I expect this art form will fall into myth, then from myth into legend, which is why I, the only Transmutation master of this generation, have written this grimoire, so that perhaps one day a wizard or witch with the strength of heart to learn what I teach, will reintroduce this ancient craft to the world again.

Transmutation can be divided into two sub-branches: Physical and Void…'.

Having felt like he had read enough Harry was all to eager to add the intriguing book to his pile. So, with this fourth addition he made his way up to the counter and placed the books tentatively in front of the woman. Opening his mouth to speak he was beaten to the punch by the proprietor, whose gaze had yet to leave him since he entered the store, "How many books do ye want. An don't you lie to me boy, I can smell a lie a mile away.", she proclaimed, flaring her nostrils as if to emphasize her point. "Four books.", was Harry's reply. "That'll be 16 galleons and 13 sickles.", she announced holding out her hand as she spoke. Harry proceeded to place a bag filled with 17 galleons into the woman's outstretched palm, before placing the books in his bag and quickly leaving the store, the bell jingling once again as he did.

It wasn't until he had made it back onto Diagon Alley that he noticed the lateness of the day, not wanting to push his luck he made his way back to the Leaky Cauldron, changing back into his muggle hoodie once he was behind the wall that separated the muggle and magical world. Not pausing he strode quickly through the, now much fuller pub until he was back on Charing Cross. The Knight bus ride back to Little Whinging was done in complete silence, and after arriving just outside the suburb he began to run back to Privet Drive, not willing to stop until he was once more in the relative safety of his room. Once he neared the house his pace changed to a full tilt as he rushed around the side gate of No. 7 and vaulted over the garden wall. Landing in a crouch he rushed towards the house before silently opening the back door and creeping up the stairs towards his room. Startling Hedwig with his entry he closed the door behind him, walking over to his bed he sat on the edge. With one last task to perform he pulled his ebony wand from his bag and cast a locking charm on his door. The magic came easily from his wand, and an audible clicking noise signified his success with the magic. With bated breath he waited for a Ministry Owl to fly through his window to deliver news that would most certainly shake up his plans. After a tense five minutes it was clear that he was okay. Falling back onto his bed in relief, he smiled at his success before closing his eyes as the stress of the day caught up to him and he felt for the first time in along time that he would be okay. Falling then into the realm of Morpheus.

For the Winds of Change were upon the world.