Thank you so much for the reviews! I'm so glad you all are enjoying this story so far! This chapter just went on and on, so it's a bit longer than the past two. Oh, and, I'm experimenting with adding dates to my chapters; would you like if I added locations and/or times as well? Anyway...
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter (or CHERUB). If I did, there'd be a lot more Asian characters, because, for some reason, I tend to over-represent them, relative to the population...
Chapter 2: Diagon Alley
31 July 1991
Diagon Alley
Apparition, Harry decided, was the worst invention wizards could have come up possibly with. It took all his self-control not to stumble unsteadily about, as he released McGonagall's arm. He wondered if it was only Side-Along Apparition, as the professor had called it, that was so distinctly uncomfortable, or if the form of wizarding transportation was simply unbearable in general. For that matter, what were other forms of magical transportation? McGonagall had said that you had to be seventeen to Apparate legally, and, it seemed, wizards didn't know much about Muggle transportation, so…
Pushing the thoughts away - his questions would surely be answered today, both by going to Diagon Alley, and by his purchasing of whatever books he could find - Harry examined his surroundings. They stood at the entrance of a tiny pub, whose sign proclaimed that it was the Leaky Cauldron. The pub seemed to be hidden from Muggles, too, as, despite it's position sandwiched between a record store and a bookshop, Harry didn't think it was that unnoticeable, to warrant not even the slightest glance, by those passing by, in its direction. But then, was there magic that could be specifically directed against Muggles? Was it possible to differentiate between Muggles and wizards through some sort of spell?
"Mr. Greyson," McGonagall called, and Harry realized that he'd been lingering.
"Potter," he corrected quietly, drawing yet another look of bemusement. "It'll be Potter from now on, off-campus." The professor nodded slowly in understanding.
Time to see how famous he was, really.
They entered the Leaky Cauldron.
Harry was… underwhelmed. The pub was dark, shabby, and relatively empty, with groups of witches and wizards, most of whom wore cloaks and robes that Harry assumed were standard magical wear, scattered around. It didn't look like a 'famous wizarding pub,' as McGonagall had described, but of course, looks could be deceiving.
The bartender looked up as they entered, smiling at McGonagall. "Minerva! Good to see you. Hogwarts business, I presume?"
"Yes, Tom," McGonagall said politely, though Harry got the feeling that she didn't particularly care for the man, or for what he sold.
No one had recognized him yet, so, casually, Harry brushed his hand through his hair, revealing the thin lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, the one that was, apparently, famous.
Though, that reminded him of something else he'd need to find out: why he'd been left on the doorstep of an orphanage, nearly ten years ago.
Tom, the bartender, who'd been glancing curiously at Harry, was suddenly staring at him with wide eyes. "Good Lord," the man said, "is this - can this be -?" Interesting; so he'd been recognized by the scar.
McGonagall pursed her lips, displeased at the turn of events, but it was too late to stop the pub, which had gone silent, its patrons peering to find out what had taken the bartender by surprise.
"Bless my soul," Tom whispered. "Harry Potter … what an honor." And the whispers began.
Tom had hurried out from behind the bar, and rushed to Harry, seizing his hand, tears - of all things - in his eyes. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back." Harry watched, wide-eyed, as chairs scraped and the crowd conglomerated around him. Was he really… Could they possibly…
It was lucky, he supposed, that he'd never come across a witch or wizard in his missions, because a reaction like this would have blown his cover. Not that he would have understood the attention.
They - Tom, the crowd, even McGonagall - seemed to be waiting for him to speak. And this would be a perfect time for Harry to begin networking, for him to address this crowd… if he could think of something to say.
To his intense annoyance, though, he found himself unable to remember how to speak.
What could you say to a population that saw you as a hero for doing something you couldn't even remember? Not to mention, CHERUB didn't exactly teach speech-writing. It was more of an infiltrating-criminal-groups sort of organization.
He met McGonagall's gaze; the professor looked slightly disappointed, though unsurprised, as though she should have expected his speechlessness. His gaze turned into a glare, and suddenly, Harry knew what he would say.
"Hello," he addressed quietly, allowing a nervous smile to show on his face. "It's a pleasure to meet you - all of you. I-" He gave a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I honestly don't know what to say. After all, I'm only eleven years old. I haven't even begun at Hogwarts." Humility was a virtue, after all. "And yet, you all know who I am. You all know my name. You have welcomed me to your world, to your homes, and for that, I am deeply grateful." They hadn't literally, of course, but the idea would boost their pride; he could already see them straightening, slightly.
Next, though, he would have to address the war, and what he was famous for, despite how little he knew of everything.
Had he mentioned how much he hated being ignorant?
"Ten years ago, we were at war. And though I may have been the one to end the war, I know that each and every one of you played a role, fighting for what was right, fighting to rid the world of those who wished to do it harm. And so, I thank you. Because you are the ones who have shaped our past, who are painting our present, and who will determine our future. And I can already see that we're in good hands."
Not his best speech, and if he'd been given the time, Harry was certain he'd be able to write a better one, but his audience seemed satisfied, applauding him with great enthusiasm. And then, they were approaching him, jostling about to shake his hand and introduce themselves. He made sure to address each by name, a trick he'd learned at CHERUB, that would leave an impression even if he didn't remember, later.
McGonagall was watching him, eyebrows raised, an unreadable expression in her eyes, so he smiled nervously at her. It seemed, she had at least an inkling that it was all an act. Well, he couldn't have expected everyone to be fooled.
"P-P-Professor Q-Quirrell," a pale, stammering man introduced, drawing Harry's attention. Interesting - a professor at Hogwarts? "C-can't tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you."
"Good day, professor," Harry answered politely. "If I may; you are a professor at Hogwarts?" The man nodded, and Harry allowed his smile to widen. "Brilliant. What do you teach?"
"D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," Quirrell muttered. Harry kept the surprise from showing on his face. This pale, frightened man taught Defense? Against Dark magic - whatever that was? Was he even a particularly effective teacher? "N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?"
"I'm sure there's much that I need to learn, just as like any first year," Harry told him diplomatically. Not to mention, he doubted it was by his own efforts that he'd 'defeated' Voldemort.
"Mr. Potter," McGonagall called quietly.
"Oh, yes. I'm terribly sorry," he told the crowd that hadn't diminished the slightest, despite the number of hands he'd shaken and people he'd greeted. "But I do have to go, to buy my school supplies. Yes, yes, thank you. It was a pleasure to meet you, too." He, somehow, managed to excuse himself from the crowd, joining McGonagall at the back of the bar.
"You certainly handled the crowd well, Mr. Potter," McGonagall noted.
He smiled innocently at her. "I was taught to handle any situation to the best of my ability, professor."
She made a small humming sound, seemingly content with his answer, and led him to a walled courtyard behind the pub, facing a brick wall and a couple of trash cans.
Harry watched carefully as McGonagall drew her wand again, then tapped a brick three up and two to the right of the center trash can, three times. The brick seemed to wiggle, then vanished, a small hole appearing at the center of the wall, that grew wider and wider, until, moments later, they faced a tall archway, and a cobbled street.
"Welcome, Mr. Potter, to Diagon Alley," McGonagall introduced. And, unlike with the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had to admit that the alley was impressive.
The sun shone brightly over various colorful buildings, which seemed to defy the laws of physics as they tilted and leaned precariously. Stores advertised their contents proudly, and Harry wished he had the time to explore them more deeply, as his gaze flickered over the various signs they passed along the street.
They approached a snowy-white building along the alleyway, that towered over the other shops. "Gringotts, the wizarding bank," McGonagall told him. "We'll be retrieving money from your vault, first." So he had a vault. Was that from his parents?
His eyes widened as he saw the ones in charge of the bank. The goblins were even smaller than he was! Though, if goblins existed, then did elves? Fairies? Giants? Pixies? Trolls? He wondered if they would see them at Hogwarts, though asking felt impolite, as goblins, at least, seemed to be as intelligent as humans. For that matter, though, could goblins do magic?
"Good morning," McGonagall addressed a free goblin as they approached the counter. "We would like to take some money out of Mr. Harry Potter's vault."
"You have his key, ma'am?" the goblin asked, after a moment's pause at his name. A key… that was interesting. Was that all that was necessary to access a vault? But then, were there forms of magical identification?
"Yes," McGonagall answered, drawing a tiny golden key from her coat. Did they use locks and keys to secure the vaults, then? That didn't seem very safe; Harry himself owned a lock gun specifically for picking locks. Surely there were magical ways to lock things… and magical ways to pick locks? What would keys even be for, then?
"Professor McGonagall!" a booming voice declared from besides them. Harry, and McGonagall, turned, to see the largest man Harry had ever met. A giant? Did those exist? He put that thought aside for further consideration. "Fancy seein' yeh here!" the man continued.
"Hagrid," McGonagall greeted, a tight smile on her lips.
"An' this mus' be Harry Potter!" the giant proclaimed, looking to Harry. McGonagall's expression grew darker, and Harry was amused to see the conversation around the bank grow quiet, as goblins and wizards alike tried inconspicuously to stare at Harry. He smiled politely, meeting each pair of eyes, and was glad that, this time, no one rushed towards him - the goblins didn't seem to care for his fame, and the lack of movement by others kept the wizards in place. Then, he offhandedly brushed aside his bangs again, revealing his scar to the onlookers. It seemed that the lightning-shaped mark was what the wizarding world was most interested in.
"Hagrid!" McGonagall was hissing, sounding uncannily like an angry cat. "Could you have shouted it any louder?"
"Ah, sorry," Hagrid replied, his voice slightly quieter. He brightened again, with another glance at Harry and his scar. "Blimey, Harry, yeh look so much like yer dad. 'Cept the eyes - yeh've got yer mum's eyes." So that was how he'd been recognized. McGonagall was nodding, unconsciously, in agreement with Hagrid's statement. So they'd both known his parents.
"I'm afraid we haven't been introduced?" Harry prompted. "Hagrid, was it?"
"Yeah, that's me," the giant said cheerfully. "Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts." He held out a hand, and nearly shook Harry's entire arm - nearly, because Harry was stronger than he looked.
The goblin across the counter from Hagrid cleared his throat unpleasantly. "Was there something you wanted, sir?" he asked pointedly.
"Ah, sorry," Hagrid said again. "I've got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore, about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen." The chatter around the bank had begun again, slightly masking Hagrid's words, but from McGonagall's angry glare, Harry got the feeling that Hagrid wasn't supposed to have said that so loudly. And what was this 'You-Know-What', that Professor Dumbledore - the headmaster at Hogwarts, presumably - wanted?
It was peculiar, though; if this 'You-Know-What' was something to be discreet about, then why send this Hagrid? It was obvious to Harry, who'd only just met him, that Hagrid wasn't a discreet person.
Unless there was some sort of underlying plot?
"I will have someone take you down to the vault," the goblin McGonagall had spoken to said. Besides them, Harry could hear the goblin with Hagrid repeat the same line, word-for-word. How creative.
"Why don' yeh jus' have someone take us down teg'ther?" Hagrid suggested. That seemed… odd. "I'd like ter get ter know yeh, Harry," the giant added. It didn't alleviate Harry's suspicion.
"As you wish," the goblin with McGonagall and Harry said, looking distastefully at Hagrid. "Griphook!"
The goblin called Griphook led them down the hall, and Hagrid continued to stare at Harry. A questioning glance on Harry's part had the man adding, "Las' time I saw you, you was only a baby. Blimey, Harry."
"You knew me when I was a child?" Harry asked. In the year or so before he'd been left at the orphanage, before
"S'pose so," Hagrid replied. "Didn' see much of yeh, with yer family bein' on the run an' all, but I brough' yeh out of the house, meself, an' flew yeh ter those Muggles."
"The orphanage?" For that matter, why had he been left with Muggles? Surely there were wizarding orphanages, or at least policies for magical adoption.
Hagrid looked confused, now. "Nah, yer aunt an' uncle's place." What?
"Your aunt and uncle, it seems, decided to leave you at an orphanage, rather than raise you," McGonagall added, her expression tight and angry.
"And no one thought to check up on me?" Of course, the paper trail would have disappeared, once he'd been accepted into CHERUB, but he'd spent four years at the orphanage, and McGonagall had found him, to tell him about Hogwarts.
McGonagall's scowl deepened, and she muttered something about Albus and insistence and worst sort of Muggles. Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hogwarts? Was he the one who'd decided to leave Harry, first with this aunt and uncle of his, and then at the orphanage? Harry doubted these relations of his could have been very good guardians, if they'd chosen to leave him at the orphanage, and found it odd that, given the wizarding world's view of him as a hero, they would let him be sent off into the Muggle world.
They had reached one of the doors, which revealed a narrow stone passageway lit by flaming torches, before more could be said. Griphook whistled, and a small cart came speeding towards them. They clambered on, the size of the cart seeming to expand slightly to fit them all, and then, they were off.
Harry couldn't hold back a slight, excited smile. He imagined that the trip was something like a Muggle roller coaster; it was absolutely exhilarating. From both McGonagall's and Hagrid's expressions, neither adult felt the same, but he couldn't fathom why. It reminded him of missions; this was what he loved.
The ride was a considerably poor place to have a conversation, too… And indeed, no one spoke, until the cart reached a sudden, jerking halt.
"The Potter trust vault," Griphook declared. The 'trust' vault… was there a main vault too, then? Harry didn't know much about Muggle banking and inheritance practices, though, and even less about wizarding ones. Something else he'd have to research.
The goblin brought out the key and unlocked the door, and Harry wondered if there was any way to request further protections for his vault. Green smoke - dust? spells? - billowed out, setting Harry on edge; he hated not being able to see, especially after his glasses incidents at the orphanage. The smoke cleared quickly, and he barely withheld a gasp. Inside the vault was a fortune of gold, silver, and bronze coins.
"The gold coins are Galleons, the silver Sickles, and the bronze Knuts," McGonagall informed him helpfully.
"And the pounds exchange rate?" Harry asked.
"Five pounds per galleon," Griphook answered. Harry was fairly certain, though, that pure gold the size of a Galleon was worth more than that. Unless it wasn't pure gold? Was that what goblins did, then - minting coins?
Harry brought out a small bag, which held a few supplies he would never consider leaving his room without, and moved to begin filling a pouch, then paused. "Is there a spell that can move a specific amount into my bag?" he asked. He wasn't opposed to doing it himself, of course, but surely there were more effective methods.
"Might I ask why, Mr. Potter?" McGonagall spoke.
He gave a small, innocent smile. "So I can know exactly how much I've taken out," he answered. "And, I'd like to know more about magic." She nodded, though still looking to him suspiciously. Had he changed masks too often around her?
"How much?" Griphook asked.
Harry actually had no idea.
"You'd want about 160 galleons for supplies," McGonagall informed him. She likely had experience in those matters. But 160 galleons… that was £800, a lot for school supplies. Though, he'd also want some extra funds, just in case.
"I'd like two hundred galleons," he decided. Griphook nodded, snapping his fingers, and there was a sudden additional weight in his bag. McGonagall, meanwhile, was watching him cautiously. Was it the additional amount he'd asked for?
"Er, can we go more slowly?" Hagrid asked as they exited the vault.
"One speed only," Griphook answered, with a slight smile. Harry wasn't sure if it was because, like him, the goblin enjoyed the speed, or because Griphook enjoyed Hagrid's discomfort. He didn't seem to care much for wizards.
For that matter, what were wizard-goblin relations like?
They boarded the cart and hurtled deeper through the bank. Goblin underground architecture, Harry reflected, was impressive. But of course, there was also magic, so he couldn't exactly judge how impressive it actually was. And goblins, as shown by Griphook's snap, could do magic.
"Vault seven hundred and thirteen," Griphook announced as they, once again, lurched to a stop. Harry watched, fascinated, as the goblin approached the door, because this vault had no keyhole.
Presumably, that was better security than his. This 'You-Know-What' was important, then.
"Stand back," Griphook ordered. He stroked the door with one of his fingers, and it seemed to melt away. "If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," the goblin told them. A Gringotts goblin - so there were other sorts of goblins? Then, was there some sort of magic that identified goblins as 'Gringotts goblins'? Could magic be used to identify people?
The vault itself seemed to be empty, but closer examination revealed a grubby little package, wrapped in brown paper, about the size of Harry's palm. Hagrid picked up the object and tucked it within his coat.
Harry couldn't help but notice the exact pocket the giant had placed it in. He knew he shouldn't, but this puzzle wasn't something that could be solved by reading a few books, and he was curious…
They boarded the cart again, and this time, upon exiting, Harry made sure to 'trip' in clambering out, grasping Hagrid's coat to stabilize himself. There was a slight smile on his lips as they exited the bank, Hagrid insisting on accompanying them to purchase supplies. Eliza had been right, and Harry was suddenly incredibly grateful that she'd taught him that trick. Now, all he would need to do was to sneak off at some point - perhaps to the lavatory - to examine his prize. He'd return it, of course, but he'd figure out what it was, first.
"Might as well get yer uniform, firs'," Hagrid said, nodding towards a store titled Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Actually, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts."
"Of course," Harry replied, internally puzzling at the strange behavior. First he insisted on coming along to purchase supplies, and then he left at the first possible opportunity? It was almost as though someone had told Hagrid to tag along with them, but that was impossible, wasn't it?
"Yeh comin', Professor McGonagall?" Hagrid offered.
"No, thank you, Hagrid," McGonagall answered politely. "I'll be waiting outside, Mr. Potter," she told Harry.
"Hogwarts, dear?" a squat, smiling witch asked as Harry entered the store.
"Yes, Madam…?"
"I'm Madam Malkin, dear," she answered, beaming at him, now. "Got the lot here - another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."
The other young man turned out to be another eleven-year-old, with a pale, pointed face and silver-blond hair, who sat on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. Madam Malkin sat Harry down, and proceeded to do the same with him.
"Hello," the boy said. "Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes," Harry responded. Before he could say more, or introduce himself, the blond boy spoke again.
"My father's next door buying my books and Mother's up the street looking for wands. Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully Father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow." Harry marveled at the boy's words. He'd never met a child as obviously spoiled as this one; the other orphans at New Haven, whatever their other faults, knew about lack, and CHERUB agents were accustomed to addressing their own needs and wants. Even the son of the gang lord, who Harry had befriended on his last mission, hadn't been so entitled. He doubted this boy would have lasted a day in basic training.
"Have you got your own broom?" the boy continued.
"No. Out of curiosity, how were you planning on smuggling the broom in?" Harry countered, before the boy could continue.
"In my trunk, obviously. It's not as though they search students' trunks upon arriving." If that were true, then bringing some of his CHERUB equipment, including the handgun Reynold and Eliza had gifted him after their last mission, would be simple.
"Do they ever check students' trunks?"
"Not unless there's some emergency, or they receive a tip," the boy responded. "Why? Planning on smuggling something in, yourself?"
"Perhaps."
The boy examined him, as though looking to him in a new light. "Know what House you'll be in yet?" He must have been referring to the Houses McGonagall had told him about earlier, Griffindoor, Slithering, Huffpuffle, and Ravenjaw. Or something similar.
"No. Aren't we only sorted once we arrive?"
"Well, yes, I suppose. No one really knows until they get there, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been." So Houses weren't randomly assigned. "Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" the boy continued.
"I'm sure each House has its strengths," Harry replied diplomatically.
The boy snorted. "I suppose… but Slytherin's obviously the best. I say, look at that man!" Hagrid stood outside the front window, attempting to hand McGonagall a large ice cream while balancing two more in his other hand. "Who is he?"
"Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts," Harry answered. "Or so he says," he added, seeing the boy's questioning look.
"You know him?"
"I met him a few minutes ago, at Diagon Alley, but apparently, he knew my parents. He insisted on coming with Professor McGonagall and I to purchase my supplies."
The blond made a scathing sound. "I pity you. Imagine walking around all day with him." He paused, then seemed to realize something. "'Professor McGonagall and I' - you're not a Muggle-born, are you?"
A 'Muggle-born' - that must have been a child with non-magical parents. So they did exist, and apparently, were scorned, at least by this boy. "No," Harry replied. "My parents were magical."
"Good," the boy said. "I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get their letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families." Interesting, so discrimination against these 'Muggle-borns' existed in the wizarding world. Though was the cultural difference between the magical and Muggle worlds really so predominant to warrant such disdain? "What's your surname, anyway?" the blond boy added.
"Potter," Harry responded, a mischievous glint in his eye. Time to see how this boy would react. "My name is Harry Potter. And you are?"
The boy's grey eyes stared incredulously at him for a moment, before he managed to recover, an impressive mask covering his features. Perhaps he was more CHERUB-material than he'd seemed. "Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."
"That's you done, my dear," Madam Malkin said, her eyes attempting to see behind Harry's bangs and to his scar. Perfect timing.
"Thank you, Madam Malkin," Harry responded politely, casually brushing his hair aside once more to grant her a glimpse of his scar. "I'll see you at Hogwarts, Malfoy," he added, as he exited.
McGonagall had accepted the offered ice cream, and the sight of the stern professor eating the brightly-colored, melting snack was amusing. It also meant that Harry could hardly decline the treat, but a convenient spill would also send him to clean up in the lavatory.
Or so he'd thought. Apparently, there was a spell for ice cream spills, and a wave of McGonagall's wand cleaned up the ice cream instantly. He'd have to remember to take magic into account, for his ploys.
They went to Flourish and Blotts next, to purchase books, and Harry made sure not to show his scar, not wishing to attract attention so he could examine the 'You-Know-What'. As he browsed the store, he was glad he'd brought the extra forty galleons. It was, in fact, difficult to choose the books to buy, among the ceiling-high shelves, but somehow, Harry managed. He also purchased a bag with an Undetectable Extension Charm placed on it, to carry all his books, and was amused to find that McGonagall was taking even longer than he, browsing the shelves. Hagrid found himself distracted by a book on dangerous magical creatures, and Harry took the moment to slip off, to the lavatory.
Locking himself in a stall, Harry finally took out the brown package from vault seven hundred thirteen. He memorized the knot patterns around it, then carefully untied the packaging.
And then, he stared. The 'You-Know-What', as it turned out, was a blood-red rock.
Why was a rock so important, to warrant such protection at Gringotts? And, if it were that important, why were they removing it from a bank vault that only Gringotts goblins could access? Did they think a goblin was going to steal it? But then again, Harry supposed that magic couldn't make any safe impenetrable. Magic could protect things, but, presumably, magic could also break through those protections.
But why would anyone want to steal a rock? Was it some sort of powerful magical artifact?
Harry repackaged the stone, and returned to Hagrid and McGonagall, who were still examining their respective books. While he had the time, he might as well get started researching the stone... He found a book on magical artifacts, sat down in one of the bookstore's plush chairs, and began reading.
Too soon, Hagrid was calling for him - and McGonagall - that they needed to purchase the other supplies. Reluctantly, wondering if there was a magical public library system, Harry left the store.
They also went to a store selling cauldrons, a stationery store for quills and parchment, an astronomy items store for a foldable telescope, and an Apothecary for potions ingredients.
Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid snatched Harry's supplies list and examined it. "Just yer wand left - oh yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."
"Sorry?" Harry asked. His birthday was in August - oh. Of course. "Is today my real birthday?"
"O' course!" Hagrid exclaimed, just as McGonagall turned to stare at him and said, "It is, Mr. Potter."
"July 31st?" Harry confirmed.
"Blimey, Harry, yeh really didn' know?"
"I grew up in an orphanage," he answered. "How could I have known?" His birthday had, in fact, been November 1st, the day he'd arrived at the orphanage, for his time there, but he'd changed it to August 31st upon arriving at CHERUB, because the rounds of basic training began in September, and he hadn't wanted to wait three months after he'd turned ten.
Hagrid still looked shocked at his revelation, but quickly turned to the issue of what gift to get. Harry would have preferred another book, but Hagrid's expression at his suggestion told him that that wasn't happening.
"Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at - an' I don' like cats-"
McGonagall cleared her throat, and Hagrid cut off abruptly, glancing nervously at the professor. So McGonagall was a cat person?
"Er… cats are great… but loads of kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'… I'll let yeh decide…"
"Perhaps an owl, since I'll no doubt need to send mail?" Harry suggested, seeing the humorous glint in McGonagall's eyes - she hadn't actually taken Hagrid's statement badly.
"Sure, sure!" Hagrid exclaimed happily.
Harry chose a beautiful snowy owl who'd taken a liking to him, and who, it seemed, was particularly intelligent - she'd poked at the pocket that held the blood-red stone several times before Harry had distracted her with some owl treats. He wasn't quite sure what he would name her… perhaps a wizarding name from one of the books he'd purchased?
But the gift was also another perfect opportunity... He gave Hagrid a small hug in thanks, slipping the blood-red rock into the man's pocket at the same time, without getting caught, of course. Now, if only he could figure out what the stone was...
McGonagall led the way to a store titled 'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.', and Harry wondered if wizards could really trace their lineage so far back. They entered the store, which looked like a library, except it was packed with thousands of narrow boxes, that presumably stored wands. An old man with wide, pale eyes stood unobtrusively in the corner, and he smiled slightly as Harry met his gaze.
"Good afternoon," the man said softly. Hagrid jumped, nearly breaking the spindly chair he'd sat on, and masking any sort of reaction McGonagall might have had.
"Good afternoon. Mr. Ollivander, I presume?"
"Yes, that is I," the man said. "And you, yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." Someone else who'd recognized him without seeing the scar - his parents? "You have your mother's eyes." Hagrid had said the same. Perhaps it was their color? Green eyes were one of the rarest colors, after all, and he'd been told that it was one of his most striking features. "It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." So wands themselves could be specially suited for certain types of magic. He wondered how he would choose his wand.
"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course." Harry's eyes widened at that. So wands were semi-sentient? How? Could anything be learned from the type of wand that a wizard owned?
Ollivander had been approaching Harry, and now stood so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose, though Harry met his strange silver eyes unblinkingly.
"And that's where…" Ollivander reached a long, white finger to brush aside Harry's bangs and touch the lightning scar on his forehead. Harry barely kept from flinching. He didn't like being touched.
"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," Ollivander said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"
"But Voldemort would have only been eleven years old," Harry told him in the same soft tone, ignoring the flinch Hagrid gave at his use of the name. "You couldn't have known." And it had been the wizard's decisions that had made him evil…
"True," Ollivander agreed. "True. He was eleven years old, yet already a budding genius. Charismatic. Ambitious. Deeply curious. And yet, strangely guarded."
Harry stared at him, at the description that could have been of himself - outside of the genius part. But he wasn't evil. He couldn't be, could he? He derailed that train of thought with another question. "What was his name?"
"You have spoken it already," Ollivander answered evasively. Harry shook his head slightly.
"'Voldemort' can't be his true name." Behind them came a loud snapping sound - Hagrid had flinched again, and this time, the chair had broken. "No one would name their child 'Flight from Death'."
"You speak French."
"His name?" Harry wouldn't be distracted.
"…Tom Riddle. He was Tom Marvolo Riddle."
"Harry's here ter buy 'is wand, sir," Hagrid interrupted loudly from behind them, shattering the quiet mood.
"But of course," Ollivander replied quickly, his attention turning to Hagrid. "Rubeus Hagrid. Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"
"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.
"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" Harry turned to look at the man. He'd gotten expelled? For doing what? And expelled students weren't allowed wands? What would have happened if he'd declined his Hogwarts acceptance?
"Er - yes, they did, yes," Hagrid said, shuffling his feet. "I've still got the pieces, though," he added brightly.
"But you don't use them?" Ollivander questioned sharply.
"Oh, no, sir." Harry noticed that he was gripping his pink umbrella very tightly. Was it possible, then, to perform magic through broken wand pieces? For that matter, how common was wandless magic? He knew it was possible, at the very least - he'd performed it often enough.
"Hmmm," Ollivander said, giving Hagrid a piercing stare. "Well, now - Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure from his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"
"I'm right-handed," Harry answered.
"Hold out your arm. That's it." He began taking various odd measurements, first by hand, and then, the tape measure moving autonomously. Wandless magic? "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter," Ollivander explained. Were these cores what gave wands sentience? "We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons." Another three magical creatures that existed - but did they kill dragons for their heartstrings for wands? "No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand." But it was possible to use another's wand?
"That will do," Ollivander added, as he stepped away from the shelves, a pile of boxes in his hand. The tape measure crumpled to the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave."
Harry gripped the wand and waved it, but Ollivander snatched it away almost immediately - so quickly that Harry had to fight his instincts to keep the wand in his grasp.
"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try-" But that wand, too, was snatched back.
"No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy." Another failure.
Harry began to wonder what, exactly, they were looking for, as the pile of tried wands grew higher and higher, though Ollivander seemed to grow happier as the number of wands increased.
"Trick customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
Harry took the wand, and realized what it was they'd been looking for. There was a sudden, comforting warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand, twirling it slightly, and a stream of glimmering sparks shot from the end, throwing dancing spots of light onto the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped, McGonagall applauded lightly, and Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"
Looking slightly incredulously at Ollivander, Harry suppressed the urge to ask what was so 'curious'. If Ollivander wished to tell him, as he no doubt did, he would. Indeed, after waiting a few moments, the old wandmaker spoke again. "Curious… I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter, every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother - why, its brother gave you that scar."
Interesting, but Harry couldn't see how that might be significant, unless there was some sort of unusual reaction wands that shared cores had. But, surely, Voldemort's wand would have disappeared after the wizard himself disappeared, ten years ago? Or at least been destroyed?
"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter… After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great." Harry met Ollivander's gaze and silently resolved that he would do great things if he could, but that he would never turn evil. He paid Ollivander the seven Galleons, and they left the shop.
-oOo-
31 July 1991
CHERUB Headquarters
2145 Hours
Minerva McGonagall watched as James and Lily's son disappeared into the building. Harry Potter was... not what she'd expected. Not only was the boy a Muggle spy, of all things, but he'd proven, throughout the day, that he had plans. When she'd first met him, she'd seen him as a polite, but quiet boy. That certainly still was true, but there was a lot more to him. There was his speech, in the Leaky Cauldron, which served some purpose she was still unsure of. There was his interaction with Draco Malfoy. There was the dozens of books he'd purchased at Flourish and Blotts, covering a myriad of topics. There was the fact that his wand was the twin of You-Know-Who's. There was his eerie gaze, that made you feel like he was dissecting you with his eyes. There was all the questions he hadn't asked, all the things he hadn't said. Minerva didn't know what to make of him.
One thing was certain, though. Harry Potter wasn't their perfect Gryffindor hero. Minerva wasn't even sure that he would be in Gryffindor, though the idea of the Boy Who Lived in Slytherin...
She Apparated away, appearing just outside the Hogwarts grounds, then made her way to her office. The month before term was always incredibly busy.
Her door opened, and Albus Dumbledore stepped inside.
"Albus," she greeted. "What can I do for you?"
"Good day, Minerva!" the headmaster of Hogwarts said warmly. "You took Harry Potter to Diagon Alley today, didn't you? Did you notice anything about him?"
Minerva glared. She couldn't believe him.
First, what had Albus been thinking, send Hagrid to retrieve the Stone, when it was obvious the man couldn't be discreet to save his life? And Minerva was fairly certain that it hadn't been Hagrid's idea to accompany them for further shopping. What sort of game was Albus playing? Not to mention, there were the facts she'd confronted him about earlier: that Harry Potter had been raised in an orphanage, that the boy was a Muggle child spy, and that Albus had had no idea. The old man had seemed concerned, when they'd realized the strange address of the boy's Hogwarts letter, but had assured her that he had a plan.
Well, if he wouldn't tell her his newest scheme, Minerva wouldn't tell him what she'd observed of Harry Potter. Albus was waiting for an answer, so she told him, vaguely, "Mr. Potter is an interesting child. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with the Davis family in fifteen minutes - since Severus refuses to meet with students." Not that she blamed Albus for that decision. Sending Severus to meet with Muggle-born students and their families was decidedly a poor idea.