Harry should have known his mission would be more difficult than he had imagined.
Honestly. He was running away from home in the middle of the night on some crazy journey to find the wizards who sent him a letter. Of course it would be extremely difficult. But still, that'd never stopped him yet. And it wouldn't. He was a wizard with a destiny, after all. The night had told him so.
And it wasn't like he was going about his mission blind or anything. He had some idea of what to do, of where to go. He remembered meeting strange people before. People in odd dresses and odd hats. People who seemed to know him, and who then disappeared too quickly for him to speak to them. Disappeared as if by magic.
If he had ever met a wizard before, it had to be these people. And he had met these people in London, and not that London wasn't full of strange people (because it absolutely was), but there was something different about them, something special, which was why he was waiting patiently for the train to come to a stop.
The sun had crested over the horizon an hour previously. He hadn't really slept at all the previous night, but that was fine. He didn't always need sleep, and presently found little reason for it. It was also doubtful that Harry could sleep even if he wanted. He was going to find the wizards! At last he would be around people like himself, people who understood him. Who knew that being normal wasn't all it was chalked up to be.
They would be real people, too, who were creative and funny and smart like he was, and liked to pretend just like he did, and they would think he was special too. Special like them, but in a different way, because he was Harry Potter, not them, and surely each wizard had their own special gifts that made them stand out from the crowd—like when he spoke to that python! At least, he hoped that was the case. Wouldn't it be awful if there were normal wizards?
Surely such a thing couldn't exist.
Stepping out from the train, Harry hurried down from the platform and walked into central London. He could go anywhere from there by a number of means. He could take a cab, or a bus, or walk, or even get on the tube. He would find these wizards one way or another.
Harry looked around. London was clearly awake. People were already bustling about, vehicles going this way and that. In the distance he saw an airplane climb high into the sky. All around him were tall buildings and big signs. Glass windows that sparkled from the morning dew. Paved streets that rumbled as tires drove across them. And then the grey morning suddenly wasn't so grey. Things were everywhere. Colorful things, risqué images that advertised expensive perfumes, storefronts that held the latest fashion from Milan and Paris. The vehicles here were colorful too. Black taxicabs. Big red double-decker busses. Silver sedans. Blue SUVs. Yellow delivery trucks.
And sound. Sound everywhere. Seemingly everything that was made a sound. Thumping, rumbling tires. Clicking stoplights. Bicycles ringing. Obnoxious horns blaring. Rude yelling. Polite greetings. Soft splashes as puddles jumped onto the sidewalk.
It was order from chaos—greater than the sum of its parts.
It was like a grand symphony not just of sound, but of light, too. It was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen. It was so different from Little Whinging that there was no way anyone who was not totally insane or normal could not be enthralled by its trance. It was a good sign that Harry was on the right path.
Putting some money on a freshly acquired Oyster Card, Harry grabbed a map of bus routes and hopped onto a bus. Checking his schedule, he went about making a plan. He saw that in two hours he would be at King's Cross Station, where he would have three choices to make. He could get on a bus that would take him out towards the residential districts, one out to East London, or one that would bring him near Buckingham Palace.
He wondered why the bus routes weren't more ordered—they seemed quite wild and ill-thought-out. It was obvious that whoever was in charge was not very smart, or at least had never had the decency to consider that there might one day be a ten year old wizard who was looking for other wizards, and would need the bus routes to make sense, so that he could scour London methodically, and not like some buffoon or, Heaven forbid, a tourist.
Harry sighed.
Things just got that much more difficult.
But anyway, his next move was quite clear. In fact it was hardly a decision from that point. Obviously he ought to start from downtown London where everything that was worthwhile was kept, where surely the most interesting people were, and work his way from there. And maybe he could see some sights along the way.
To King's Cross! he thought excitedly.
gh
King's Cross was interesting. It was very busy. Far too busy for Harry to tell really if there were any wizards around him, even if he did eye the crowds like a predator searching desperately for its prey. So, Harry was forced to take another bus deeper into London, as per his plan, this time towards Buckingham Palace. He wouldn't be stopping there, of course. He would get off in SoHo, where he would wander, checking off roads from his map along the way.
There was no way Harry would fail at finding these wizards. He would not be going back to Little Whinging. He would die before he did that. Which was a curious thought, because he felt that he might actually die if he did go back to Little Whigning. Not from being thrashed by the Dusleys, though this was quite likely, but rather from his heart at long last giving up its ceaseless struggle for life.
His soul wouldn't be able to take it anymore, and it would simply wither away.
An hour later, the bus was careening down Theobalds Road as it was wont to do, full of passengers as it was, and Harry had still not seen any sign of the wizards. He was beginning to get frustrated.
Oh sure, he had seen his fair share of strange people that morning. A few people dressed in odd and sometimes revealing black leather clothes and black make up with their hair spiked; people dressed in nicely tailored suits and who had well-groomed hair and the same leather briefcases and the same newspapers that were always open to the financial section. There were lots of those people. People like Vernon, but who were only more successful and better looking.
He had yet to see any men in those weird dresses. Well, he thought with a small laugh, there was that one guy… But it wasn't the right kind of dress. And he also looked sort of like a lady. He could have been a wizard, but he could also have just liked looking like a lady. So Harry kept up his search.
The bus screeched to a halt at a rather busy intersection, nearly causing Harry to fall from his seat. He looked out of the window and noticed he was in some sort of theater district. That was close enough to his destination.
Jumping from the bus, he looked for some sign of his location, and found he was on Tottenham Court Road. That corresponded with his map, so he planned out his excursion. Harry would make the trek down Charing Cross Road and then up Shaftesbury Avenue, where he would come around on Saint Giles High Street and end up where he began.
Harry heaved another sigh. There was just so much for him to explore, but he had to start somewhere.
At least all the people had been ignoring him. It wouldn't do to have some bobby to ask him where his mummy and daddy were.
No. Definitely not.
Charing Cross was a rather nice place, and Harry suspected that it would look even better at night when the city truly came alive. He could imagine it. Elegant people walking around in expensive and beautiful clothes on their way to the theater. Young couples going to small cafes for dinner, laughing about their days and enjoying their lives. Lights and sounds dancing all around them in celebration. It would surely be glorious. And Harry wanted to be a part of that. He would be a part of that.
And while his fantasy was all well and good, it didn't lead to him finding any wizards, or even anything that was wizardish. It was all very disappointing.
Harry turned left onto Shaftesbury Avenue and continued in his search. The first thing he noticed was just how many restaurants there were. Well, it was more like his stomach had noticed them.
In all his excitement that morning, he had neglected to eat any of the food that he had in his pack, and had only just noticed that it almost eleven in the morning and that he was quite hungry. Ignoring his growling stomach for the moment, Harry pushed further along, keeping an eye out for his quarry.
For fifteen minutes he walked, dutifully snubbing his hunger like the good little wizard he was. Harry had managed it quite well, too, until he came upon a most wondrous establishment that actually made the rude noises emanating from his stomach grow impossibly loud.
Chinese food.
Oh what a temptress! He had never had the pleasure of eating anything like it before. Ha! As if anyone Dursley would be caught eating foreign food. He had always wondered about other cultures when he discovered the world's variety in the library, and his inner chef had often considered what it would be like to eat those new foods, but had never been indulged.
Until now, he thought with an uncharacteristic smile
With a big grin and a stomach that was howling in anticipation, Harry crossed the street and entered a little corner of heaven on earth.
An hour and a half later, Harry looked across his table. He had never eaten so much in his life! He feared his stomach might explode. But how truly glorious it was to be him right now! He doubted he would ever eat English food again! Now that Harry had tasted the wonderful deliciousness of foreign dishes—the forbidden fruit!—he could never go back to meat pies and boiled potatoes. Even if he did make them rather tastier than they would otherwise be.
He would have to look into procuring some cookbooks.
Reaching into his bag, Harry counted out several bills to pay his tab. Laying the money out on the table and signaling for his waitress, Harry applauded his foresight in stealing so much money from the Dursleys. Their stupidity really was the best thing that had happened to him until the day an owl landed on his lawnmower.
Thanking the hostess profusely and returning her bow, Harry vowed to return even as he walked out of the shop. Looking around him, he noticed that the clouds had gone away some and the sun was shining brighter, and in a moment of intensity, the light reflected off the pane from across the street and seemed to make everything glow.
Harry smiled.
Things were looking up.
And in that moment, Harry's life changed.
Coming out of the alley adjacent to the cleaners across the street, two men in dresses and funny hats emerged onto the sidewalk.
Harry felt his heart stop, before it started beating again faster than ever before.
He had found the wizards!
Discreetly following them, Harry hoisted his backpack up a little more and tightened the straps. He had to be ready to move quickly, and he could not be seen.
Eyeing the two wizards, Harry waited for a lull in the traffic before he tore across the street. He would have a greater chance at remaining undetected if he was behind them. And they continued to walk for a minute, both wizards ignoring the sidelong glances they were getting and Harry grudgingly thankful once again that he was small and that people rarely notice what is right in front of them.
Suddenly the two wizards turned into an odd, run-down building and disappeared from sight.
What?
Harry stopped and observed the building. It was odd. It looked hundreds of years old and was incredibly run down, and it was surrounded by a district that was almost entirely modern. And what was even stranger was that no one even seemed to notice that it was there! All these people in their nice clothes and well-groomed hair and fancy cars just moved about the building as if it wasn't such a horrible, characterless eyesore—a blight on their gorgeous city.
Inconceivable!
But maybe it wasn't, Harry figured. It could be…it could be magic. It could be that only magic people could see the building—this…Leaky Cauldron place—so other, non-magic people actually couldn't see it. That was plausible, given what little he knew about wizards.
Harry would have to investigate.
He took a step…and was promptly crashed into by a tall man in a business suit, and they both fell to the ground hard and the man's briefcase and newspaper went flying through the air and into the path of a bicycle messenger, and his hot, expensive coffee spilled down his shirt and jacket and all over his pants. And the young man on the bicycle swerved out of the way and flipped his bike, landing on his shoulder on the sidewalk.
Harry skidded on his knees and the heels of his hands, scratching them horribly. The sudden increase of sound had caught him off guard. There was lots of yelling and cursing.
He looked up from his position on the harsh concrete sidewalk and saw that there were lots of people gathering around the accident, and many were looking at him.
Which was all quite problematic. He was supposed to remain unseen, lest the wizards escape. And he couldn't allow that to happen.
Suddenly he was hauled to his feet by some powerful force. He looked up. Presumably the man who had collided with him had picked him up from the ground, and he looked quite angry.
He was almost that color purple that Vernon seemed so fond of. But this man was much taller than Vernon. Stronger, too, from the looks of it. Harry would have to handle this situation delicately.
"What the fuck is your problem?!" the man yelled.
Harry should have expected such immediate hostility. Judging by the cropped hair, close shave, and shine of the now-ruined suit, the man was obviously way too self-important to moderate himself after a perceived slight, even from a scrawny little kid. Perhaps Harry could try the scared little kid tactic. It seemed to work in the books he read.
"S-sorry sir," he stuttered out, shying away from him, "I-I d-didn't mean to!"
"I don't fucking care," the man raged on, "you ruined my goddam suit! It costs thousands of fucking Pounds!" he declared, causing spittle flying out of his mouth and land on Harry's pale face. His breath smelled horribly like alcohol, and Harry was hard-pressed not vomit.
"Well?!" he yelled at Harry's continued silence. Not waiting for an answer, he kept on with his tirade. "What're you stupid or something? Look at you, you're nothing but a no good little shit! Just another trouble maker, a burden to society, leeching off of honest taxpayers!"
Oh, Harry realized, this guy probably has the same problem as Vernon.
Well, Harry wasn't about to let this idiot get away with manhandling and insulting him, so, in his most innocent-sounding voice, Harry expressed his faux-concern. "Excuse me sir, but are you suffering from erectile dysfunction? It's known to cause increased aggressiveness in men with already low self-esteem and—"
And then something happened that Harry never expected another adult to do to him outside of Number 4. The man slapped him. Hard.
SMACK!
The crowd gasped and Harry fell to the ground, taken completely by surprise. He heard yells and angry calls, but he couldn't make them out. He was so surprised, so angry about his humiliation that it was too difficult for him to focus on details like that.
Harry quickly got off the ground and turned to glare at the man, who was also ignoring the crowd's recriminations, and was glaring back at Harry.
This wasn't right. This man couldn't do this to him, not to Harry Potter. Harry Potter was a wizard! He could do amazing things. He didn't have to be tossed around like a rag-doll anymore, starved and beaten until he could barely move. NO! He was special. And he would show them.
Harry looked into the man's rage-filled eyes and willed himself to be taken in. He saw flashes of the man's life, memories of a room with a big table and lots of chairs, meeting important people and making big important deals that earned him his boss' praise. But that wasn't what he was after. He wanted something to humiliate this man just as he himself had been humiliated. And then something new flashed before Harry's consciousness. The feeling of rage, shame, and betrayal flittered about as the images played out the scene. He was coming home early one day, and found his girlfriend on the couch with another man. They were naked.
Harry pulled out of the man's mind. He had what he needed. He unleashed his anger.
"So maybe it still works right, but it just wasn't enough to keep your girlfriend from cheating on you, wasn't it?" he asked snidely.
The enraged man let loose a roar and quicker than Harry expected, closed the distance and had his hands around his throat. He squeezed.
The people who had only been watching them rushed in, trying to pull Harry and the man apart. They wouldn't be quick enough. Couldn't be. Harry was a wizard, and he was faster than all of them. Stronger, too. Better.
Even as his air supply was waning and his body's natural panic set in, Harry focused, forcing everything else from his mind. He focused his will on the man's hands, not caring that his legs were dangling in the air or that his face was turning blue or the pain shooting across his neck. His will was the gateway to his magic. And magic was what he needed right now. He needed to make this man hurt.
And then it was there—
Harry's neck became like boiling grease, and the man's hands were ruined. Disfigured and broken.
The man screamed out from the pain.
Harry dropped to the ground and rolled away from the businessman as he writhed on the ground. He looked around him. People were staring at him, then at the man, and then back at him. And they looked scared. Frightened. Worried. They knew he wasn't like that before he started strangling Harry, and then suddenly he was. They knew Harry had done that to him. And that he could do it do them, too. And they looked at him like all those people in Little Whinging would look at him after a new rumor had gone around besmirching his character, or like the Dursleys would after something odd happened and they were going to blame him. Condemn him. They looked at him—Harry Potter, boy wizard—like he was a freak.
And he knew that was all he'd ever be to them.
And Harry hated it.
And Harry ran.
He pushed past the shockrd crowd and tore down the street to where the two wizards had disappeared. Once he got there, he would be safe. There would be people like him there, and they'd understand that he wasn't a freak, but that he was special. There had to be. And then everything would be okay.
He reached the entrance to the Leaky Cauldron and turned around—breathless—to see if he was being chased. He wasn't. There was no angry mob wielding torches and pitchforks, burning him in effigy. There weren't even any accusing stares. No one was even looking at him. Rather, they were all looking past him and down the street, or across the street, or in the street, as if they couldn't see him, like he had disappeared. How strange!
How useful!
Harry gave the crowd a raspy chuckle.
Turning back around, Harry got his first up-close look of a wizard building—how that knowledge excited him!—and he found it wanting. Sure it was interesting, but it was so drab. It wasn't cool at all! Just really old and in desperate need of a cleaning.
Perhaps it was nicer on the inside?
Harry opened the door and walked inside some…and was immediately assaulted by a horrible musky smell of acrid smoke and something really weird…that was most likely the body odor of the fat man passed out near the door who gave off a feeling like he had never washed his hands.
Ooookay, Harry concluded, not exactly how I would have introduced someone to the wizarding world, but—
The door snapped shut behind Harry, causing him to jump out of the way and take to the corner as a large man with matted hair and a dark, wrinkled dress walked in with a happy smile lit upon his face.
He stopped mid-stride and looked to his right. Seeing the fat man, he moved over to his table and sat down, jostling him until he awoke.
"'Ey Arnie! Wake up, ya old slob. I got a story ta tell yer," the new man explained excitedly, his accent making Harry cringe.
The fat man—Arnie—shuffled in his sleep and rolled about in his chair until he had regained consciousness. He looked at the other man blearily and wiped some slobber from his chins.
"Whadda wan', Jess? Ish shleepin," he slurred.
Ugh, Harry thought, how odious!
"I saw them Muggle Aurors again, Arnie! Wearing funny hats an' all! They was right outside!" he exclaimed.
Muggle Aurors? Hats? What? Oh! And really, the man's wearing a dress, and he has the gall to call the bobbies' hats funny?!
Harry was unimpressed.
Deciding that his efforts were better spent elsewhere, Harry moved deeper into the seedy, smoky wizard tavern—because that's what it most assuredly was, as unimaginative as even a wizard tavern is—and tried to spy someone who looked like they might be able to help him about Hogwarts and his school supplies. Seeing the barman, Harry made his way over but was stopped short as a rather wispy-looking woman stood up from her seat and made her way over to the man behind the counter. Harry followed behind her.
"Tom! Tom!" she called for his attention, "Thanks for lunch, Tom, it was great as always. Here's your Sickles."
The balding barman—Tom—smiled a hideously toothless smile at the woman. "Thanks fer that, May. Come back an'time," he said cheerfully.
"Right kind of ya Tom, right kind. I'll see you later I'm sure. Just gotta get over to Gringotts to get some more money before I head home to Jack; he's going on a trip tomorrow. Have a good day."
Harry hurried out of her way and back into the shadows and vapor, careful to breathe slowly through his nose lest he choke.
Carefully, he weaved through the small spaces between chairs and tables as the woman made her way to Gringotts—likely some sort of bank—where along the way Harry might find some sort of welcome center. Because surely there was something more than a dirty tavern full of drunks in the middle of the afternoon!
Things already were so strange.
Having observed two wizard conversations thus far, Harry figured it would perhaps behoove him for the time being not to announce his presence in such a new, almost alien place. Everything was so different that if he did something wrong he might ruin his chances at starting a new life where he could create a name for himself untouched by the aspersions of the residents of Little Whinging. He would have to curb his excitement for now, and then act when the opportunity arose.
Silently, he followed the witch to the back of the pub where she exited through a door and came out into a small bricked area cluttered with some boxes and a tin garbage can.
And then Harry saw it. A magic wand. A magic wand! His heartbeat increased a little and his eyes widened in anticipation. He was going to see magic done with a real wand! He was so excited…
…which made his disappointment that much greater when all she did was tap the bricks in a funny little sequence and promptly stowed her wand.
What the fuck!?
But then something happened. The witch may have done something, but the brick wall was doing so much more. It was moving—folding up! Like there had been a gateway there the whole time, and it was just covered up with some bricks.
The witch walked through the gateway. And then Harry saw it. Wizards. Magic. Things. Colors. Sounds. It was all there.
He had done it.
Harry stomach's lurched when the portal started closing, but he was too quick for it and he scampered through.
Harry breathed in the smell of wizards and let it fill him. This was no grimy tavern full of drunks, this was a magical place full of wizards and witches and amazing things—incredible things—magical things. A shiver of anticipation ran down his spine.
Harry smiled hugely and walked on.
His senses were overloaded—there was just so much! There were so many feelings and sounds and colors that, if Harry were a lesser person, he'd likely have an incredibly vicious migraine. He could stay there all day and still not get his full, would never be satisfied, and he hoped he never would be satisfied. If Harry had his way, he would never run out of magic to study, he would always be inventing new things, practicing new spells and brewing clever and powerful potions. Because what's the point of being the greatest wizard in the world if one becomes complacent?
In front of their stalls, peddlers were hocking their wares: weird animals and clothes, little trinkets, snacks that would make the eater make animal noises. And the storefronts! So many things. Actual magic brooms. A pet store. A bookstore. An Apothecary. A clothiers. And more. So much more.
Harry's neck was beginning to hurt from the strain of twisting and tilting his head every which way. But that was okay. Nothing would stop him. He was a wizard!
Ahead of him, at the end of that wonderful street, was a huge, domed marble building that spoke of richness and importance and towered over the other shops and stalls and buildings. And there were great glittering golden doors, and there was writing above them in bold golden letters: Gringotts.
He had found the bank. And it was magnificent. He just knew that it was what a bank was supposed to look like. Not a dull, red brick, one story, square shell, but an enormous palace of casual opulence and power and splendor and vastness. Harry had to see the inside.
Walking up the marble steps, Harry nearly fell down. There were…creatures standing in front of the doors. They were small, had black beady eyes, long noses, and sharp teeth. They were wearing silver armor and carried decidedly deadly-looking weapons that they clutched in knarled, long-fingered hands. Steadying his breath, Harry walked on, desperately avoiding the creatures' eyes.
Harry entered what was presumably the foyer and suddenly felt very small—dwarfed, even—by the grandness of the bank. It was all very intimidating. Ahead of him were two silver doors that were smaller than the golden ones he just walked through, but these were no less special, for engraved upon these doors was a poem—or a warning—to all who entered, and Harry couldn't decide whether or not he was being threatened or challenged.
It read:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
Harry gave the poem top marks. And he also wondered desperately what more there was than treasure beneath the polished marble floors of Gringotts…
Harry came into the main hall and was struck dumb—it was even more than he expected. Hundreds of those creatures were sat behind tall mahogany desks counting out gold, measuring and weighing huge gems, consulting with their meticulous-looking fellows…it was all so synchronous, so elegantly done that Harry couldn't help but be impressed. The gentle hum of conversation bounced around the hall and settled a professional, clean air to the building that Harry definitely appreciated. Not like the Leaky Cauldron, at all! He had to find out more about this spectacular place.
Seeing an unoccupied creature, Harry walked up to…him, he guessed…and tried to get his attention.
Harry cleared his throat. "Um, excuse me?"
The creature just continued observing the crowd with a horribly bored expression on his face.
Perhaps Harry needed to speak louder. "Excuse me?" he tried again.
Still nothing.
He's ignoring me, Harry realized. That was upsetting. But even more than that, it made Harry angry. How could he be so rude to me? I never did anything to him!
Running out of patience, Harry tried again, letting some of his anger slip into his voice.
"Excuse me."
The creature startled, and knocked over a stack of gold coins with a loose elbow, causing them to scatter all over his desk. He looked down at Harry, eyes widening slightly.
"What?" he grumbled.
That was a really good question. What was it Harry was there for anyway? These creatures certainly weren't going to be very helpful to him if their current behavior was any indication. He didn't even know if he was in the right place—where new wizards were supposed to go. He was flying blind.
"Um," he began, "uh—I have some money. I have a lot of Pounds."
Money. Right. This is a bank. I'm certainly speaking their language. Perhaps—
The creature heaved a great, agonized sigh and rolled his head to one side and spoke in a bored voice, as though reading for the ten-thousandth time from an amateur script.
"The Ministry-guaranteed conversion rate from Muggle Pounds to Galleons is 5:1. Please hand over any Muggle currency you wish to convert now." And he stuck out his hand.
Harry wasn't quite sure what to do, and he was awfully confused, but figured he ought to listen to the creature for the time being.
He reached into his backpack and withdrew his plastic bag full of Pounds—Muggle Pounds, as the creature said. Harry reached in and took out two fifty Pound notes and stuffed them in his pocket, and gave the rest over to the creature.
The creature looked quite disgusted by Harry's choice of wallet—and Harry was too, for that matter—but took the bag of money anyway, and began counting.
"Eight hundred and seventy-nine Pounds will be converted into one hundred and seventy-five Galleons, and fourteen Sickles. Is that what you want?" he asked harshly.
Harry nodded decisively.
Sometimes one has to feign confidence, after all. It's for the best.
The creature grunted again and started dumping gold and silver coins into a brown leather pouch.
Wizard money! Harry realized. Wow!
He was so excited. First he found out he was a wizard, then he had escaped from Little Whinging, then he actually managed to find where the Wizards were hidden, and now he was getting their money! What a day. He knew that next he was going to buy a wand. Every proper wizard needed a wand, of course, and his was going to be the best. He was sure of it.
And apparently the creature was done getting his money.
Harry reached for the bag with a huge grin on his face.
"Thank you so much!" he exclaimed. "Have a great day!"
The creature ignored him, but Harry didn't care.
He was a wizard!
Harry hurried out of the building and back to where the shops were. He had to find out where they sold wands. It was a shame there was no map of this place like there was of London.
Harry gave a tired sigh. He had already done so much that day, and he had hardly slept. But he couldn't stop now. He was going to get a wand. A magic wand. What was sleeping compared to that?!
Harry walked down the magnificent cobbled street—eyes devouring everything they saw—and scoured for a place that sold wands.
Well, that wasn't quite right. He had already found two places that sold wands: Wand Showroom and Jimmy Kiddell's Wonderful Wands, but he didn't stop there for long. There was just something…off about those places. It was like they weren't serious enough—like they were places where one might find cheap plastic magic tricks. It wasn't quite what Harry was looking for, and he hoped there was another place where he could get a proper wand.
Scooting past a ragged vendor and his pet ooh-ohhing monkey, Harry hurried along the street. There had to be someplace…somewhere!
All of a sudden, Harry nearly fell on his face when he tripped on a loose cobble, but he was so practiced at falling down that he rolled over his shoulder and saved his nose from being broken…only to crash headfirst into a dark door, making the old glass panes rattle dangerously.
"Ow," Harry moaned. He was not expecting that. Not at all!
Harry shifted so that he was sitting properly upon the street. Nobody had even noticed him fall, it seemed.
He gave a humorless laugh, hoping that eventually there might come a time when people would take notice of him—when he had finally made his name praiseworthy because of his great deeds, they would have no choice but to notice him, because his greatness compelled them so.
Harry nodded his head severely.
Yes, that will do.
Standing up, Harry gave a slight glare to the offending cobblestone and turned around to look at what building he had crashed into. It was certainly old. And it was in need of a good cleaning. But there was something about it. A special kind of hum that made him shiver slightly. He looked up at the building's façade.
Ollivander's: Makers of fine wands since 383 B.C.
He had found another wand shop! But not just any old wand shop. No. This was the right wand shop.
He had to get inside.
Harry opened the door, hearing it give a long creak, and was quickly overwhelmed by the magic inside the shop. He could taste it in the air!
He moved deeper into the store—noticing how dark and cluttered and cramped and absolutely dusty it was. So many wands! But how would he choose!? How—
Harry heard a slight scuff against the floor behind him and spun around quickly. He cursed himself for being so excited—he had gotten caught off guard!
Suddenly there was a slight shimmer in the air, and an old man fazed into sight.
Harry's first thought was that the old man looked terribly creepy—his eyes were a glassy blue-grey, his hair was white and wispy, and his clothes were dark and moth-eaten. He looked like he had been dead for a few months and was just brought back to life to frighten him. Harry was certainly unnerved—and he tried…but couldn't even get a reading off of him like he could everyone else. Perhaps that explained why he hadn't sensed the man when he first walked in?
It was all most unexpected!
The old man smiled.
He spoke in a soft whisper. "I thought I might be seeing you soon, Mr. Potter. You're right on time, I imagine."
Harry could only stare.
How does he know my name?! And what does he mean 'on time'?! What is going on?
Harry cleared his throat. "Um, hi," he held out his hand, "I'm Harry Potter."
He cursed himself for his stupidity. Obviously the creepy old man already knew that!
The man took his hand gently and stared back at him, bemused. "Garrick Ollivander."
Mr. Ollivander looked at Harry as though taking his measure, then peered at his eyes and shifted quickly to his forehead where Harry's faded scar blemished his pale skin, and then he dropped Harry's hand and disappeared swiftly into the dusty stacks.
"I sold your parents their first wands, you know," he called back. "Your mother, such a sweet girl, had one of Willow. Ten inches. Whippy. Excellent for charms. While your father favored a Mohogany wand—a little more power—and excellent for Transfiguration." Ollivander gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Well, I say he favored it," Ollivander came back into view carrying several boxes, "it's actually the wand that chooses the wizard, you know."
Ollivander smiled at Harry, but Harry couldn't see it.
He felt like his heart was going to explode.
His parents?! What?!
Willow. Mahogany. Magic. Witch. Wizard. Magic. His parents. Harry's Parents. He hadn't spared them a thought in so long. It was so much easier that way. Ignoring them rather than dealing with his incessant, biting hatred of them for getting themselves killed and leaving him with the Dursleys. To pretend that that never happened. That he never had parents, at all. To—
"Aspen and Phoenix feather. Nine inches, flexible." He handed Harry a wand.
Shell-shocked and quite possibly not breathing, Harry reflexively grabbed the proffered wand, not even caring enough to be excited or to notice the vase of dead flowers that exploded near the side window.
His parents? What?
"Cedar, springy. With Unicorn."
Fire shot out of it and blasted the floor, shocking Harry out of his stupor.
"AH!" Harry jumped back and watched, amazed, as a jet of water shot out of Ollivander's own wand and doused the flames.
Harry was mortified, and was just about to beg forgiveness from Ollivander when he heard the man laughing merrily.
"Oh ho! I don't think I've seen such a bad reaction in quite a while, Mr. Potter! I always love a tricky customer," he said, but he didn't really even seem to be speaking to Harry at all. "Perhaps something with a little more power, eh?"
Ollivander was back two minutes later with more boxes, but they could wait. Harry had a question.
"Wait. Sir. Excuse me, but—what did you say about my parents? They had magic, too?"
Ollivander stopped short. He looked supremely confused.
Harry could empathize.
For his part, the old man just stared at Harry like he had three heads. What—
Ollivander cleared his throat. "I don't understand your question," he explained plainly.
Oh. How could that not have been clear?
Harry shook his head quickly. He needed to concentrate.
"My parents. Are you saying that they were a witch and wizard too? That they could do magic, like me?"
Ollivander looked at Harry queerly. "Yes, of course there were magical. Very good students, too. Some of the brightest in a long time." And then a sad look crossed his face and he seemed to look past Harry. "It was such a shame too. So much potential—and then they were murdered on that terrible night." He heaved a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it, too
"Yew. Thirteen and a half inches, with a Phoenix feather core. Powerful. Very powerful—and in the wrong hands… Well," he looked away from Harry, whose face had gotten incredibly stony, "it's not like I knew what that wand was going out in the world to do, of course."
Slowly, very slowly, Harry spoke. He had to keep his anger in check. He had to get information. He could not fail.
"What do you mean my parents were murdered?"
Ollivander's head snapped back to him so quickly that Harry actually heard something crick.
Surprise. That's what it was. The expression on Ollivander's face was one of surprise. And something else… Intrigue?
"Mr. Potter, do you not know your own story?"
Harry was beginning to lose his patience. "What story?" he ground out.
"Who came here with you today?"
"No one came with me! What—"
"Then how did you find this place?"
What does it matter?! "I—I escaped from the Dursleys last night and made my way to London! What's goi—"
"So you do have your Hogwarts letter?"
Enough of this! Harry snapped. "What's going on?! What are you talking about?! You said my parents were murdered, that they were magical like me! And now you say I have a story! As if I don't know everything about my own life! As if I should know what the bloody hell you're talking about! What is going on?! Tell me! Tell the truth!" he screamed.
And Harry was quickly shunted forward into Ollivander's mind, and saw images flash past his consciousness. Out of the mist he saw a newspaper heading, but it flew by too quickly for Harry to read it. Another image came. A strangely familiar one. There was a beautiful woman with dark auburn hair and a tall man with glasses and messy black hair, and a feeling of sorrow. Then another man, a horrible man with glowing red eyes and a disfigured face, and a terrible sense of impending doom. And then there was a boy, a short, pale, skinny boy with black hair and serious eyes standing in front of Ollivander, but it wasn't Harry—it was the man with red eyes.
And a name. Tom Riddle.
Fear.
What—
And suddenly Harry was ejected from Ollivander's mind in a rush of color, and he was back in his own head, but he was on his hands and knees and breathing heavily. And he had a headache that seemed to travel all the way down his neck.
"Oh my," he heard Ollivander say breathlessly. "This is beyond anything I ever imagined."
Harry had trouble sitting upright, but he managed it. He had to look at Ollivander. See his face. The next moments would indicate whether or not Harry was in danger from him.
He looked at Ollivander and was surprised to find instead of anger, there was just more…surprise—much more, judging by the way the man's eyebrows had scurried up his forehead—and a great deal of anticipation.
How curious.
"How curious, Mr. Potter, that you should stumble into my shop, completely unknowing of your identity in the Wizarding World. How very curious."
"Sorry sir, but, what's curious?" Harry asked. It was best to play the old man's game for now. Then he would act.
"You are famous, Mr. Potter."
Harry was floored—almost literally, as he was quite lightheaded—and looked at Ollivander with disbelief etched all across his face.
"Famous? Me? I don't think so sir," he said dubiously.
Ollivander gave a small, mysterious smile. "Oh yes, quite famous, indeed. Why, I doubt there is anyone who does not know your name."
"Uh huh."
Right. So the man's not just creepy, but he's crazy too. I have to get out of here.
Harry slowly gained his bearings and eyed Ollivander warily. "And what am I famous for, exactly?"
"For the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, of course."
That gave Harry pause. "Uh…what?"
"He was a terrible wizard," Ollivander explained gravely, "his reign of death and destruction nearly brought this country to its knees years ago, until one night, when you stopped him."
That really gave Harry pause. "Excuse me?!" He couldn't have heard that right, even though the image of a monster with red eyes and a horrible face and green light and a woman screaming popped up into Harry's memory.
He did his best to block it out for the moment, but was finding that incredibly difficult…
"We all thought he was unstoppable. That he would soon destroy everything. Until you came along. That is why our people see you as their savior. On the night he murdered your parents, you destroyed him, the most powerful dark wizard in memory. It's quite remarkable really. You were only a baby, and yet, when all others died—your own parents, even—you lived.
"That is why you are known as the Boy-Who-Lived, because when he tried to kill you, the curse rebounded, leaving you with that scar, and destroyed him."
Silence. It was hard, and loud, and suffocating. It was the worst silence Harry had ever known, but he couldn't think of anything to break it—if it even could be broken, such was its power.
His parents were murdered by some crazed, supremely dangerous evil wizard, and apparently Harry defeated him, even though he himself had been only a baby. And the whole bloody world thought he was some kind of a hero because of it. A hero. Him. Harry Potter, from the cupboard under the stairs.
This bore some thinking about.
Harry started when Ollivander suddenly moved back into the stacks like a man possessed, and he felt no small amount of dismay at the armful of boxes the man carried with him when he emerged.
The deranged smile wasn't helping Harry's nerves any, either.
"Silver Lime and Augurey tail feather. Ten and a half inches. For those gifted in the Mind Arts…."
He handed Harry a rather impressive looking wand, and Harry loosed a great sneeze.
Apparently that wasn't the wand for Harry, because Ollivander promptly snatched it from his grip.
"Maple and Unicorn."
No.
"Acacia and Phoenix."
No.
"Dogwood and Dragon."
No.
"Pine and Phoenix."
No.
"Mohogany and Phoenix."
No.
"Elder and Dragon."
No.
"Walnut and Unicorn."
No.
Cherry and Unicorn.
No.
And that was how it went for another three hours. None of the wands Harry was given worked, but it was not through a lack of reaction that this was so, rather, the abundance of negative reactions. Surely, some hapless peasant somewhere would have confused Harry for a bringer of the end-times, given some of them. Lots of fire. Even some ice. And sparks. And broken things everywhere. Strange growls and groans and tweeks. Even a smell.
He was slightly amused.
Harry could see it now! Sometime in the future, there would be a museum all about how strange his first day in the wizarding world had been, and featured prominently in between the smelly fat man and the loose cobblestone would be a replica of the half-destroyed wand shop, with Harry standing among the rubble looking like a total idiot.
Yeah, that was the last thing he needed right now.
Harry was starting to become concerned. All round him was evidence of his failure to bond to a wand: a mountain of empty boxes, an enormous pile of wands, and a smoky haze that lingered in the dusty shop from the many fires and explosions the apparently semi-sentient wands had caused. And there was the crazy old man, who looked like he was about to die from excessive excitement.
Ollivander stopped suddenly, holding a wand just out of Harry's reach. He peered at him creepily, and a small smile lit his face. The mad man dashed back into the stacks and came back with just one box, holding it almost reverently.
He stood before Harry and held out the new wand.
"Holly and Phoenix feather, eleven inches, reasonably pliant," he explained in a soft voice. "Try it."
Slowly, Harry grabbed the wand—only to jump back in shock as it screeched and rocketed from his hand like a missile and crashed into the wall where the whole wand exploded in a magnificent display of sound and light and flame, a distant, beautiful noise filling the shop for a brief moment, before all that was left to hear was Harry's heavy breathing and the deranged thumping of his small, startled heart.
He turned to face the wandmaker, and felt some slight satisfaction at the look of abject shock on the old man's face.
He cleared his throat. "Um, s-sorry about that, sir. And…" he looked around, "about all of the rest of the damage. I can pay for it."
Ollivander shook himself back to awareness.
"Pay?" he questioned, as if having never heard of the concept.
His eyes focused sharply on Harry, making him squirm. "You shall not be paying today, Mr. Potter."
Harry sighed in relief.
Good, Harry thought, because I probably can't afford to pay for all this damage.
"This is most unusual, you understand."
Harry looked back at the man, having no idea what was at all usual in this strange new world.
"I have never failed to match a customer with a wand. Sometimes I get the match quickly, sometimes not. I have no other wand that could possibly be a match for you. …And that last," Ollivander shook his head in disbelief, "I had thought it would be the one." He looked squarely in Harry's eye.
"It was the brother wand to the Dark Lord's," Ollivander explained. "I had expected you to match with that wand since I heard of his defeat, but it would seem that is not the case. No indeed," he said softly, looking at where the Holly wand had exploded.
Harry wasn't quite sure what to say to that. He already had enough to think about today, and did not need to add brother wands or anything like that to his list.
The fact remained, however, that Harry still needed a wand. So the question was…
"…So what now, sir? I mean," he explained to Ollivander's questioning look, "I still need a wand, and I really don't want to go to any of those other shops." Harry bit his lip, actually quite frustrated that things had gotten so out of hand. "Can you still help me?"
Ollivander's face became gleeful at the question, and didn't at all look like he was recently dug out of the grave, but was in fact quite young. Harry had to wonder if this was part of being magical, but could do no more than that, because Ollivander suddenly started rambling like a loon.
"Oh ho!" he exclaimed, making a quick jaunt behind the cluttered counter to gaze fondly at his shop. "Mr. Potter, I do believe indeed that I can still help you, as you say. Oh, yes of course," he said, looking at his wands, "well, it's been done before for the truly exceptional, you know, often at their own request or if they are in need of a replacement and are willing to pay the extra," he explained, but Harry doubted he was talking to him—because he had no idea what he was talking about—and was rather talking to his wands, "but, yes, of course."
And he suddenly cut off his rant and focused quickly on Harry. "Because you already are exceptional, aren't you, Mr. Potter?" he asked sharply. He continued slowly. "You aren't like the rest. There are things about you, things that you can do...things…things that others can't. But there's more, too. Well, yes, of course there's more to you, but, there's more, isn't there?"
For the first time in his life, Harry felt like somebody had just examined his soul and judged him honestly and without prejudice, and he could only stand there frozen in place.
Was there something more to Harry, as Mr. Ollivander had guessed? Well, there was certainly something to him. He could do things, things, Harry suspected, not very many other people could do, even among wizard kind. And he definitely wanted to do more, he wanted to learn more, and he wanted to be more than he already was. He wanted to be the best, prove to everyone else that he, Harry James Potter, wizard, was deserving of his powers.
But there was something more than that. Definitely. He just didn't know what it was yet.
Apparently, Mr. Ollivander found Harry worthy, because the old man wore a rather satisfied smile on his face and nodded at Harry.
"Excellent. Now, follow me." And he walked into the dark depths of his shop, leaving Harry standing among the smoldering ruins of the storefront.
Moving quickly around the counter, Harry slowed down and cautiously crept deeper into the unending stacks, realizing for the first time that there was no way the store could be that big, because from the outside it just seemed so small, but apparently not…perhaps everything in the wizarding world was…how to put it…bigger on the inside?
Eventually Harry had made it through the musty shelves and came upon a rather peculiar…workroom? Yes, it was definitely a workroom. There was a bench and some tools. But then, everything else, well, perhaps all wizards kept such strange things around….
"Mr. Potter," Ollivander's voice broke Harry out of his musings, "welcome to my workroom, where my family has for centuries crafted the finest wands in the British Isles."
For the first time in hours, Harry grinned, understanding just how big a deal it was for him to be where wands were made.
"Now," Ollivander said loudly, clapping his hands, "let us begin. Go over to that wall and bring back a block of wood."
Harry looked to where Ollivander had nodded and saw a large wall of shelves, holding up hundreds of blocks of wood. Intrigued, he moved over and studied the blocks, sensing them tingle with magic. Beginning at one end, Harry ran his hand along the wall and stretched out his senses, stopping occasionally if he received a notable reaction from the wood. By the time he got to the end, Harry was puzzled.
There were quite a few reactions he got from the magical wood, not all of them good, but all of them strong. Some felt hot, or cold, or even sickly, others just buzzed. But he had expected that, given the hours in the storefront and the reactions he got from the wands.
He was puzzled because one of the white woods gave off a reaction that made it seem as though it wanted to fight the other woods so that it could get to Harry. Like it was desperate. And he was hardly prepared to anticipate or deal with that sort of reaction.
Are these things alive?
But who was he to question the magic of the wood? Shrugging, Harry plucked the block from its fellows and made his way over to Ollivander, wondering at the anticipation in the man's eyes.
The old man gave a soft gasp. "Yew," he whispered. "Oh my…" Ollivander peered at Harry as though he had never seen him before—as if they hadn't just spent the past almost four hours together—and seemed to come to a decision. "I would never have guessed… It seems that we can expect great things from you, Mr. Potter, great things.
"A wand of Yew is exceedingly rare; it is said to endow its possessor with the power of life and death, and it is only matched to exceptional witches and wizards, those who are neither timid nor mediocre," he explained softly.
"He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was indeed an exceptional wizard; he did great things…terrible, yes, but great. It will be up to you to decide what great deeds you are known for…."
Harry swallowed heavily, not at all appreciating any comparison to his parents' murderer but at the same time unspeakably nervous about what was to come. But before Harry could ask any questions…
"Now, follow me," Ollivander ordered.
Ollivander walked over to the other side of his workroom and pulled open an unusually wide drawer and opened a tall and rather narrow cabinet, revealing jars and glass cases of…stuff.
Harry went to get a closer look. There was so much in the drawer Harry couldn't believe it.
Each container had a label, denoting what Harry assumed to be potential wand cores. Sparkly Fairy wings, brightly colored Fwooper feathers, some kind of teeth, golden Griffin heartstings and red Griffin feathers, purple Kelpie hairs, silvery-white Unicorn hairs, golden Sphinx heartstrings, dark red dragon heartstrings of various types, Cockatrice feathers, red and gold phoenix feathers, a grey Chimaera scale, Thestral hair—although it appeared Ollivander didn't have any more of those—both steely and bronze Hippogriff feathers, weird looking Demiguise hairs, yellow Nundu Heartstrings, and black Manticore heartstrings.
The cabinet held other things too. Jars of liquids. Basilisk venom, Dragon blood, a vial of Phoenix tears, Runespoor venom, troll bile, Re'em blood, Manticore venom, Manticore blood, Chimaera blood. And…many parts that looked quite gross.
Harry couldn't suppress a great shiver that went down his spine. He was also quite impressed—it was an excellent collection, and likely priceless. He doubted very much that most any other wandmaker he visited could offer him such high-quality service.
Excellent.
"The vast majority of Ollivander wands have a phoenix feather, unicorn tail hair, or dragon heartstring core," Ollivander explained to Harry in his soft voice.
"This isn't always the case though. To say nothing of the rarity of viable source material, witches and wizards are prone to specializations—they have natural and robust affinities for certain kinds of magic—and sometimes this is extreme, which, as the case may be, necessitates something a little something more in a wand if it is to find its match.
"Oftentimes, this happens as the bond between a wizard and his wand grows as they share in powerful experiences together, in other words, as the magic of both wizard and wand develops, but only rarely does a customer need such special attention for their first wand," he said, looking at Harry as though he were an particularly fine curio.
"Now, most of these ingredients"—Ollivander waved grandly at the containers—"are purely for my own experimental purposes; however, they are, of course, available if there is a strong enough connection to a customer. Go ahead."
Harry stepped over toward the drawer and looked at the cases of cores. There were so many, and they were all so magical… He slowly swiped his right hand over the cases, letting loose a deep breath and closing his eyes and feeling out for the right reaction. Warm, cold, cold, colder, icky, yucky, warmer, gross, warm, cold, hot, hotter.
Harry stopped. There it was again. Fighting to get to him. And Harry wanted it.
"This one, sir," he pointed out to Ollivander.
The old Wandmaker picked up the narrow glass case and held it aloft, smiling. "A heartstring from an Indian Nağin," he whispered, eyes sparkling. "You become more interesting by the minute, Mr. Potter."
Harry shuffled his feat, not quite sure how to respond to that—so he didn't, and asked a question that would likely redirect Ollivander's scrutiny away from him.
"Uh, what's a-a Nağin, sir?"
Ollivander smiled at the question. "An Indian Nağin is a purplish, two-headed dragon. A most curious species, the heads look more serpentine than draconian, and the body as a whole is rather sleeker than any other type.
"Each head has its own distinct personality, and they are said to be foils of each other—life and death, good and evil, male and female, that sort of thing. As most dragons have, it has taken on a rather mythical role in certain cultural spheres—and I think you'll agree that it certainly offers the opportunity for such embellishments with its distinct characteristics—but that is not what I can tell you about.
"What is certain, however, is that it is an ancient and terribly dangerous breed, and that, to the untrained eye, it would be very difficult indeed to tell the difference between either head, yet the difference is there all the same.
"Now, dragon wands are, as a rule, the most powerful, and tend to produce the most flamboyant spells, and they are also the quickest learners. All in all, a good match, I think," he concluded merrily.
That sounds pretty damn cool, Harry thought to himself, smiling slightly. And indeed, learning not only that dragons were real but that a piece of one's heart was going into his wand was hardly what he had expected when he walked into Mr. Ollivander's shop, it was just so fantastic!
Ollivander grinned, apparently seeing Harry's excitement plainly. "I'm very much looking forward to the finished product," he said, giving a light chuckle.
"Now! You must leave me to my work. Your wand will be ready for you in a few days, and I will owl you then. Good evening." And he turned his back on Harry began setting up his work station.
Caught off guard by the abrupt dismissal, Harry stared bemusedly at Ollivander's back.
Forgetting any lingering questions in lieu of finding somewhere to spend the next few days, Harry sighed and began walking to the front of the shop. But—
"Mr. Potter!" Ollivander called.
Harry turned around to look at the man, seeing him still busy over the bench.
"Might I suggest that you head on over to Flourish and Blotts and pick up some history books?" he asked lightly. "Knowledge is power, after all."
That sounded like an excellent idea to Harry.
"Thank you, sir. I'll be sure to do that. Good night."
