Chapter Two: First Lessons, Diagon Alley, and the Nature of Some Things

We traveled to London on the Hogwarts Express, much faster now that it was only carrying two cars behind its engine and none of the crowd. On this trip, it was only the engine, a Pullman car so we could sleep on the ride, the caboose, Professor Severus Snape, and I. My first lessons about magic were aboard that train, actually. Since I remembered nothing, I learned about the differences between wizards and ordinary, non-magical humans, called Muggles, and about why we don't use magic in front of them. You see, most Muggles can't accept magic. Their minds are too used to doing things the ordinary way that they don't bother with anything else, and don't want to. He began my lessons in proper wand use—part of the Defense Against the Dark Arts course—and had me perform the disarming expelliarmus spell.

"No, like this," he told me, demonstrating the correct way to wave the wand during a Wizard's Duel for the third time. I was using a spare wand from one of the cabinets in the Dark Arts room—rather stiff, too. I attempted again; he came around behind me. The Pullman car we practiced in was one long aisle, two rows of curtained beds on one side and a wall on the other. There was a hall on the other side of it, for passers-by to walk from one car to the next without disturbing anyone inside. The door to the sleeping cabin was at the front end. "Here." He took my right wrist in one hand. "Bring it back, and around," he said as he guided me. The mark on my wrist began to burn into my arm; I had no idea why. My hand went numb. Only the fact that I was already holding it kept my wand in my grip; I could not feel my muscles to move them and let it go. "When your arm is up, bring it down sharply and straighten it to point at your enemy, reciting the spell to end as you stop the motion." He released my wrist and I repeated the movement slowly. My tattoo prickled suddenly and the feeling rushed back to my hand. The blood tingled in my veins as if it were a Muggle soda pop. Was this what using magic felt like? "Good," Snape said. "If you do it right, it will fly off the end and neatly knock your opponent's wand from his—or her—grip. Now. Shall we try it?" He held his wand up before his face and turned away from me.

The entirety of the lesson, from the learning to the assessment, took about an hour; he only won the first time. His stern and somewhat mocking comment put steel in my spine and determination in my heart; I was fast and fierce after that. I knocked Professor Snape's wand from his hand the six other times out of seven before he let me go to sleep. "You learn quickly," was his only sentence afterward. I felt quite good about earning a compliment as I fell into a lower bed. The soothing click-clack-click of the wheels on the rails and the gentle rocking motion put me to sleep almost instantly.

The train had left at around eleven p.m., and arrived approximately five in the morning. The lessened weight saved four hours on the ten-hour journey. I was not happy about the early wake-up, but I got up anyway. The sunrise was really quite beautiful; I suppose five hours of sleep was worth it.

We ate breakfast in a highly-trafficked hostel called the Leaky Cauldron. One thing I noticed was that there were no windows on the Muggle side, so it was a bit dark. It was filled with all sorts of people, most of who recognized or greeted the Professor on sight. He chose to keep me anonymous, and I was more than glad to let him. Not everyone was…reputable-looking. I thanked him for the meal, as I hadn't eaten in at least eighteen hours; he shrugged it off. Actually, he looked as if he wanted to leave me in a room upstairs and have a drink; his temperament had not noticeably improved on the train ride.

But he rose when I had finished and led me from the room. His businesslike pace made me think he had almost forgotten I was there, and made his black robes billow out behind him. He stopped at a door. "This door leads us out to Diagon Alley. It will be busy, and best if you stay close to me. I will be cross at having to look for you if you lose yourself. Do not leave my side."

I murmured my agreement beneath his withering stare, not meeting his piercing black eyes.

Diagon Alley was a pleasant sort of place, filled with warm and benign people. They were rather nice, and most were conversing or going about their business with easy manners. To be sure, there were concerns and problems, but there was no malicious soul about them. My spirits lifted tremendously.

My mind went back to Professor Dumbledore's room. The gentle old headmaster's last comment puzzled me. It was no more than a vague confusion and a slight worry that I easily put to the back of my mind, but was still there. The problem closer at hand was the enigmatic Potions Master Snape at my side. He was like a dark shadow because of his swirling robe and habitual black clothing, and his pale face continually almost scowled to ward people off, but there was a peculiar quality to his slighting remarks and his seemingly pessimistic attitude. I knew there was a deep reason for it, so buried in his heart that nearly nothing would be able to bring it out.

We arrived at Ollivander's, the Maker of Fine Wands; he opened the door for me and followed me in.

Inside, every available shelf—and there were many—was covered in small boxes. Entire walls were nothing but these boxes. Each one contained a wand. "Well, well," the storeowner said, hearing the bell over the door. He came into the main room. Ollivander was an old man with large, pale eyes. He gave me a strange glance and then looked to the Professor. "And what occasion is this that the Potions Master comes to my humble business? I hope the wand I sold you hasn't broken. I remember every wand I've ever made—every single one. Yours was nice and strong, quite flexible…."

"No, no, Ollivander," Snape said quickly. "It hasn't broken. I have come here on the behalf of Professor Dumbledore and a new student. This is Sannovan Silde," he introduced me, surprisingly accurate in his pronunciation of my name. I curtsied to the wand-maker.

"Let me see," he murmured, looking closely at me. "You know, the wand chooses the wizard—or witch—" he said, making concessions for my sex, "not the other way around." His gaze was strangely piercing. I felt that he was merely observing intently for some sort of higher intelligence, which would assess me and make a choice based on whatever qualities he saw. A momentary theory flashed past my mind: perhaps each wand had a consciousness, if only to a tiny degree, and perhaps that consciousness was within Ollivander's mind. Perhaps each wand saw each customer that came in, and if so, then that's how the wands chose their wielders. Perhaps existing in his mind until they had chosen, they left their mark on his mind, and that was how he remembered them all.

He made a thoughtful sound and then went to his walls. He puttered around, muttering to himself. Then he selected a box from an eye-level shelf. "This one ought to do just fine." Turning, he came around his desk and presented me with the now-open black case. Inside was a wand of dark, brownish-red wood, smooth and polished. "Take it," he encouraged. "Give it a wave." I reached in and took it. The length was warm and dry. It felt well balanced in my hand, comfortable. It also seemed as if it would flex well, but was not very soft.

As he suggested, I searched for something to wave at, settling for the plain wooden quill container on his desk. If the inkwell shattered, I reasoned, the ink would ruin everything. With a gesture and good intent, I turned it into a prettily carved short glass vase.

Professor Snape was slightly surprised; his brows shot up.

"Astonishing results," the wand-maker said brightly. "But I was right again. Good." He handed me the case. "Bloodwood, my dear," he told me. "That's what it is. Bloodwood for you, with phoenix ash at the core. Fifteen and a half inches. You will do quite well," he predicted. Strangely, the opinion and statements of this odd little man mattered much to me.

"Thank you," I murmured quietly. I put the wand case into my dress pocket.

Professor Snape came forward to reckon the price and handed the man the appropriate amount. "Our next stop is the pet store. Have you chosen as to a toad, a cat, or an owl?"

"I would like an owl," I said politely.

"Very well," he replied shortly. I wondered at his continued show of bitterness. Again he opened the door, swooping upon it almost like a black owl himself.

"Professor Severus Snape," the owner of the Magical Menagerie greeted him. "How are you this fine day?" Animals were everywhere. Toads had their glass habitats as they ranged from small to almost obese, owls were in cages, and I could hear the meowing of cats.

"I'm quite well, thank you," was the answer in his clipped tone. "This is Miss Sannovan Silde. She is looking for an owl to take to Hogwarts."

"She seems a little old to be a first-year," the owner noted.

"I'm a fourth-year transfer," I informed. "My other school didn't permit familiars. Do you have any snowy owls? They are so beautiful."

"Ah, yes, I have several." He led me toward the back of the store; my dark minder moved behind me. "This one is a bit flighty," he said, pointing to a smallish one. "He's still quite young yet. But his older brother here has a spark of belligerence in him. This one," he moved on, showing me the third, "is a sensible bird. She's still on the young side, but she's already made a place in the roost. She keeps sort of to herself, but can hold her own and more if she needs to." He looked expectantly at me.

"She's definitely an option," I said. I glanced at the rest. "What about the others?"

The man made a face. "They're each from different broods," he supplied, "and they all tend to be aloof. They're the sort that expect one to keep them immaculate and wait on them wing and talon." As he spoke, one screeched insistently. The shopkeeper drew a pair of tweezers from his pocket. He used them to work an errant piece of down from the edge of the talon where it met the foot. The owl hooted in some form of thanks. "See what I mean? They expect to be groomed, too, as if I were their slave. I'm surprised that brat Malfoy didn't choose one the moment he got here." He deposited the tiny feather in the wastebasket and replaced the tweezers. "The female doesn't take any of their nonsense, though. Good girl, that one."

"You are a good guess, sir," I told the man with a smile. "The lady owl in the center will be perfect."

"I've seen many students choose their—what term did you use? Familiars?—for a good few years now. I'm starting to get the hang of them."

"How is it that you have only one female?"

He answered as we went back to the front of the shop. "She was the only female to hatch this year. She was picked on at first, but she set everything straight in a few weeks. That's why the males don't bother her." He regarded me with some surprise. "Most students choose their owls from the Owl Emporium. How is it you came here?"

"The Owl Emporium may have become…overzealous…in their sales of owls, because that is all they sell. This may not be true, of course, since this is my first time in Diagon Alley, but I've seen that people who only sell one type of thing tend be concerned only with selling it, rather than its quality or to whom they sell."

"Well," he said, in a respectful tone, "I can see you're going to do just fine. Are you sure you're only a fourth-year? That was quite a wise insight for such a young lady."

"Yes, I'm sure." Again, Snape made the payment for me. "Thank you, sir. You were most kind," I bid him farewell. I took the cage from his desk. "And thank you, Professor Snape, for being kind enough to accompany me," I expressed my appreciation as we left. "She's so beautiful. Oh, look. She's even got a spot on her right wing, like me." I smiled, happy to make a friend in my new familiar. She hooted softly at me.

"Quite a coincidence," he said with heavy disinterest. "We are going to the bookshop now. I will tell you what you will need aside from the bundle the bookkeeper will have for you. You will need first- and second-year materials."

"I'm going to be pressing two school years' worth into approximately six weeks?"

"If you can learn everything in that time, you will study your third-year classes in the next month. Those books can be shipped to you by owl."

"Oh, my," I said, thinking exactly how much that entailed. It was going to be a lot of work. Saturdays and Sundays off were definitely out, too. Oh, well, I thought. If it meant I was going to stay in the safety of the enormous castle and the care of the kind headmaster, I was more than ready to accept the challenge. Better than what I came from and certainly better than any alternatives I could think of.

The bookkeeper did indeed have first- and second-year books, and Professor Snape took me among the shelves to have me select two books I wished to have for myself. "For your extra volume of study," he said, "you may take this." He handed me a combination Latin dictionary and lesson-book, and it wasn't exactly that he was allowing me.

I took a breath and took a chance. "You know, Professor Snape," I said, looking him pointedly in the eye, "books are of three natures, specifically their covers. They protect something wonderful, they tell what lies within, or they conceal their true contents." I was quietly firm, and I placed a minor emphasis on the third description. He well knew what I meant, for there was no mistaking my tone of certainty.

"I'm giving you a chance," he said sternly, as if that explained everything. He clung to his uninviting disposition, yet it seemed as if he were deeply shaken.

I knew it was small progress, but a start nonetheless. I could only pray I discovered what he meant before I botched everything.