Warning – English is not my first language and I have no beta right now, so if you see some mistakes let me know what and where they are. If you don't see them, go find a pair of glasses or some English vocabularies and grammar books, because you're either blind or ignorant. Hell, there are probably some mistakes in this warning! Or maybe in this last sentence… or in this one… or in this one… or in this one… I think you got it.
Disclaimer – If by reading this story, you find elements that are similar and/or about something you wrote, then you are either JKR (who owns the Harry Potter Universe by the way) or another fanfiction author who I chose to compliment, criticize or mock somewhere in here. Enjoy.
Chapter 2: Differences
Harry Potter entered the kitchen with a big grin on his face. That alone put a stop to the Dursley's breakfast. Yes, even Dudley's. The large boy halted with his closed mouth full of food and with the fork in mid-air ready to stab another piece of pancake. Unfortunately for him and for anyone who happened to look, the disgusting slime of syrup and egg under his lower lip didn't halt at all. It kept on slipping though his fat chin with a very slow but very steady rhythm.
Harry sat on his usual chair and put the mail on the table, near his Uncle. He proceeded to eat his breakfast that consisted in an almost empty plate. The general atmosphere of the room was one of confusion at the very least, but it only lasted for a few seconds. Then Harry started humming to himself.
"What have you done boy?" Vernon snapped finally, sure that the little brat had done something wrong or worse… something funny.
Harry moved his gaze from his plate to his Uncle's everpurple face, the smile still on his lips despite his soft singing had just been interrupted. "Oh, I simply traveled back in time, Uncle."
Now, put yourself in poor Vernon's shoes. You're already confused because that freak of your nephew, who has absolutely no reason to smile or hum, is smiling and humming. You're already bewildered because after your obvious demonstration of power, the ingrate bastard still has a grin on his face. So, what can you do in answer to his answer?
You can just snap again.
"Do not talk about such nonsense, boy! In the cupboard, now! And you won't leave it until I say otherwise!"
Harry didn't lose his smile nor stood up.
"I don't think so, dear Uncle. I'm about to give you the best present you'll ever receive." He paused and looked everyone present in the eyes. "After breakfast I'll just go away so you will be free from my useless and ungrateful…" he seemed to search for a specific word, before smiling even more broadly and saying, "bratness."
Vernon was speechless and this time snapping wasn't even an option! He took a quick look at his wife searching for help but he found only a very pale face, very wide eyes, and very thin lips. No help from her. Maybe Dudders? The man glanced at his lovely son but found him with a confused expression on his face and a confusing mess on the very tip of his round chin. Vernon quickly looked away and shook his head slightly. No help there neither.
So he was forced to think. It was an unpleasant experience… It was as if something was in his head. There were words and they made sense in an ungrammatical but comprehensible way.
The boy. Away.
He opened his mouth and the only sound that came out was…
"Okay."
That sound was quickly followed by a splashing one greatly amplified by the silence that pervaded the kitchen.
The slimy mush had finally abandoned Dudley's chin and now rested on the table, immensely grateful that the little pig had finally let it go by opening his mouth in shock.
Harry actually heard it thanking him.
"No problem," he answered starting to eat again.
Things were going smoothly.
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Harry exited number 4 Privet Drive not long after breakfast. It would have happened earlier if his Aunt hadn't asked so many questions. That really was unexpected. 'Where are you going?', 'What happened?' and 'When will you come back?' were questions that made absolutely no sense to him coming from her. Harry replied with some of his own. 'Why do you care?', 'Why are you bothering me?' and 'Did you see my favorite socks? You know, the green ones with all those cute little bears?' He was ready to postpone his departure to find those socks, but fortunately he found out he was wearing them already. Finally at peace, he just made his way towards the door and without another glance at his relatives, he opened it and walked out. He somehow found the time to charm their refrigerator to not open for some days. Well, more like some weeks actually.
Skipping in front of the all too normal houses in Little Winging, Harry soon reached the small park who had witnessed to a lot of 'happy endings' of the little game known as 'Harry Hunting'. He went directly to the swing, seated on it, and started pushing with his feet. It was a good way to think, albeit on a broom it was far better. The wind ruffled his already messy hair and he closed his eyes, relaxed.
He stayed there for about twenty minutes, oscillating on the swing under the hot summer sun.
For a while, he concentrated on his magic. He had felt it change during his travel in time, but he hadn't been able to grasp exactly how. Now that he wasn't shocked, confused or fascinated anymore, he understood. His magic had simply adapted to his new/old – body. It wasn't different, just less developed. He tried a few basic spells and found them easy enough.
The experiments ultimately proved another point. The Ministry could not detect when he used his magic. The absence of Hopkirk's owls in the immediacies told him so, especially considering he had used his wand on the refrigerator at the Dursleys' house too. Harry had never cared about this issue in the past, but now the evidence and his experiences were blending together to form a theory.
He had received a warning about his use of underage magic only two times in his life: when Dobby had performed the hovering charm on Petunia's pudding before his second year and when he had casted his Patronus in order to protect himself and Dudley from the Dementors before his fifth year. But those two were not the only times he had used magic outside of school before his seventeenth birthday. He clearly remembered that time he had found himself on the school roof when Dudley and his gang were chasing him, or that time his hair were long again despite the previous day his Aunt had given him a ridiculously short cut. So the only Ministry letter he had actually received because of his magic, was when he had used his wand to perform the Patronus charm.
The wand was the key.
It made sense. The Ministry could only detect underage magic through one's wand. For what concerns the letter caused by Dobby's stunt… who knows what are the powers of a House-Elf? That barmy little guy could have faked or simulated Harry's wand magic. The now little boy made a mental note to get some information about elf magic. He really had a lacuna there.
Anyway, this wand here, the one he held in his hand right now, the one he had just used without repercussions, could not be detected because at the moment it belonged to no one.
No Harry Potter had entered Ollivander's shop and bought it. No Harry Potter had been somehow registered as the owner of this holly and Phoenix feather wand at the Ministry.
Yet, at least.
The thought brought to his mind his Hogwarts letter, lost somewhere in the all too large pockets of his hand-me-down trousers. He had to answer, positively of course, and then go to Diagon Alley for his school supplies. But first of all he had to quit with the swing. The thing was quite addictive.
He already knew where to go. He had decided it immediately after Uncle Vernon had snapped at him the first time. Harry was ready for Number 12 Grimmauld Place. There was no way he could stay at Number 4. The house was infested by the Dursleys, hellish creatures characterized by nauseating physical traits, boring lifestyles and an odd devotion to all that is clean and normal. No, thanks. A house infested by Doxies, Boggarts and probably Nargles was more appealing. Its wards didn't represent a problem because he was already keyed to them. In fact, to additionally protect the house when it was decided to use it as the Headquarters after Sirius' escape from Azkaban, Dumbledore had been keyed in, in order to perform the Fidelius charm. Said charm had to embody the wards around the Black house to work, so when the secret of the Fidelius was revealed to Harry, he was also keyed to them.
But that was not the point. The point was that Number 12 had been his precious home in his previous life. Why shouldn't it be in his new one too?
The same argument could have been used regarding Privet Drive as well, but everybody knows Number 4 doesn't count… right?
Harry jumped out from the swing and onto the ground. The park seemed deserted, but he cautiously reached the protection of a group of cherry-trees before disapparating. He came back into existence in a small alley in between two tall buildings. It was where he always apparated to in order to go home when for some reason or another he couldn't pop directly into the house. He followed the familiar path and soon after he found himself right in front of his home.
Number 12 Grimmauld Place was very different from how it had been just in his morning, at least from outside. It had a dark appearance despite the strong morning sun, and while in good condition in itself, there was something… dead about it. There was no trace of all the improvements and decorations he and Tonks had implemented during their stay at the house. No big golden snitch flapping its wings above the door, no balcony for when Buckbeak wanted to occasionally return to his old quarters, no green mural on the right side of the entrance representing a well done and on top of it, very meaningful owl treat. The house was plain normal.
Harry missed its singularity.
The thought made him wonder about Luna. Had she jumped in the pitch black hole after him? It was almost certain, but who knows? She could have easily been distracted by a Crumpled Horned Snorkack jumping – running? slithering? flying? – around in the shed. He wondered where, or better when, she had ended up if she had indeed followed him.
Sighing, he made his way towards the front door, wand in hand. He casted various detecting spells, but he found nothing out of the ordinary. The door was locked of course, but a few opening charms after, he heard a soft click. Turning the handle, he stepped in quickly.
The house was a mess. A thick layer of dust covered everything, there were large cobwebs in every corner and one had even found the way to wrap around Harry's foot after just two steps. Pieces of glass and wood were scattered in the midst of the remaining partially broken furniture and it seemed like some kind of battle had been fought in the Black manor. And there probably was at least a dead corpse judging by the atrocious smell that had filled his nose. The infamous umbrella stand was near the entrance and Harry smiled remembering how Tonks always tripped on it until she had put it on fire finally. The day after, he had transfigured a butterbeer bottle to look like the by then destroyed object and had watched, laughing all the time, the Auror scream in rage and vent at it with unmitigated fury. It would have been a frightening scene, if it hadn't been so fucking amusing.
Advancing cautiously, Harry made his way through the kitchen, silently passing by the portrait of Mrs. Black who fortunately didn't wake up. He approached the little cupboard and entered. In the small room, the smell seemed to intensify, a mix of dampness, old food and feet. And there, in a filthy corner, laid down Kreacher, eyes closed.
"Ah, at least now I know where the corpse is," said Harry lightly stunning him with his wand for good measure.
He advanced towards the little creature and checked his pulse, not even knowing if House Elves normally had one. They had apparently and it seemed normal fortunately.
In the next few minutes, Harry took the old elf out of the small room and to the kitchen, tying him to a solid looking chair, paying particular attention to Kreacher's fingers to restrain the creature from snap them, if he even need to do it to use his tricks.
He really had to find some information about elf magic.
When he felt satisfied, Harry silenced the door and Ennervated the little guy.
The old elf instantly snapped his head towards him, immediately awake and evidently shocked by the boy's presence. He blinked a few times his more than large eyes.
"Who are you?" the creature asked in a croaked voice, slightly struggling against the ropes.
Harry leaned casually on the entrance of the kitchen and watched the elf firmly.
"I'm the one who will bring you your Master. You do want to serve a Master Black again, don't you Kreacher?"
The creature's eyes watered instantly and he could only bob his head up and down repeatedly, his ears flapping like bat wings, while he stared at the unknown boy who had just appeared out of nowhere, offering him a true life again.
Harry Potter smiled brightly. It appeared that his preventive measures against the elf weren't needed after all.
"Perfect. Do you know the say 'I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine'?"
"You meant 'I'll stab your enemy if you stab mine'?" asked Kreacher furrowing his thin brow, a little confused.
"Yeah, that one," asserted Harry quickly in all seriousness. "I wanted to see if you were paying attention. Ten points to Kreacher."
The old elf just beamed proudly.
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"It was a fresh afternoon the one that saw Harry Potter in front of the pale sign of the Leaky Cauldron," said Harry Potter in front of the pale sign of the Leaky Cauldron, during a fresh afternoon of course. The sentence that could have only been considered a sort of commentary, attracted the attention of quite a few passing people. They watched warily the little boy who had just spoken, wondering if he had lost his sanity or if he was playing something. The fact that they didn't see a thing such as 'the pale sign of the Leaky Cauldron' helped a lot in their assumptions.
The dark-haired boy seemed lost in his thoughts, so when he spoke again, the ones who had slowed down interested, startled a little.
"His shabby clothes, too large for him, made him appear abnormal in the midst of all those well-dressed passersby momentary gawking at him."
Said passersby glanced at each other blushing a little. A few of them scattered away at a fast pace, while others actually stopped completely, amused by the boy's statements, or so their curious smiles said.
"A few of them even stopped walking to assist at the scene. Apparently they hadn't nothing better to do than watch a boy standing on a sidewalk. Harry pitied them slightly, but he didn't show it on his emotionless face," continued the boy while someone started chuckling. "At least, he was about to give them something fascinating to watch."
The small figure in large cloths remained silent for a while. With his last comment he had completely captured those people's interest and now there was a little crowd of five men and two women around him, waiting for something to happen.
"Harry Potter started walking slowly right in front of him," said the youngster while doing just that, "and the audience observed in trepidation that strange boy's march, until he simply… disappeared."
The last word was just a whisper coming from… nothing. Absolutely nothing. The five men and the two women could only stand there openmouthed staring at the now empty space in front of them where once was a boy named Harry Potter.
The Muggle repelling ward did not like all those stares at all.
Soon after, there was nobody anymore where 'the pale sign of the Leaky Cauldron' supposedly was.
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Harry strolled down through Diagon Alley unnoticed to everyone, his scar covered by his black fringe. The first stop was obviously Gringotts since without money there was no way he could buy his school supplies, unless he was willing to prostitute himself, his image and more probably his scar. He had already borrowed some knuts from Number 12, in order to send Kreacher to a magical market to buy some food and some cleaning products, of which the house was evidently lacking. The elf didn't seem against it at all though. Rather, he was overexcited and despite his age, he had immediately started cleaning and repairing the house... by hand. Harry was almost sure he heard the creature say something along the lines of 'to hell with elf magic!' But it could have easily been one of the many voices speaking in his head, considering the elf had popped away clearly magically to do his errands.
Anyway, the barmy creature was eager to have a Master to serve again. Harry had promised him one in exchange of Kreacher's help in order to fix the house and other matters, and the little bugger seemed quite happy. Apparently the creature wasn't as crazy as it had been during Harry's first adolescence.
The boy entered the doors of the bank and soon he found himself in front of a dangerous looking goblin whose tag said Peppertale, and who had just shouted a loud "Next!" from his position behind the counter.
With a serious expression on his face, Harry intoned solemnly the respectful greeting that wizards and goblins exchange from the beginning of time.
"Master Peppertale, may your gold always flow, your bloodthirst be sated, your comments be more snarky, your scowls more scornful and your females more horny," said Harry and he knew he had earned himself a lot of points with the goblin in front of him. The last comment was an addition of his own invention and it wasn't part of the formal greeting, but it was by far the most important according to him.
Peppertale seemed to share Harry's opinion judging by his lustful eyes. "More horny indeed..." he said dreamily, lost in his naughty thoughts. After a moment, he seemed to shake himself and come back to the matter at hand… "So, how can I help you, Mister…"
"Harry Potter," said the dark-haired boy ignoring the usual glance at his scar. The Goblins at least didn't gasp nor become wide-eyed. "I would like to make a withdrawal from my vault to buy my school supplies, but I don't have the key with me right now. Is that a problem?"
"Not at all, Mister Potter. It is sufficient a blood test that will show us your origins and your proper vaults. We can provide you a new key after that."
The goblin produced a strange instrument and a minute after, a sample of Harry's blood from his forefinger was been analyzed. Harry tried to read the result but it was incomprehensible for him.
Gobbledygook.
That brought a pout on the boy's face. The fact was that in his previous life Harry had tried tenaciously to find a goblin willing to teach him the language, but he had found no one. He had tried all kind of approaches, from the schoolboy one to the Auror one, going to the point of using his fame – event almost unique in his life –, but those damned creatures were all tightlipped about it.
And the reason why he wanted to learn the Gobbledygook so much… uh, let's just say it's a quite trivial one for now…
Harry noticed that the process was taking a long time – well, thirty seconds are a long time – and he wondered why. The pout quickly left place to an expectant expression. Harry watched eagerly the goblin doing his work and the question in his mind had not even a single chance to stay in there.
"So, am I Gryffindor's heir?" said the boy hopefully, but he saw Peppertale frown and immediately continued. "No no no! Let me guess! I'm Merlin's, right?" A big grin made its way on his face. He had always known it! Merlin's heir! Wow! He couldn't wait to tell Tonks, and Luna, and…
"Actually," the goblin interrupted his musings "no."
The simple answer crashed Harry's glory dreams like one of those huge hammers in the tiny hands of a cartoon character. And now that he thought about it… goblins were perfect to be characters of good animated shorts… or bad fantasy books.
After another few seconds, Peppertale finally put away the instrument and produced a vault key. "Mister Potter, the test proved your identity. This is the key necessary to open your current vault. I will have Griphook take you down to it. GRIP-"
"Wait!"
The goblin turned again towards the little wizard, a harsh scowl threatening to make its way through his face. The creature then remembered the boy's greeting. A stream of images started flowing in his mind, images of perfectly pointed yellow teeth, of brown wrinkled skin and flaccid mounds. Two words floated among those dreamy thoughts: more horny.
"Yes, Mister Potter?" asked the goblin trying to be polite against his nature.
"A dear friend of mine," said Harry very casually, "told me to trust one of the goblins here with all my havings. The name's Ripcage."
The little guy in front of him made a face Harry would have not been able to do. Apparently being polite in this occasion was not completely achievable. The goblin's natural scowl was there but it was somehow distorted because of the slightly curved lips, reminiscent of the previous polite smile. His eyes had bulged outwards and now shined with a mix of shock and disdain. All in all it was a really creepy sight.
"Ripcage?" spat Peppertale, clearly not happy with the boy's request. "I assure you Master Griphook has experience, cleverness and professionalism."
Harry smiled sweetly. "No, thank you. I would like Ripcage, please."
The goblin grumbled under his breath but didn't object further. Anyway, this time he didn't shout the name, but pressed a little button on the counter and spoke harshly and in Gobbledygook in a sort of interphone. The name 'Ripcage' could be heard quite some times both from him and from the goblin at the other end of the connection, never in a positive tone.
Harry kept on smiling graciously – despite the Gobbledygook – and waited. Soon after, a very big goblin – that is to say he was slightly less tall than Harry – made his way through the hall watched by a good number of wizards and almost the totality of the goblin community. But it was not his abnormal stature that attracted all the attention. It was his hair. Even from the other side of the large room, you could see his curls changing color, from green to magenta, from black to purple and so on. If you were near enough you could see the change involved his eyes too. And not just that… you could also see that his appearance was a little… off. The usually pointy ears were more round, the long fingers weren't as long as the ones of the other goblins and the skin was clearer and less wrinkled. Basically, he looked more human.
The strange goblin reached Harry and eyed him suspiciously for a moment. Then he turned towards Peppertale.
"You made me call, sir?" he asked in a childish but even tone.
"Yes," sneered the goblin behind the counter. "Escort Mister Potter to his vault."
Peppertale seemed to want to have very little to do with the newcomer and made a shooing gesture with his hand. Ripcage didn't appear bothered and without a word made his way towards the carts followed by Harry.
Just as the drive started and Harry was about to request the cart's fastest speed, Ripcage turned around.
"Mr. Potter-"
"Hey, I'm not even eleven years old yet! I'm not a Mister. Call me Harry," interrupted the boy with a grin. "May I call you Rip?"
Ripcage looked very pensive. "It would be a first…"
"Well, Rip sounds great. It's menacing like 'I'll rip you apart'," said Harry ending with a hoarse slightly buccaneerish voice and a hostile grin. "It can also remind you of 'Rest In Peace', that can consolidate the threat of your name. And," continued Harry like the best had yet to come "it's the nickname of sort of one of the best NBA players."
Despite Ripcage didn't know what this 'NBA' was – although he made a mental note to discover it soon – he found himself enjoying the other motivations.
"Okay. You can call me Rip," he decided.
"Yessir! Sorry if I just stole your catchphrase," said Harry.
"No problem," replied Rip who didn't seem to care, or more likely, didn't seem to understand what the strange boy meant, so he simply resumed from where he had been interrupted the first time. "Harry, why did you ask for me?" he said in his childish voice, that revealed he too was only eleven despite his misguiding appearances. His eyes and hair stabilized themselves to brown, while his expression to one of true puzzlement and on top of it, wariness. Being an outcast all your life tends to make you less trustful.
For those of you who have not yet grasped that, Ripcage is not a normal goblin. Actually, he's only part goblin. Did you think Hagrid was the only example of breeding between two different species? Ah, the forbidden fruit, the rebelling act, the unnatural fascination of sex with a member of another race… Don't you start denying it, you little freaks! I know that thought crossed your mind, or maybe you actually put that thought into fact… perverts!
Anyway, Ripcage is half goblin and half human. His goblin mum killed his human dad soon after his birth and nobody exactly knows why, not even Ripcage. After the imprisonment of his mother, the half-goblin became what you can define as a 'football'. He was repudiated from his father's family and in general from the wizarding world. The goblin community reluctantly accepted him but even now it continues to watch him suspiciously because of his wizarding part of his blood.
Wizarding part that is highly evident.
As you could understand from his rather visible abilities, Ripcage is a Methamorphmagus. He was not very skilled in Harry's first life, but only because he had started to study and develop his talent at a late age, or at least that's what he had always said. He and Harry had become good friends when the half-goblin had searched and obtained Tonks' help for his Metamorphmagus abilities. The Man-Who-Vanquished had found in Ripcage – or how he called him at the time, Rip –, a more scathing counterpart to Ron. And it was really predictable that he and the Weasley would have got along smashingly well. And so it went.
Harry watched his soon to be again friend, a big grin threatening to split open his face. If he was to go to Hogwarts again he wanted to have all the fun he could.
"I have a proposition for you," Harry shouted over the rush of the wind. The carts had rapidly taken speed, narrowing between stone passages and dark tunnels.
Ripcage waited for the human boy to explain himself, his only reaction that of furrowing his brow.
"How about going to Hogwarts School of Magic this year?" said Harry smiling mischievously.
The widening of Ripcage's eyes was already a clear answer in itself.
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Harry exited Gringotts with a bag full of galleons and an adamant expression on his face. He had left an unconvinced Ripcage in the bank hall and was ready to finally buy his school supplies. He wanted to do that quickly, because he had to be at Hogwarts for dinner to prove to the half-goblin that he would have no problem in making him a student there.
Rip had dared say he had no pull over Albus Dumbledore.
"Blasphemy!" shouted Harry in the middle of the street while advancing towards Madam Malkin's, his next stop. The few wizards still in Diagon Alley in the early evening gave him curious looks but soon walked away.
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"What do you mean you don't have super-uber trunks?" asked Harry not a little shocked.
"Sorry but…" started the confused clerk of 'Magical Trunks' only to be interrupted by the strange boy who had asked strange questions for the last five minutes.
"Are you saying you don't have trunks that contain at least a million compartments, infinite space, a room where you can train and where time passes by much more slowly than in reality, and that are protected against all kinds of charms, jinxes, hexes and curses?"
The clerk made to speak but his eyes narrowed dangerously when he was interrupted again.
"Maybe you call them in another way," Harry mused, bringing a finger to his chin. "Mega-ultra trunks? Great-grand trunks? Bingo-bongo-"
"WE DON'T HAVE THAT KIND OF TRUNKS!" shouted the poor guy, red faced, who had yet to meet such an annoying client in his two years at his job.
The clerk tried to regain his temper, while Harry for a moment wore a very puzzled expression. Then the boy shrugged.
"Okay. A cheap-standard one then, thanks."
The clerk just facepalmed himself.
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Harry had almost finished with his shopping. Clothes, books, potion equipment and telescope were all in his feather-light trunk and he held Hedwig's cage in his right hand. The snowy owl was sleeping peacefully with her head under the wing despite the constant oscillation of the cage. Just one other thing was missing.
The Man-Who-Vanquished, now downgraded to Boy-Who-Lived, opened the door of Ollivander's shop and stepped in. The tinkling bell welcomed him only a moment before the old wand maker did.
"Ah, good afternoon. I was waiting for you, Harry Potter," said the creepy man coming out from a door on the left.
"Good afternoon to you Mr. Ollivander," replied Harry crossing eyes with the old man. Bright green met pale blue and the two of them just stood there for a couple of seconds.
Then Harry put his trunk and Hedwig's cage on the ground and sighed a long sigh. After a moment he started to walk back and forth in the small shop.
"So you know, huh?"
Ollivander remained silent but continued to watch the boy's every single move.
"I expected it, really," continued Harry. "I always had the impression you were more then what met the eye."
Ollivander's face was expressionless while he listened to the boy.
"But this time… how?" Harry asked simply.
He finally stopped right in front of the old man, crossed his arms and waited for an answer.
It came but, surprisingly, in form of a question. And what a question…
"Mr. Potter… what in the name of Merlin are you talking about?"
Harry's eyes bulged outwards in shock, watching the wand maker's puzzled face. Ollivander's confused expression seemed absolutely authentic, not faked at all. Harry tried a little of subtle Legilimency and found the man's thoughts easily enough. He really had no idea of what Harry was talking about. Harry was so sure Ollivander would have been aware of his time-travel… why Harry thought that, he really didn't know. There would have been no explanation, except the idiotic one that involved a Superhuman, Semi-God, Friend of Fate Ollivander. Well… better this way.
"So you don't know, huh?"
Harry started to walk back and forth again.
"I expected it, really," continued Harry while Ollivander just blinked in confusion. "I always had the impression you were no more than what met the eye."
Ollivander's face was not expressionless while he listened to the boy this time. The mouth that hanged open and the brow furrowed were clearly forming an expression, and quite an evident one at that.
"But this time… how?"
Again, Harry finally stopped right in front of the old man, crossed his arms and waited for an answer he was sure would never come. When after a few seconds, nothing came out of the still open mouth of the wand maker, the boy continued as if anything strange had happened, with a polite smile on his face.
"So, this wands of yours… how about trying some, sir?"
Ollivander finally regained his composure after blinking a few times.
"Yes..." he said very slowly. "Which is your wand arm?" asked the old man seemingly in automatic.
"I'm right-handed, sir."
What followed were a meticulous and quite boring measurement and a meticulous and rather boring testing of many wands. After some minutes, Harry who, if you have yet to notice, tires very quickly, began firing a very rapid succession of questions and sentences in between various waves of not proper wands. The very bright Ollivander wondered why the weird boy kept on talking about brothers, feathers and foxes, but he immediately dismissed the thought when he had an epiphany. Why didn't he think about it early!
"I wonder, now… yes, why not? Unusual combination… holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
Harry just sighed while the old man finally brought his wand. The familiar warm sensation on his fingers when Harry took it, was really priceless. The boy felt something hot in the pocket where his other wand was and wondered not for the first time what would happen if the two identical pieces of wood entered in contact.
White sparks erupted from the tip when Harry swished it and Ollivander complimented aloud the boy and in his mind himself for his great deduction.
"How curious…" he murmured.
"Yeah, so many sparks are not something just anybody can produce," nodded Harry in agreement while noticing the old man cast a strange type of tracking charm concealed by a wrapping charm on his wand and box.
"Actually, I was talking about-"
"Oh yeah, they were many and most importantly, they were white, color symbol of light and fairness."
The wand maker was about to try again but he decided he was tired. It was almost close-down time anyway.
"Yes. That's exactly what I was thinking. We must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…" he said rubbing his eyes. He then murmured as an afterthought "Weird, yes, but great."
Harry grinned amused and paid seven galleons for his wand. He grabbed Hedwig's cage and his trunk, and left the shop to go home first and to Hogwarts then.
Immediately after the boy's exit, Ollivander sat on his comfortable chair. It had been a very trying end of day. He had yet to put back all the wands the Potter boy had tested and had to write to Albus to inform him of the last sale. Oh well, the owl could wait till the next day…
When ten minutes after, the clock showed it was eight, Ollivander stood up and began reorganizing his shop while thinking over his encounter with the Boy-Who-Lived. If someone had been there, he would have seen the old man shake his head and hear him say…
"It's true that I'm going senile, but he's not normal."
OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO
Author's notes
For what concerns the theory on underage magic, the canon story is so full of holes that I found acceptable to create my own vision of the problem, although I'm sure it wasn't completely original, if at all.
For those of you who don't follow the NBA, the basketball player nicknamed Rip is Richard Hamilton (Detroit Pistons… for now). He always ends his interviews with "Yessir!" and everytime he scores at the Palace of Auburn Hills, the speaker shouts it too.