Chapter 3 - Needful Things

The trip into London was uneventful. Hermione's parents spent most of the time contrasting their brief visit with Professor McGonagall to Professor Flitwick's visit, with a lot of comments on how normal Professor McGonagall had seemed, aside from vanishing from their foyer before their eyes, of course. Hermione kept to herself, going over the encounter in her memory.

Professor McGonagall had seemed very...professorial. Not like Professor Flitwick, who'd been quite social and gone to considerable lengths to put everyone at ease. She was also obviously surprised to hear he'd visited them, which made Hermione curious. Clearly he hadn't mentioned it to her - maybe they just hadn't run into each other? But then why had she sounded so...put out about it? Hermione resolved to pay close attention to interactions between the Professors. It wouldn't do to get on anyone's bad side before even turning in a single assignment!

But that vanishing trick seemed quite useful, rather more so than turning an entire room colors, no matter how proud Professor Flitwick had seemed to be of the accomplishment. Hermione made another note to keep an eye out for that while reading her books, something she was frankly itching to begin. The past couple days waiting had been almost torture - Professor Flitwick had said there was probably no point in reading the Wicca and other 'magic' books at her library, which left her with little she could do to prepare.

She'd memorized the Letter, of course, including the list of books, equipment and supplies she would need. And after hearing the Professor's explanations about 'Accidental Magic', she went over all her memories of the odd 'lucky' experiences she'd had over the years, writing them down in as much detail as she could remember and going over common features. It seemed clear that emotion was a frequent contributor, if not necessarily intent. But need had been an element of almost all of them, and that made her wonder a bit about her priorities, but only for a moment. Books were important, after all. But she hadn't tried to do any more Accidental Magic on purpose, partially since the very concept was rather contradictory, but more because of Professor Flitwick's intimations that though it rarely caused lasting or irreversible harm, Accidental Magic could on occasion be dangerous.

So instead she'd resorted to one of her problem-solving techniques, which told her that if she couldn't do anything productive at one level of the problem, to move up or down a level and try again. She'd seen for herself that precise wand motions were important, so she'd checked out a few books on increasing her manual dexterity, and had spent several hours working through both juggling and sleight of hand exercises. From what Professor Flitwick had said, spellbooks weren't referred to in practical situations, spells were meant to be entirely memorized, so she re-read her books on mnemonics as well.

But finally the day had arrived, they were here, and they were approaching number 113. Hermione felt as if her eyes were sponges, ready to soak in every detail and file it away for proper consideration.

The Leaky Cauldron was, accordingly, something of a disappointment.

"A pub?" said Hermione with mild incredulity. Little more than a small window and a door, hardly noticeable between the large and busy shops on either side of it. But then, Witches did apparently have that concern about secrecy, so she supposed they'd want it to be easily missed. Her parents, however, were scrutinizing the pocket street map they'd brought, looking back and forth between the bookshop and record store.

"Maybe it's one of those out-of-sequence places, further up or down a ways?" mused Mr Granger. Hermione, perplexed, cleared her throat, glancing at the pub's entrance.

"Not by the listings...not that there was a listing for this place anyway," observed Hermione's mother.

"Um," said Hermione.

"She really ought to have given us landmarks if it was going to be trouble to find," complained her father.

"Hey!" Hermione interrupted, raising her voice a bit. Her parents turned to her, looking surprised and a bit irritated. "I'm sorry," said the girl, "but it's right there," she explained, pointing. The couple looked at the bookshop, then the record store, then their daughter. Their eyes didn't even slow as they passed over the door of the pub. Admittedly, it was extremely dingy, but it's not like it was hidden. Unless...secrecy…?

"Take my hands," she said suddenly, reaching an arm up towards each of her parents. For a moment it seemed they would object, but they looked at each other, then did as she asked.

Their mouths fell open.

"I guess that means you can see it now?" asked Hermione excitedly. "Let's go, then!" She tugged them forward, and her father opened the door to the pub with his free hand, staring in wonderment. As the three entered the darkened interior, they saw Professor McGonagall stopping short in front of them, looking quite different - the drab flower print had been replaced with an elaborate pointed hat and a sort of formal robes in emerald green.

"I was just coming out to explain how to resolve the protections against muggles noticing the Leaky Cauldron, but I see Miss Granger has worked that out on her own," she said, sounding mildly impressed. "Well, it's done at any rate, so shall we get started?" The Professor spun and led them through the pub towards the back, the hem of her robes waving gently with the vigor of her stride, and somehow looking much more natural than the very normal dress she'd been wearing before.

The other denizens of the Leaky Cauldron wore a collection of equally unusual garments, and glanced with mild interest at the Grangers as they passed. Hermione's parents seemed freshly intimidated by the suddenly-appearing pub door and the mild strangeness inside and stared fixedly at the Professor's back, while Hermione instead tried to look around in every direction at once, lingering on the chalkboard listing drinks and dishes on offer (Butterbeer - two sickles, Gillywater - three sickles, Vagabond's Pillow - five sickles, eleven knuts), as well as the sole book visible - being read by a young man in the corner, it was titled 'Creatures of the Far East and Which Parts of You They Find Delicious'. But before she could really begin to puzzle out the illustration on the back, they were already through, and into a cramped courtyard.

It had the look of exactly the sort of place - had this actually been an elaborate ruse - where a couple of toughs would've emerged from the shadows and demanded all of the Grangers' money and valuables. But before Hermione's parents had time to form such thoughts, McGonagall had withdrawn her wand from her robes and smartly tapped a particular brick in the courtyard wall three times. There was an eye-twisting rearrangement of the bricks into an archway, beyond which was a bustle of color and activity. The Professor urged them through, then followed herself, the archway shifting back into a solid wall as quickly as it had formed.

Diagon Alley was impossible in several ways. First, it clearly couldn't fit where it was situated, at least not if Hermione's parents' street map was at all accurate. Second, many of the buildings looked as if not only building codes but indeed fundamental principles of load and balance were not so much laws as polite suggestions, easily worked around if you were in a hurry. And Third...it was too much. Her parents might've been rooted to the spot if they hadn't feared losing Professor McGonagall in the busy streets. Whereas every direction Hermione looked revealed at least a dozen things she didn't understand and would dearly like to have had explained to her (or have her guesses confirmed), except half of them would be gone when she glanced back and every step they took brought another dozen into view.

In desperation, Hermione focused on just memorizing the names and locations of each shop they passed, with a few examples of what seemed to be on display in the windows - and giving special attention towards any that seemed to sell books, of course.

The Professor's businesslike pace brought them quickly within sight of Gringotts, whose bright and straightforward architecture quite clearly stated 'I am a Bank. I am sturdy and reliable - indeed impregnable - and none of that haphazard tilting nonsense will be brooked here, thank you kindly.' The very normalcy of it - even if the bronze doors were a bit ostentatious - helped the elder Grangers relax a bit.

"Some muggles are taken aback at discovering that Gringotts is a goblin-run bank," said Professor McGonagall suddenly as they approached. "A few have even screamed upon seeing their first goblin, though you seem more open-minded than that sort," she added with elaborate casualness, aiming a friendly glance towards Hermione's parents. Hermione wasn't sure she'd ever heard anyone refer to her parents as open-minded, but having heard themselves suggested as such, they'd no doubt be doing their best to live up to that expectation. Just in time, too, as there was in fact a goblin standing guard outside the bank. Mr. and Mrs. Granger nodded politely to him, trying not to let their eyes widen, while Hermione examined him as closely as she could without actually staring, and added another fifty or so questions to her mental list of things she needed to know immediately or sooner.

The Professor coached Mr. Granger through the relatively simple money-changing transaction. He had to do it himself, as the goblins took fiduciary responsibility very seriously, and would not allow the Professor to act as an intermediary without a lot of tedious documentation - which they would also have charged various fees to witness and certify. Mostly she stressed that he should not count the coins as he received them. Hermione's father actually seemed a bit more nervous due to all of the fuss, but managed to get through without incident. He'd apparently taken the Professor's advice about excess to heart, as he'd given the teller around three hundred pounds, and received three sizeable bags of coin in return. After leaving Gringotts, the family examined some of the coins curiously while Professor McGonagall explained the coins' relative values.

"They're so light, but solid," remarked Mrs. Granger, hefting a couple of Galleons in her palm. "Gold is at two-eleven per troy, isn't it, dear-" she glanced at her husband, who nodded, "so at five pounds to the Galleon there can't be much more than a third of an ounce of gold in each coin. What's the rest?" Dentists had to buy metals for fillings regularly, and she seemed relieved to have something familiar to discuss for a moment.

"Magic," said Professor McGonagall, with a prim smile. "As I understand it, the minting process makes counterfeiting quite difficult while also enhancing durability, though goblins are quite reluctant to discuss the details of their metal-magics with outsiders." Mrs. Granger's brief comfort slipped visibly from her face. Hermione was still thinking it over, however.

"What do the goblins do with the normal...ah, muggle money they get?", she asked. Without people on each side frequently buying things from those on the other, she wasn't sure her mother's assumptions about the exchange rates made sense. Professor McGonagall frowned, then shrugged.

"I'm sure I do not know...I suppose they keep it on hand for customers who need exchanges in the other direction?" She seemed about to say something else, but visibly changed her mind. "Best get you to Madam Malkin for a fitting first, then we can complete the rest of your shopping while she's preparing your uniforms and pick them up after." The tall woman strode away, leaving the Grangers to scramble in her wake to catch up. Hermione's mental list was getting rather long, and she resolved to write it down as soon as she had a pen and paper.

The fitting went smoothly, though Professor McGonagall waited outside with Hermione's parents so she had no chance to ask any useful questions - Madam Malkin was extremely focused on her task, which Hermione found commendable in general but a bit irritating in this particular circumstance. She began to worry that Professor McGonagall's efficiency would be equally inconvenient, not allowing her any time to explore more than the bare minimum, and used the remainder of her fitting to work out a solution to that problem. Outside the shop, she tried to put it into practice.

"Um, I was thinking, rather than visiting each shop in turn, maybe we could split up? The larger book shop - Flourish and Blotts, was it? - looked rather busy. I could go there and get all the books...I mean, well, not all the books-" she laughed nervously, "but the ones on the list, plus you know, if I saw one or two other interesting ones...while you three went around for the other things?" It really was a good idea - the fact that it'd let her have as much time as possible to peruse the book stores was just a happy bonus, wasn't it?

Her parents were accustomed to this sort of negotiation, and chuckled. They didn't have a problem with it, but checked with Professor McGonagall. The older witch shook her head ruefully and muttered something Hermione didn't catch, though it sounded like it ended with '-claws', but also didn't see a problem with it, as long as Hermione stayed in the shops on Diagon Alley proper, taking - and she stressed this - no side streets. Hermione cheerfully agreed to this condition, though of course she had to ask why. The Professor did that eyebrow thing she did for a moment, then admitted that the street connected to other areas, 'less appropriate for children'. Whereupon her parents reconsidered their earlier agreement, and Hermione had to convince them she was entirely responsible and only wanted to look in bookstores, and she'd done the same thing in the City before, and it's not as if there weren't some unpleasant parts of London…

In the end, they gave in. She was very, very responsible for a girl her age, after all.

o-o-o

A couple hours later, the little fellowship had reformed, quite a few galleons lighter but along with the other items and supplies, over a dozen books heavier. Even Hermione's parents hadn't been able to resist picking something up from one of the book shops they'd checked before locating their daughter - 'So, Your Daughter's a Witch: A Guide to Magical Adolescence'. It wasn't written with muggles in mind particularly, but it didn't seem to be aimed at a particularly intelligent audience so they figured they could puzzle things out from context. All that remained now was to buy Hermione's wand, so Professor McGonagall led the way to Ollivanders Wand Shop. The sign read 'Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.', and Hermione scratched another question onto her list with the self-inking quill she'd since acquired.

"We shall wait outside for you, Miss Granger," declared Professor McGonagall.

"Oh...is wand-buying a private process?" asked Hermione, fascinated. McGonagall pursed her lips.

"Personal, certainly, but not particularly private - it's just that it can occasionally take time and it would be quite cramped inside for four." Hermione was somewhat nonplussed by the answer, but nodded. She collected a handful of galleons from her parents, then entered the shop.

She could see immediately what McGonagall meant - the shop was narrow to begin with, and tightened further by shelves of long narrow boxes covering every available inch of the walls. No one was immediately visible, but the door caused a bell to ring somewhere in the rear of the shop. She studied the boxes while she waited. Few of them were labeled in any way, unless the color of the box was some sort of code. Though many of the boxes were so coated in dust the color wasn't even immediately apparent. Hermione wondered why they would keep so much unsold inventory in a shop so small. With wands a seemingly central part of magical life, she'd have expected it to be much more like an electronics store showroom, with various models displayed prominently - as other shops had in fact displayed broomsticks, come to think of it.

"It's a problem of selection, you see," issued a soft voice behind her. Hermione whirled around with a startled 'eep'. She stopped as she came to face a white-haired old man who was watching her quietly. There was something odd about his eyes.

"Sorry?" Hermione asked when she'd regained her composure, not sure if the man had been literally answering her thoughts, but not ruling it out either. He waved a hand lazily at the shelves surrounding them.

"Selection. But in reverse - 'the Wand chooses the Wizard', as goes the saying. Or Witch, of course, but it's a very old saying, you know," he elaborated, apologetically. "Wands do not think, not truly. But they can mirror our emotions in many ways. They feel. A wand is an extension of your personal essence, and the ideal wand is matched to that essence as closely as possible." Hermione drank in the words greedily. This was clearly someone who knew things worth hearing.

"So you need to keep a disproportionately wide variety of wands on hand, since you never know what will be needed until someone walks in?" she confirmed.

"Just so," said the man, his eyes twinkling. They were not just light grey, but actually silver. Hermione wondered if he had non-human ancestry, like Professor Flitwick, or if sliver eyes were just a natural variation for wizards.

"Garrick Ollivander," said the man, introducing himself. "And your name, young lady?"

"Hermione Granger," she said, after offering her hand politely. At her name, the man stiffened slightly in the act of shaking her hand.

"Just so," he whispered, in a strange echo of himself. For a moment he just stared at her, until Hermione began to shift uncomfortably, and he seemed to shake himself out of a daze. "Muggle-born, I see," he noted, glancing down at her clothes, "I suppose you've no hint of your ancestry...magical, that is?" Hermione shrugged.

"If anyone in our family has known about magic, they certainly never mentioned it to us - we were all quite surprised - though it sounds like they would've been expected to keep it to themselves?" The old man nodded, then began to peruse the shelves, muttering to himself.

"No, no...no...I know it's here somewhere." He moved further into the shop and climbed most of the way up a ladder, craning his neck to examine more out-of-the-way boxes. "Have to try it of course, after so long…ah." The old man stretched an arm up to extract a box from a shelf near the ceiling, then clambered back down to rejoin Hermione. The box was actually itself made of wood, carved with intricate vines. He slid back the lid and withdrew a delicate-looking wand of a pale tan wood. "Muggle-born...which hand do you write with?" he asked.

"Right," said Hermione, raising that hand. Ollivander extended the wand to her, thick end first. It had been intricately carved, making it seem as if six vines had twined around each other to form the shaft. She took the wand gently, her fingertips nestling easily into the gaps in the carving, and at the man's urging motion, waved it through the air. Immediately the tip gave off white sparks, and Hermione felt a tingle up her right arm. She was thrilled and amazed, but Ollivander wasn't done yet.

"Now the left," he said, leaning forward slightly. Hermione obediently switched the wand to her left hand and waved it similarly. This time, a thin line of blue vapor trailed behind the wand's tip, swirling slightly in the air. Ollivander's eyes widened. "There it is, then," he whispered. Hermione was distracted from her pleasure at producing the trail of smoke, which was both pretty and fascinating, and gave the wandmaker a somewhat vexed look.

"Um. I have to ask, because you keep whispering like that, and you seemed to recognize my name...is there something unusual about me? Or this wand? It seems quite old, but it looked like you picked it out specifically, and Professor McGonagall said that buying a wand can sometimes take a long time, which - along with the old saying you mentioned - implies I might have to test a few out, like shoes, only this one does seem to have worked quite well on the first try, which means you expected it would work for me in particular for some reason…" Hermione rambled a bit, because she still wasn't comfortable enough with magical customs...maybe speaking in hushed tones was just a normal part of the process?...but the whole experience had been a bit weird.

Ollivander regarded her for a moment, clearly weighing his words, then nodded to himself, seeming to come to a decision, and shrugged.

"'Unusual'? I couldn't say - we are each unique in our own way, are we not? But to be sure, you are meant for that wand...among other things. You have a destiny, Hermione Granger. But I think that if you knew it in full, you might not necessarily fulfill it as naturally." His words dripped with meaning and portent, but also a sort of absent casualness (which was a trick common to wandmakers).

"I really need to know what all of that means, absolute top of the list, right now. And if this is just some sort of terribly elaborate sales pitch, I shall be very cross and ask Professor McGonagall to help me buy a wand somewhere else," said the girl, crossing her arms and attempting to sound stern, though there was a note of pleading in her demand as well. The old wandmaker shook his head and withdrew a gnarled dark wand from his robes.

"I have little doubt you will learn...everything in Time, Miss Granger. But it will not have been now, nor from me," he intoned. Hermione's brow furrowed at his choice of phrasing, but before she could complain about it, a bright flash issued from the tip of Ollivander's wand, and she was Obliviated.

For the second time that day.

o-o-o

Hermione emerged from the shop, swishing her new wand and staring wonderingly at the white sparks.

"I see your purchase went well," remarked Professor McGonagall. Hermione nodded absently, still staring at her wand.

"I had to try out almost a dozen until this one worked. Vine wood, with a dragon heartstring core, apparently? Is it always white sparks," she asked, producing another burst of them, "or does that depend on the person? I meant to ask Mr. Ollivander, but I...guess I got distracted." Her brow furrowed a little, but her train of thought was broken by Professor McGonagall's reply.

"Usually sparks, the color may vary, and please refrain for the moment, Miss Granger?" Hermione stopped swishing her wand, looking contrite. "There is a law that prohibits under-aged children from using magic outside of the auspices of appropriate magical supervision, with a few extremely limited exceptions," continued the Professor. Hermione was appalled, and her mouth fell open for a moment.

"I can't practice at home?"

A respectful but lively debate on Ministry policy ensued as they receded from the shop towards the Leaky Cauldron, their progress followed, unnoticed, by a pair of silvery eyes behind a darkened upper window.

o-o-o-o-o

A/N: Thanks for being patient with all this set-up and mysterious foreshadowing. I promise we'll actually get on the Express next chapter, and start taking canon really off the rails (see what I did there?).

A/N 2: In response to a couple of questions on reviews: No, you didn't miss something - the first obliviation isn't shown at all, it was left out for added suspense (and hopefully dramatic effect)!