Wit of the Raven

Chapter Two

Harry Potter and Severus Snape walked into a deserted alley, Snape pensively, and Potter with some trepidation. Without warning, Severus Snape roughly grabbed Harry's arm, and muttered apparatus under his breath. A sudden whirl of colors, red, blue, green, magenta, aquamarine, vermillion, crimson, yellow, ebony, violet, silver, purple . . . suddenly, it stopped.

Harry had do his very utmost to avoid vomiting up the little food he had purloined, and took several deep gulps of air, before looking up at the imposing castle, which was immensely large, intensely grey, and extremely cold. He shivered some more, and thrust his arms into his armpits, attempting to gather some heat, and unconsciously moved closer to Snape. Snape in turn moved farther away, and Harry, noticing, blushed, and muttered his apologies.

The two of them walked up to the imposing doors, which opened up when they got closer to them, much like some modern muggle ones, except larger, and made of wood. The great hall was empty, and the two of them swept past the single table in the middle of the hall, and up the circuitous staircases, in search of Dumbledore.

They finally reached the Headmaster's office, and Snape whispered the password into the gargoyle's ear. Said ear twitched once, heralding the scary, loud, grinding sound of stone against stone, the wall parting to reveal the headmaster's office. Dumbledore, who was in the middle of an especially interesting muggle magazine called TEMP, and eating some of the house elves' delicious cuisine, was taken completely by surprise when a potions master on a mission and a little boy who was projectile clinging to the potions master, walked in on his breakfast. Headmaster Dumbledore quickly swallowed his food, put down the magazine, and after shooting at a reprimanding glance at Severus, who had shoved the child in front of him, he smiled benignly at the child, and asked politely to the child, "What's your name, child?"

The child, somewhat put at ease by the Headmaster's easygoing manner, replied shyly, "Harry Potter, sir." He looked down, at his feet upon seeing the Headmaster's disbelieving expression.

"I- but- a. . ." the normally calm Headmaster stammered, caught off guard by the child's answer. He looked closer at the child's features, and saw the sunken cheeks and thin bones of a starved child. It was possible, but why hadn't he known? The wards should've . . . he pushed the matter from his mind for the moment. There were more important things, like the here and now. Perhaps he was not the boy. Regaining his usual calm, he asked the nervous boy, "And, erm. . . Harry . . . exactly how old are you?"

Harry looked back up, cautiously, and seeing the elderly man's reassuring smile, said, hesitantly, "Exactly eleven, sir." He looked back down at his feet, not noticing the looks exchanged by Dumbledore and Snape, one panicked, and the other skeptical.

Snape stepped in now, and asked Harry, "Potter. . . Has anything . . . odd ever happened to you? Perhaps when you were feeling a strong emotion, like fear, anger, or love?"

Harry's eyes grew wide, and he remained silent, almost shaking.

Dumbledore, correctly judging Harry's expression for one of fear told Harry, "Don't worry. We shan't be mad, no matter what your answer." He gave another of his famous, charismatic grins, and reclined in his chair, trying to give an appearance of relaxation, and comfort.

Harry gave a half smile almost as if testing the waters, and upon seeing no change on the Headmaster's face, relaxed a bit. "I... I... well, kind of." After saying his bit, he once again looked down.

Dumbledore exchanged more glances with Severus, and belatedly offered Harry a lemon sherbet. Harry politely declined, and returned to his shoes. "Harry. . . have you ever had odd dreams?" Children from wizarding families had notoriously long memories, often remembering things from their very early childhood, and in some rare cases, even their births.

Harry unconsciously looked from side to side, and tensed up, remembering previous wounds from mentions of his dreams. "I. . . n-no, sir. Definitely not," he assured,

Dumbledore, deeply troubled, once again informed Harry that he wouldn't be mad at him, no matter what.

Harry looked slowly up, and then down again. "I. . . dreamt once of a man on a motorcycle. An-and. . . a man with red eyes, like a cat's, and a disgusting green light."

Deeply significant looks were traded above Harry's head, and Dumbledore mentally held his head in his hands, disappointed in himself. He had put only one aspect of Harry's safety first, and all others had been neglected, possibly ruining Potter's chance of a happy life. It would have been significantly better to grow up with a big head, rather than in fear of a part of yourself. He was very disappointed in himself. "He . . . he is indeed Harry, Severus. Get him his things in Diagon Alley, and return afterwards."

Snape nodded, and pushed the boy relatively gently out of the door, and back past the apparation wards.

"Potter," Snape commanded, "What's first on your list?"

Harry pulled said list out of his pocket, looked down it. "Um . . . Th-the uniform, sir. I need to get a robe, khaki pants, a winter cloak, gloves. . ."

"Quiet, Potter. I know what the first year's uniform is. I see it often enough." he sneered. He then began striding off towards the grey building that Harry assumed was a bank.

"W-wait! Professor!" he called, struggling to catch up. "I haven't any money, sir." he commented, returning his gaze to his exceedingly familiar shoes and the unfamiliar ground, which seemed to be made of iridescent cobblestones.

"Potter, do you really think that Potter senior would leave you without any money?" Snape laughed, mirthlessly. "Nay, he wouldn't. We'll be going to your... trust vault. The Potter family got money long ago from what their name suggests. Although allegedly descendants of Ares, they were famous herbologists, and did excellent work with successful crossbreeds of plants. They even did a formal tour of the houses." he smiled again, that leer of his, less of a smile, and more of a grimace.

Harry asked quizzically, "Houses?"

Snape answered immediately, quite surprised, "My apologies, Potter, I had nearly forgotten you were raised by muggles. The houses are a system designed by the founders of Hogwarts to organize the students, based on interests. The four houses are Slytherin, for those who value ambition, Hufflepuff for those who value loyalty, Ravenclaw for those who value intelligence, and finally Gryffindor, for those who value bravery." He shook his head, ruefully. "It's rather more complicated than that, but they'll explain it more to you when you get there."

"Anyway, back to the Potters. First their heads went to Hufflepuff, where they first learned to work with plants. Afterwards, they converted to Ravenclaw, where they learned creativity. Keep in mind that this isn't all of the Potters, since not everyone in a family is going to exemplify a certain trait. This is only the majority of them. Anyway, that was undisputably the period in which they had the most interesting crossbreeds. Your great-great-great-great-uncle invented the Mimbulus Mimbletonia, intensely paranoid wizard he was, and also the devil's snare, and the whomping willow. Excellent defenses, little or no practical purpose, except for the stinksap, which could be made by normal means. In one generation, the patriarch of your family even crossbred a fairy with a turnip, and created the mandrake." he spoke almost as if forcing the words out, as if appalled that a Potter had done something well.

Harry interrupted Snape, intrigued. "What's a mandrake?"

Snape's sneer began to disappear, amused by the boy's genuine curiosity. "A plant with a shriek like a siren, that can ironically cure petrification, although its scream is fatal. Now, once they were established as one of the top pureblood families, they switched to Slytherin, playing in politics, and dabbling in the dark arts. Then, their archenemies, the Grindelwalds, rose to power. You'd do well to remember their names . . . you'll see far too much of them in your history books. Your great-grandfather helped Dumbledore kill the wizard by the way. Anyway, back to . . . Grindelwald was it? He sent his followers off to kill his mortal enemies, who were, as I said before, the Potters. He ended up destroying a number of the previously numerous Potters, and they swore off the dark arts, and switched to Gryffindor, abandoning the cleverness of Slytherin, and in return accepting the foolhardiness of Gryffindor. Shortly before your father and I began to attend Hogwarts, the form of the houses switched, but your father, the only Potter so far to go to Hogwarts post-reform stuck with Gryffindor. Most of the Gryffindor Potters became Hit Wizards and Aurors, and those who didn't die in the war died of old age." He shook himself, before adding, "Old age for us is typically around one hundred and fifty. I believe . . . " He rolled his eyes up, as if literally looking through his brain for clues. "Yes, that's most of the Potter knowledge you should know."

Harry gazed at the professor in awe, wondering aloud, "How do you remember all of that?"

Snape smiled, truly, for the first that day, at the child's surprise, and admiration. "Snapes and Potters once were great friends, and often inter-married. I'm probably closer related to you then say, Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster you just met. We, the Snapes, worked with potions, and the dark arts. However, we cultivated the ability to work with potions far more than that with the dark, for the dark arts was a common study, potions not so much. The less common a craft, the more lucrative it is. We often asked Potters to design plants that would make the brewing of potions easier. Root of Asphodel, used in the Draught of Living Death, is a substitute for unicorn's blood, rooster's breath, and brewed glory. Rooster's breath was notoriously hard to capture, glory difficult to brew, and obtaining unicorn's blood had the nasty side effect of a general cursed existence. The Draught of Living Death was therefore never really used, until a Potter invented asphodel, and therefore its roots."

"What's the Draught of Living Death?" Harry inquired.

"It's a potion that will instill a death-like sleep upon the drinker. As I was saying, Potters and Snapes were best friends. However," Snape grimaced again, and looked a bit angry, though more regretful, "Since Potters moved to Gryffindor, they've been on less friendly terms with us than previously." He sighed, and motioned for a goblin to come over. He pulled a golden key out of thin air, and handed it to the goblin, who nodded, and took them off to a wooden cart. It sped them to vault 247, the vault holding Harry's trust account. "I expect that you might break the mold of Gryffindor, since you haven't been brainwashed like almost all of the Purebloods which house to go into."

"Purebloods, sir?"

Severus Snape stopped smiling, and sighed. "Some of the people you will meet at Hogwarts will come from long wizarding lines, such as the Malfoys, or the Weasleys. Often, they believe that this will make their children more powerful magically, although this idea dates back to the times of great wizards like Seth the Chaotic, Osiris of the Netherworlds, Re the Sun-lord, Zeus the Lightning-Wielder, Thor-with-the-Hammer, Ares the War-Like. Many of their children intermarried, and had almost unbelievably powerful children, like Horus the Falcon, who usurped Re's position of power. . . But I digress. Nowadays, the intermarriage makes the lines weaker, since we've all already intermarried, and almost all purebloods are relatively closely related these days, and none of them has 'wonderful power' or anything. The Malfoys have at least seven relatives, possibly more, whom they keep in a cellar with enchantments to keep them from hurting themselves. Not everyone is as knowledgeable about how destructive inbreeding is as I am, and the world is full of bigots."

"Professor, what can you do with magic? I just learned about it a few days ago, and. . ." Snape blanched, if at all possible, and looked directly at the child, as if trying to see if he was pulling his leg. Seeing that he wasn't, he began an interrogation of sorts.

"Mr. Potter. You received a letter, which mentions of all the absurd impossibilities in the world, magic, and just assume it isn't from some murderer, attempting to lure you out of your house? Why didn't you talk to your relatives?"

Harry shivered, and quickly lowered his eyes. He whispered something quickly, almost impossible to hear.

"Mr. Potter, speak up."

"Last time I mentioned. . ." his voice dropped several decibels, "Magic, I was beaten within an inch of my life. I wouldn't show them the letter if my li. . ."

The professor interrupted him again, mid-word. "Beat you, Mr. Potter?" He let a bit of skepticism into his voice, for although he was surprised how emaciated the boy was, he was sure the headmaster wouldn't let an abusive man take care of the savior of the wizarding world.

"Yes, sir."

"Was this occurrence repeated often?" Snape asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Harry shook his head, no. "Not this badly, professor."

"But you were beaten, regularly."

"Er. . . ah . . . I wouldn't say regularly, sir . . ." Snape glared at him, and Harry quickly replied, "Roughly twice a month, professor."

Snape jerked his head back, before regaining his normal composure, and finally answered his question. "You can do anything with magic, if you're powerful enough," he informed Harry. "Magic was created by The Creator. The Creator was not good, nor was he evil, but neutral, and he left after creating magic and the universe. We don't even have any proof that The Creator existed, simply that we have no proof that he didn't." Snape smiled, completely absorbed in the subject now discussed. "There's free magic, which I'm sure you've performed before. When your emotions get out of hand, you let go of some of the control of your magic, and it is released. Highly dangerous, it is not encouraged by the ministry to try it. Many of the dark arts use it, in an odd combination of specific emotions and controlled magic. The Unforgivables require a certain kind of anger, and the Patronus charm, although not labeled dark uses this as well, although it requires happiness instead. The fidelius, also not labeled dark, requires a certain amount of fear.

"Controlled magic is free magic that has gradually associated itself with specific words and motions. It's a highly complicated art to design new controlled magic. It usually takes several people, at least ten, to make a spell, which is what a form of controlled magic is called." Snape bent over, whispering into Harry's ear, "The headmaster once told me that he singlehandedly created a spell. The amount of power that takes is extraordinary. In confidence, you do not wish to cross Dumbledore anymore than you wish to cross The Dark Lord."

"The Dark Lord, sir?"

Snape gave Harry an odd look, before a look of understanding came across his face, and he sighed.

The cart came to a complete stop, and the goblin took Harry's key. He unlocked the vault, revealing lots of green smoke, and behind the mounds of gold coins, stacks of silver ones, and heaps of small bronze ones. Snape walked in, and picked up a gold one. "A galleon. You could buy a good chair with one of these." He walked over to the silver ones, and picked that up as well. "A sickle. Seventeen of these to a galleon. A mass-produced book." He carefully put the silver one back, and tossed Harry one of the bronze. "Knuts. Twenty-nine to a sickle, a low-quality quill." Harry tossed him back the knut, and picked up one of the knapsacks hanging on the walls. Before his eyes, one of the stacks of sickles dropped quite a bit. He put it back, and the stack regained its height. He once again pulled down the knapsack, and began stuffing it with coins, roughly a hundred of the knuts, half as many sickles, and ten galleons.

They came out of the vault, and Snape asked Harry, "So you know none of your history?" Harry shook his head no, and watched, wide-eyed, as the bag pulled itself closed, and small cursive writing appeared on the outside, reading, 'Harry Potter's Vault.' "The Dark Lord, Voldemort terrorized the populace, and he attacked your house. Your parents were part of the Order of the Phoenix, and therefore a threat to him. In addition, he heard a prophecy involving you and he, or he and another child, and he surmised that if he killed you, the prophecy would be completed, and he wouldn't have to deal with it. Prophecies are a nasty business." he shook his head, and then smiled. "However, it didn't fulfil the prophecy, and The Dark Lord was killed by his own spell, and you escaped relatively unharmed. The only thing that remained on you to . . . commemorate the fall was the scar on your forehead." Snape added, as an afterthought, "And that your parents were dead.

"It was the chance of one in a million that you're still alive. The Dark Lord killed hundreds of people by his own hand, and very few ever escaped. The Prewetts, except for one and her children, are all dead. The McKinnons. The Boneses. Your parents, who, I must admit, were both marvelously powerful, are also dead. After The Dark Lord's death, you were called a savior, and in order to 'protect your attitude,'and 'prevent your head from swelling,' as well as to keep away the deatheaters, Voldemort's followers, still at large, Dumbledore brought you to your. . . relative's house. He did not foresee their . . . violent side." Snape angrily shook his head, and then smiled, although it seemed rather forced. "On to Madam Malkins, and her clothes shop, then!" The two of them walked in, and were greeted heartily by the owner.

"Severus!" she exclaimed, shaking his hand strongly. "And. . . who do you have here? Your son?" she inquired.

The older man shook his head, saying, "No madame, my son is eight years old, not eleven," Snape replied. "This. . . this is Harry Potter."

Madam Malkins gasped, and exclaimed, "Harry Potter? Isn't he, a little. . . young?"

Snape shook his head sadly, and replied, "No. Mr. Potter's eleven years old today. That will suffice." He lowered his voice, and whispered, "You're thankful too?" She nodded, sadly, and Snape murmured his apologies. He cleared his throat, and said, blandly, "Normal Hogwarts attire."

The woman pursed her lips, and snapped her fingers, and the measuring tapes came out and started measuring his height, waist, space between his nostrils, and everything in-between. He got the required robes, cloak, hat, khakis, polos and gloves at Malkins', before walking across the street to the apothecary. He got the standard pewter cauldron, specially coated so that the pewter wouldn't react with any of the potions. He got some lovely scales, recommended by Snape himself as being easier to use than the average ones, and a golden sickle, which might give ingredients cut with it higher potency. Harry was advised by Snape not to ask the Herbology teacher, since she would almost definitely decline, but to take first, and make up excuses if asked later.

Next they passed by Flourish and Blotts, to get his general books, such as The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), A History of Magic, Magical Theory, A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, One Thousand Herbs and Fungi, Magical Drafts and Potions and The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection. He also got A Near-Squib's Guide To Ancient Runes, Logical Magic, and The Dark Forces: A Guide, with Professor Snape's urging. "And this too," he said, pulling Harry over to a small section in the back of the store labeled Muggleborn. "He may be a racist, but Lidder gives an excellent description of pretty much all old magical traditions." Snape pulled down Purebloods Are Better For Mudbloods, and when Harry pointed at 'Mudbloods' inquiringly, Snape replied, "Slur for Muggleborn. Ignore it."

Professor Snape levitated Harry's stack of books to the counter, where the cashier, with a bored look on his face, charged Harry three galleons, four sickles and eighteen knuts for his books.

Harry and Professor Snape stopped briefly in Eeylop's Emporium, and after deciding for a few minutes, got a jet black raven, on the grounds that it was significantly more intelligent than an owl, and since it was larger than the typical crow, better for carrying packages.

Eventually, they went to Ollivanders, in business since 382 BC, to get a wand for Harry. The two of them walked in, and saw an enormous room, perhaps half the size of a football field, packed with bookcases filled to the brim with boxes. Snape quickly walked to the lone desk, tapped the small bell three times, and if by magic, a tall, thin man with spindly fingers, arms, and legs appeared. "Now if you'd please fill this out, good sir," he said in a low monotone, handing Harry a quill and a sheet with seemingly inane questions, starting with, 'Are you right or left handed?' and ending with, 'If given the choice between feeding one family forever, or all families for one year, which would you choose?' Harry finished it and handed it back to the man, who scanned it over, murmuring, "Interesting, interesting. . . ."

Professor Snape, tapping his foot impatiently, snapped, "Stop dithering, Ollivander, get it over with."

"Yes, yes, of course, good sir. Accio." a wand flew into his hand, and Ollivander handed it to Harry. "Here you go," Ollivander said, beaming, as if showing off his first grandchild. "Yew, quite rigid, basilisk fang core. . . ." the instant it touched his fingers, Harry felt them warm up, and he smiled, before waving it mindlessly. A replica of the basilisk spouted out, scaring him into dropping the wand. Ollivander levitated it back into the box, and frowned, in discontent. "That was far too easy to find. Should you like to try a few others? They may be. . . better suited to you." Ollivander tossed him wand after wand, getting the same reaction, the kappa from the core coming out, sometimes moving a little, before disappearing.

Ollivander's scowl lifted, and he began to smile. "Good, good," he muttered, delighted by such a compatible, yet difficult customer. Ollivander eventually pulled a wand out of the back of the store, and handed it to Harry. Harry grimaced, feeling the wrongness, but also rightness, of the wand, and attempting to push it back to Ollivander, waved it a bit, by accident. A gigantic phoenix leapt out of it, followed by a black mist, which consumed the singing phoenix, turning it brown, then a sickly green, before its song ceased, and it face Harry again, a bare skeleton. It cawed harshly, its once beautiful voice ruined, before disappearing. He shivered, and all but threw the wand back at Ollivander, who stood there, stunned.

Ollivander shook himself and muttered something about the 'Brilliant kids of the future,' before taking Harry's hand, and plunging him into the back. He whispered lumos, and the room lit up, revealing long poles, many of them twice or three times Harry's size. He turned to Harry, and said gravely, "Harry. You must promise not to tell anyone about where your wand came from. You will tell your companion that I found one in the depths of the basement, with a hair from a centaur's mane, good for. . . say, charms. You will not, under any circumstances, tell them about your staff, or not until you are a fully grown wizard." Harry nodded, confused.

Ollivander smiled, and pulled a small pocket knife out of his pants. He flipped it open, and motioned for Harry to hold out his hand. Harry did so, cautiously, and Ollivander pricked Harry's finger, and dropped the blood on the floor. He whispered a few words, quickly, and under his breath, and the drop expanded, creating a faint red mist. He quickly hurried after it, and pulled up a two meter stick, with a small drop of blood on it, which Ollivander pressed into it.

"Curious," he commented, inspecting the staff.

"Mr Ollivander, what's curious?" Harry asked, looking the staff up and down. He could feel from there that it was . . . right, but he didn't know how.

"To make a staff, we trap a spirit inside the heartwood of a tree. With its consent of course," he quickly added. "Generally, we have to coer-" he coughed, "convince the spirit to vacate its body, but oddly, this Dragon came forth willingly. Said he was told to, by his shaman. Even brought his own wood, a lovely redwood, with its sprite still inside. The sprite translated for him, you see, and still inhabits the wood. That was. . . some ninety years ago, when I started working with staffs. Father had apprenticed me nearly twenty years before, and I had just made my own staff, and it was quite lovely, with a nameless Phoenix, and a pixy by the name of Belinda entrapped. . . lasted four score years, and I haven't had the heart to replace her yet. Staffs operate oddly. They take a little more energy to do spells, but they're more powerful if you manage them. It'll take you a little more time to get a spell than it would with a wand, but I'm sure you'll prefer the results with this." He informed Harry that if he was to have a staff, he should take ancient runes, so that he could himself make improvements, or fix it. He even lent Harry a book on staffs and their properties, seemingly delaying the time before Harry would even touch the staff. Harry was happy to merely look at it, not needing to touch it, not yet.

Suddenly, Ollivander looked at his watch, nodded, and motioned for Harry to touch the staff, standing back. Harry grinned, gripped it with his two hands, and set it strongly on the floor in front of him, before lifting it, minutely. It was enough. An enormous Dragon, not the minuscule replica of before, but a fully sized one, burst out of the staff, followed by a sprite, giggling as it climbed up it into the wind.

Ollivander watched Harry look up into empty air in delight, and smiled, broadly. A minute later, Harry looked back at Ollivander, and the elderly man inquired, "What was it like?"

The question took Harry by surprise, and he looked around the room, surprised that the shelves were still standing, and that the Dragon hadn't himself burst out of the room. "You didn't see them?" After Ollivander shook his head, Harry answered, "they were marvelous. The Dragon was a fiery red and the sprite a nice green and brown colour. . ." He paused, and frowned. "Mr. Ollivander, will that happen every time I touch it?"

"No. Only the first time. You can, however, summon the spirits, and speak with them. My pixy was a wonderful friend, until she passed away. . . terribly sad, it was." He sighed, and remembering something, shrank and illusioned the staff with the password, "Bring flowers to the funeral for a friend." After rooting around in his pockets, he handed Harry a wand polishing kit. "They get horribly mad if allowed to get dusty, and I believe that the wood sprite would be worse then the average spirit, for it is forever connected to its tree." He grinned a lopsided grin, and walked with Harry back out to an impatiently pacing Snape. He quickly instructed Harry to pay Mr. Ollivander and leave, so that they would not be late for their dinner in London. Harry waved goodbye, and feeling the staff in his pocket, smiled. It would be excellent to be a wizard.

A/N: Er... if anyone notices any glaring anachronisms or mistakes in grammar/punctuation, PLEASE tell me. I misspelled capitol (as capital) on my fictionpress account, and no one told me that I had until months later. I was mortified.

EDIT: This has been edited slightly, but it's pretty tricky to notice. Only one paragraph.

EDIT 2: Thanks to Hedwig Edwiges, a great reviewer, and although I haven't read any of her stuff, probably a just as great author, who found a grievous error. This edit has been rendered obsolete by EDIT 4.

EDIT 3: Thanks to wolf550e who has ret-edited this chapter.

EDIT 4: Thanks to Draeconin who pointed out that I still had Snape's family history screwed up. Final revision (I hope): Both of Snape's parents are pureblood wizards, he is a pureblood.