A/N: Wow, I've written a couple fanfictions before this, and I've gotta say, I've never gotten seven reviews in the span of a few hours after posting. I feel so happy, I'll be uploading the second chapter, as you can obviously see. Anyway, here is the second chapter, in which we discover what happened to poor Harry, and the madness that resulted from the Wizarding World's savior getting lost in New York City. So, here's that. Oh, and this is the first time that I've had enough reviewers to do that reviewer reply thing, so:

notyou: I'm flattered that you think so, and I can take all the luck I can get. Thanks.

Naginator: That issue will be addressed in this chappie, so be patient, por favor.

Gulian: Thanks for the support. I hope this is a quick enough update for you, and I also hope that this is enough chapter growth as well.

Riotstarter1214: I know I'm awesome, but it's always nice to hear it from somebody other than the voices in my head, y'know?

HP-DG-SB-LL-CC-KB-AJ-HA-NT-RR- You have a really long penname, there, you know that? Anyway, I will indeed be continuing this story for as long as humanly possible. Look forward to updates, but not as quick as this one. I'm just super psyched that I got seven review in a few hours. That's dope as fuck.

Victorules: Thanks for the kind words. As a writer, I'm always really insecure about my writing, and it's cool to hear that people like it.

KoniK47- This idea came to me in a drug-induced stupor, so thank whatever powers that may be for this and keep reading. Thanks.

Wow, that felt pretty cool. Bring me more reviews for sustenance and I'll keep cranking out chapters, folks. Now, on with the fic!

Disclaimer: Don't own shit.

Chapter 2-Lucky Dog Star

6 July, 1998

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Somewhere in Northern Scotland, United Kingdom

Rita Skeeter was happy. No, she decided, frowning slightly as she cast for the appropriate word. A blissful smile crossed her face as she found it. Ecstatic. Yes, that's the one.

Her newly invented Quick-Quotes Quill had become her best friend in journalism, and she wasn't about to sell this idea to anyone. Then there would be reporters by the cauldron-loads.

She was at a press conference that Albus Dumbledore had called in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, and the bombshell he'd dropped on them was one for the books. The Magical World's savior, Harry Potter, had wandered off and had become lost somewhere in the United States.

Her quill was working the double-shift as the ICWs most senior members bickered like school kids, and there were desperate shouts for firecalls to the U.S. so they could start the search immediately. Oh, she knew this was going to be a good day.

Rita saw Dumbledore's tall, slim frame straighten to its full height as he stood. He tried to calm everyone down with easy gestures of his hands, his eyes doing that damnable twinkling as they do most of the time. When that failed, Dumbledore cleared his throat and raised his hands in front of him, eyes devoid of any twinkling.

"May I have your attention?" His magically-enhanced voice boomed like thunder, reminding them all why this man was the Supreme Mugwump. "Now, we must all cease our quarreling and place the matter at hand at the foremost of all our thoughts."

Cornelius Fudge, the English Minister of Magic shuffled nervously at the Hufflepuff table, fiddling with the brim of his bowler hat. "Do you think Sirius Black might have bewitched those Muggles and kidnapped Potter?" The most dangerous criminal to ever be imprisoned in Azkaban had recently escaped from the terrible fortress, and the entire United Kingdom was in a frenzy trying to capture him.

Dumbledore, however, shook his head negatively. "I do not believe that Mr. Black was responsible for this."

"What makes finding Potter so important?" cried the German representative in a thick accent. "Why does the world need to grind to a halt when he goes missing."

"I am not at liberty to discuss the specifics," said Dumbledore gravely. "Suffice it to say, Harry's is one of, if not the most important role in events yet to pass."

"You sound like a demented old Seer," burst out Nikolai Vassikin, the Russian Minister of Magic. "Either that or you're becoming senile in your old age, Dumbledore. What are you now, one-eighty, two hundred years old?"

"You should respect your elders, young man," Albus said quietly.

"Not when they aren't in their right minds," growled Nikolai. "You're just a pathetic old fossil who's decades past his prime." He suddenly went for his wand. His hand never even got to brush his handle when Dumbledore's spell struck, an Impediment Jinx.

"Minister Vassikin clearly needs to get some fresh air and cool his temper," Dumbledore said to a stunned International Confederation of Wizards. "I suggest we take a short ten-minute recess and continue afterward."

Rita was speechless. Everyone thought the old man had degenerated into just that: and old man. But that draw was faster than anything she'd ever witnessed in all her thirty-nine years of life. Why, if Rita had blinked, she would've missed it and the jinx.

Luckily, her quill hadn't been awestruck and had continued to write furiously. Rita halted it with a gesture, and looked at the parchment.

Nikolai Vassikin, fifty-nine year old Russian Minister of Magic, became enraged at the firm insistence of Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts, Supreme Mugwump, Head Warlock of the Wizengamot, and a distinguished member of the ICW, to form a rescue attempt to find young Harry James Potter, 8, who was abandoned by his horrid Muggle relatives in the United States, and attempted to outdraw who we believe to be a 'harmless old man.'

Dumbledore's wand was in his hand as if he'd Teleported it there and snapped off an Impediment Jinx that struck the too-slow Vassikin mid-motion, hand twelve full centimeters away from his wand. Needless to say, had the Russian Minister been an enemy of Dumbledore's. . .well, let's just say he wouldn't be with us right now.

Rita almost giggled with joy. It had been worth all those botched attempts at a unique narrating quill. Oh, how happy that day when she accidentally discovered the lovely feather before her.

She turned, slipping the parchment into her purse, coaxing her quill in after it. She had a lot of writing to do if she wanted to make tomorrow's front page.

Harry Potter was sitting inside the World Trade Center Subway Station, empty can in front of him and a sign that read, NEED MONEY, PLEASE, next to him. His normally bright green eyes had lost their luster, and his hair was even more messy than ever. His once-decent suit was now dirty and frayed from living for three days on his own.

When he'd woken up, the sun was already sinking back down to the west, and it was doing absolutely nothing for the nearly incapacitating headache he'd received from the liquor. He checked in his pockets and found a twenty-dollar bill folded neatly in his hand.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry went to find his hotel. Many of the people he'd stopped to ask for directions were rude and sarcastic, but one nice man with a clearly-faked French accent pointed Harry down the right path.

But he only found bad news when he arrived at the lobby. The concierge informed him that the Dursleys had left over an hour ago, at five at night, but they had left his luggage for him, along with a false message so as not to alert the authorities, telling him to have fun living with some obscure and fictitious relative. Harry was crushed. He walked out with not the faintest clue as to where he was going or what he should do.

Now, as people strode past him, Harry knew that if he didn't figure out what to do now, he wouldn't be long for this world. He still had fifty-two cents from the twenty the Dursleys had left him, and he had learned to panhandle quickly after looking down in the subways and seeing the various musicians and bums looking for a quick buck. The musicians, he'd come to observe, got more money than most of the bums, except for the ones with physical disabilities.

This had gotten him to thinking. If he looked the worse for wear, he might be able to get enough money to get a ticket back to Heathrow and from there he could hitch a ride back to Little Whinging.

There was just one big hole in his plan. As he'd soon learned, not many people really cared much for those who begged for money. In fact, in three days, Harry had gotten twelve dollars in change. Harry was rather good at math, and he had figured it pretty fast. If this kept on, with four dollars a day, wasting three dollars on food a day, he'd have enough for a thousand-dollar ticket in around three and a half years.

Harry needed some food, and to get food, he needed money. As to how to get that money...well, he had time to come up with a plan.

While he was pondering this conundrum, he watched the people passing him on their way to the underground trains. A particularly well-dressed man walked by, and Harry raised his cup with a hopeful, "Spare some change, sir?"

"Sorry, not right now," the man replied as he absently counted a roll of large notes. Harry frowned as the man placed it in the pocket of his jacket.

What a greedy person, Harry thought. As he watched, the man leaned on a column to wait for his train and started fiddling with an expensive-looking digital watch, Harry wished that the man had given him at least something.

Harry turned to thank the old lady who dropped some coins into his cup, and when he twisted back to look at the greedy man, something smacked into his nose, knocking his glasses askew. He looked down and saw a roll of green papers sitting in his lap.

For a moment, Harry just looked at the money. Then he collected his wits and snatched it, cramming the wad of cash into his pocket quickly. He sat on the cold subterranean floor and felt strangely tired, even though he'd just woken up an hour or two ago.

How did that man's money fly at me? Harry wondered. Then a thought sparked in his brain and he frowned. Did I somehow make it come out of his pocket? Back at Number 4, he'd seen a news report about people who could supposedly move things with their minds, telekinesis or something. Maybe I'm a telepath, he thought idly. Well, there's no time like the present to find out.

He looked around and saw a penny on the floor about a yard away from him. He glared at it, silently demanding that it come to him. When it remained on the ground, Harry scrunched up his face and focused his mind like a laser beam at the rounded piece of copper.

"Come on," he breathed. The penny shot at Harry like a bullet, striking him in the shoulder. It hurt, but the euphoria he felt when he realized that he could move objects with his will drowned out the pain. He found the solution to his problem. He knew now that he could probably live here in the United States more comfortably than he had with the Dursleys.

Time to get some more money, he thought to himself, emptying the cup of change into his pockets, standing up, and leaving the subway station, whistling a happy tune.

Harry eyed his next target thoughtfully. After a few days refining his technique, his pick-pocketing career was off to a flying start. He chose his victims morally, only stealing from those who looked as though they could lose a couple bucks and still have enough to wipe their bums with.

This newest target, a woman in her late forties, was laughing with one of her girlfriends in a fur coat outside a fancy restaurant, waiting for a valet to bring her car around. Her purse was open and she was holding it by only one of its dark leather straps so the contents were clearly visible to Harry, who was standing nearby, pretending to seek shelter from the rain under the large awning above the building's double doors.

The woman got into a shiny Porsche a minute or two later, and Harry grabbed a newspaper out of the dispenser, held it over his head and dashed away, now holding the woman's pocketbook full of money and credit cards.

He ran for three whole blocks, stopping only when the stitch in his side was too unbearable to ignore anymore. He ducked into an alley and sat down on a piece of cardboard to count his reward.

"Nice trick there, pup," a voice said. Harry leapt to his feet, a knife in the hand where the pocketbook had been a moment before. Leaning against a dumpster nearby was a man that Harry had seen only once before, but still remembered the kindness he'd shown.

"Mr. Black!" Harry exclaimed. "Wha-you saw?"

Black chuckled, twirling the jet-colored umbrella he was holding. "Yep. It's pretty amazing that you can pull off a wandless, subvocalized Summoner at eight, Harry. You're already better with one of those than your dad was in his prime."

"You knew my father?" Harry asked. "And a what kind of summoner? Hold on." Harry eyed Black suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"I'm your godfather," he said. "Sirius Orion Black, last of the Noble and Moste Ancient House of Black. And you," he added, poking a finger into Harry's scrawny chest, "are Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James Potter, last of the Great and Noble House of Potter, as well as a thief."

"Godfather?" Harry repeated blankly. "Wait a minute. What the hell is a noble and most ancient house? And what am I supposed to do, starve? I only filch from rich people anyway."

"It's actually 'moste' with an 'e,' although that's beside the point. Why don't we talk somewhere less wet?" Black said. "Here, hold on to my hand tight."

Harry looked at the proffered palm for a moment, mind whirling. This guy could just as easily be lying and be some kind of stalker. But something about this man made Harry feel more at ease. He took Black's hand.

"Okay, this may be a bit uncomfortable, but just bear with me." Black squeezed Harry's hand, spun around, and then Harry felt the most horrible sensation in his young life. It was like being squeezed though a pipe, being compressed on all sides with nothing but blackness everywhere.

Then they were suddenly in a sparsely furnished room. Harry gasped for breath and sat down heavily on a moth-eaten couch whose color was indiscernible.

"Wh-what the bloody hell was that!" Harry managed between gulps of air.

"Apparition," Black replied. "I'll tell you about that in a moment though. There's something very important that you need to know. What you just did with that pocketbook was magic. You, pup, are a wizard."

Harry stared at the man. A wizard? Was he out of his bloody mind? "You're joking, right?"

"I'm deadly serious. No pun intended," he added as an afterthought. "I met your father on the train to go to a school for young wizards when we were eleven years old. I met your mum that day, too, but she got pissed and left the carriage we were in. But that's not the point. The point is, you have magic running through your veins."

"No," Harry said. "I can move things like that because I'm a telepath. I'm using psychokinesis, not magic." But as he said this, he had a feeling that it was a complete lie.

Black grinned. His teeth started sharpening, and the next moment, he was an enormous dog, its fur the color of his hair. Another moment later, he reverted to his natural form, still grinning. "Magic is the most wonderful thing," he said. "And from what I've seen you do, you'll make a damn fine wizard."

Harry lowered his eyes to his hands, then said. "So if you're my godfather, then how is it that this is the first I've seen you? Why couldn't I have lived with you instead of the Dursleys?"

Black scratched the back of his head. "Well, for the past seven years, I've been, er, in the wizard prison Azkaban. About a month ago, I decided I'd bust out and try to find you. And it's a good thing that I did, too, or I never would've seen you and your relatives getting on that plane."

"What were you in for?"

"No reason whatsoever," he said with a hint of bitterness in his voice. "It's an extremely long story, Harry."

"I'm not going anywhere," replied the eight-year-old, crossing his arms stubbornly, forcefully reminding Sirius of his mother when she would catch the Marauders in a prank. For the next thirty or so minutes, Black wove a tale of four friends, and the Judas among them who sometimes went by the name of Wormtail. Then he had to backtrack and inform Harry about a certain Dark Lord and how he, Harry, was destined to one day fight the evil wizard.

"This sounds like a bad cartoon," Harry said, but deep down, he somehow knew that all this man, who was apparently his godfather, was being truthful. Sirius must've seen it in his face because he smirked.

"I'll prove that magic is real," he said, withdrawing a roughly foot-long piece of wood and waved it. The lamp on the bedside table floated over, just as money had for Harry for the past couple of days.

Sirius then proceeded to transform the lamp into a large tabby cat, then a red-tailed hawk, and finally returned it to its lamp state. Harry continued to stare even after Sirius was finished and floated the lamp back to the bedside.

"I can show you how to use magic, if you'd like," Sirius said. "We'll have to get some things, but now that I'm in the U.S., I can access my vaults even if I'm a convicted felon in England, so money is no problem."

"I suppose," Harry said. "Are you any good at it?"

"Good?" Sirius repeated, blinking. "Why, I was ranked second in the world at the last World Dueling Championships before I was tossed into Azkaban."

"Who got first?"

"Your father," Sirius said, winking at Harry. "By the time I'm through with you, you'll probably be almost as good as me!

"But first things first," he said, turning serious. "If you're going to be a wizard, you're gonna need a proper wand. And to get a proper wand, we need to go to Ellis Island."

"What's at Ellis Island?" Harry asked.

A slow, canine grin spread across Sirius' face, and Harry suddenly had a bad feeling in the back of his head. "Why Harry, only the largest all-wizard city in the world!"

If Harry was awed by New York City, it was absolutely miniscule compared to what he experienced the very first time he clapped eyes on Magical New York City, known thousands of years ago as the thriving metropolis of Atlantis.

MNYC, as Sirius explained while giving Harry the grand tour, was the first all-magical colony actually created by a large number of magicians. They believed that their powers would better help the normal humans, or as they called them then, Commons, from afar. According to historical records, several thousand magicians, down to the very smallest child, Summoned the very floor of the ocean to rise up. It took all of their might, but after two days, an island as large as modern-day Rhode Island surfaced in the middle of the Atlantic Sea. The task force of wizards and witches suffered complete magical exhaustion, and lay on the beach for three days. When they recovered, they began building what would soon be called the most advanced civilization on Earth.

For nearly a thousand years, Atlantis thrived, creating a golden age that spread round the world. But the first generation of Atlanteans, or the Raisers, as they were named, hadn't set the enchantments that held the island up properly, or rather, hadn't had the right kind of magic available to them at the time, and so, in a single day and night, the great civilization of Atlantis sank into the sea, never to resurface again. Or at least, so far.

When they realized what was going on, the Atlanteans used a collective Bubblehead Charm that somehow combined to form a protective shield against the seawater. Meanwhile, the enchantments that once held Atlantis tall and proud reversed, and after sinking, Atlantis actually began moving slowly across the sea floor.

For hundreds of years, Atlantis inched across the bottom of the Atlantic, and all the while the Atlanteans were trying to fix the madness that had by then become the norm to them. They learned the speech of the merpeople that lived in secret colonies in the Atlantic and began a trade network with them, and survived thusly.

Then, in 1734, Atlantis finally made its way right next to the eastern coast of what is today called the United States, and stopped, with no understandable reason why. The Atlanteans refined their massive bubble against leaks and wear, using the largest diamond ever found as a magical amplifier to power a Bubblehead Charm cast by the King of Atlantis every two years, just in case. All was well until the late eighteen-hundreds, when the New York Subway construction got underway. The earth displaced in the creation of the massive underground network of trains was dumped almost directly on top of Atlantis, which had since then become embedded into the ocean floor.

It was in 1885 that the first contact since the early days was made by the ruler of Atlantis to the mainland wizards and witches, who then coerced the Commons to dump the dirt a few miles away, where Ellis Island now stands. Eventually, Atlantis became open to the American magicians, and later the capital city of magical U.S, and the only entrance to Atlantis is on Ellis Island, where the Statue of Liberty was placed as a cover.

Harry still felt sick from the ride down; his stomach was still up in the maintenance room inside of Lady Liberty, which, once the right mop was tapped with a magical wand, revealed itself to be the elevator from Hell.

"Y'okay there?" Sirius asked, helping Harry down a street called Franklin Avenue. "Here, lemme make it better." He pulled his wand from the holster with a flick of his wrist and made a slight, sweeping motion. The tip glowed blue for a moment, then Harry felt suddenly better.

"How'd you do that?" he asked as they continued down Franklin, passing other magicians on their way to wherever it was they were going. It still amazed Harry at the kinds of shops they were passing. Not only were there apothecaries and menageries and magical book shops and broom stores, but there were even Common restaurant chains like McDonalds and In-N-Out.

"It's a pretty good Sobering Charm I picked up," Sirius explained. "It's especially good with nausea, so I thought it might work with your ailment. In here," he added, pointing to a very dingy-looking building wedged between a magical sporting-goods store and a new robes store whose designs Harry decided he liked.

Harry pushed open the door, and a clear, chiming sounded somewhere in the depths of the store. There were four long, narrow rows that receded for several yards into the back of the shop, each marked with a sign that, from right to left, read: SOLID CORE, LIQUID CORE, AMPLIFIER, CASING.

"Hello!" said a cheerful voice to Harry's immediate right. He jumped and whirled around to see a short, plump witch with pure white hair with a candyfloss-like look to it sitting behind a counter.

"Err, hello," he replied. He felt Sirius step up next to him. The dog Animagus waved and smiled jovially at the witch.

"Good afternoon," he said. "We're here to buy my nephew here his first wand." The witch peered down at Harry through thick, Coke-bottle glasses.

"Looks a bit young for his first wand," she replied.

Harry glanced at Sirius, who instantly made a 'shh'ing motion with his finger and gave a pointed, yet subtle jerk of his head at Harry. The young Potter saw the flick of his godfather's wand and heard a mild buzzing sound in his ears and realized it was a spell that was blocking his hearing.

It lifted a few moments later, and the woman nodded at Harry kindly, then suddenly disappeared behind the counter, only to reappear again coming from around it, the top of her cotton-candy hair bun just barely reaching Harry's chin.

"Right this way, dear," she said. "My name is Madame Ministra, and I'll be helping you create your own wand."

"Um, okay," said Harry sheepishly. "Er, what do I have to do?"

"Oh, nothing difficult," Madame Ministra said, laughing at the seriousness of his face. "Just follow me, dear, and I'll explain everything."

She led them towards the first aisle, which was where the Solid Cores sign was posted above, speaking as her own wand sent a tape measure, quill and parchment to work, measuring and recording various (and sometimes inexplicable) lengths on his body.

"Now, I believe you are from the United Kingdom, yes?" she asked shrewdly, snatching the parchment out of the air and going over the recordings. When Harry nodded, she continued. "Well, where you are from, the magicians buy pre-crafted wands from the maker, but here in America, we do things quite a bit differently."

Madame Ministra waved her hand theatrically down the aisle, where there were dozens of small barrels, each with a sign above it. Within the barrels were powders of various colors, some of which seemed to fluctuate from time to time.

"In the United States, the magician feels out the four different components of the wand, and I, the Assistant as we say, combines them for you. The first step," she said, indicating the barrels of powder, "is the solid core."

"So, uh, how exactly am I supposed to 'feel out' the solid thing?" Harry asked. The woman looked at him, surprised for a moment.

Then she turned an incredulous eye upon Sirius, who shrugged with an easy grin, replying, "He was raised by his mother in the Common World." The witch nodded in understanding.

"You simply place your hand, palm down, over each barrel. You'll know which one's right for you when you feel it," she instructed kindly.

Harry, feeling rather foolish, raised his hand and slid it over so it was about five inches above the first barrel. He didn't know what to expect, but nothing seemed to happen. So he voiced his concern.

"Oh, of course," said Madame Ministra. "It's never really as simple as finding a reaction on the first try. Just move down the line until you feel something."

Shrugging, Harry did as he was told. He felt nothing for the second, third, fifth, fifteenth, or twenty-third, but on the twenty-fourth, he felt a strange, surreal wind sweep across his body, thrilling his hair about, and he gasped aloud.

The good Madame clapped. "I think we've found our solid core!" she said happily, scurrying forward to see what he'd reacted to, and placed a hand over her mouth when she did.

"My goodness," she muttered. "You must have a lot of power in your little body, because you've just reacted to nothing less than the crushed flight bones of a griffon!" She retrieved an empty crystal vial from a pocket in her robes and filled it with the silvery dust.

Harry blushed at the comment, and said, "So what's after solid cores?"

"Well, the liquid cores are on the next aisle. Follow me." She walked up to the single, long rack, tapped her wand, and a portion of it flipped sideways, offering a nice, large passage to the next lane. Madame Ministra stopped Harry when he started for the front of the aisle, near the shop's entrance. "I think it would save some time if we started from the back, because I have all the components arranged in order based on their magical potency. The front of the store is the weakest, and the back of the store is the strongest, and young man, we are very near the back of the store at the moment."

So Harry went to the rearmost part of the store, and began his 'feeling out' of the liquid cores, which were large buckets full of strange, often bubbling, sometimes steaming, liquids. He only checked five before he got a strong, warm feeling that surged through his body, making him sweat. "I've got something over here!" He looked at the stuff inside and saw that it was a coppery color that shimmered and steamed and smelled faintly of smoke.

Madame Ministra checked the sign above and after again taking a vial of the stuff, announced, "Your liquid core is the blood of a Chinese God Dragon, also called the Good Luck Golden Dragon. Again, you choose a very strong ingredient. Next up are the soul stones."

In the next aisle were barrels filled to the brim with small pieces of what appeared to be jewels, and some actually were; he recognized many names from the jewels Aunt Petunia used to beg Vernon for, like amethysts and emeralds and agate and topaz. But there were some that he didn't, such as ectocrystals and dragonstone.

He again started in the back, and it took him only three tries to get his rush, this time of a wave of cold gushing over him. The Assistant took the small stone, holding it up to catch the light of her wand so it sparkled brilliantly, revealing strange designs of white stone in the otherwise azure gem.

"This, boy, is the heart of a leviathan, a monster of the deeps. Leviathans are notoriously difficult to find, let alone kill, but the prize is this extremely potent amplifier, but only to those who resonate with it, which you obviously do.

"And now," she said, moving the shelving so they could move to the final aisle, which was much larger than the others, "for the casing. I absolutely love the casings, because there are so many different ones!"

It was true. There were large shelves that were stocked with dozens of wands, staves, and other, odder models, differing in materials from woods to metals to bones. And there was a stripe down the center of both sides of the aisle with small blocks of the different materials used.

"Try the strips on the center line, dear," she said. Harry nodded and went to the back. He raised his hand and immediately felt a tumble of pure, radiant life thrill through his slender frame, and he was filled with green, happy sunshine for just a moment.

"This," he half-whispered, half gasped. Madame Ministra didn't even have to look at the sign, since it was the first he checked, and therefore, the last and most powerful material this store had to offer.

"The shinboku tree," she said, and even Sirius murmured an astonished curse. "Young man, the shinboku is the most magical tree in the world, short of the Ydrrasil in Norway. Ancient Japanese called it the god wood, and that is what we call it today. You must have a seriously enormous magical core to have reacted so strongly with these four materials. Now, you need to choose your casing. All the casings made of shinboku are right there at the end."

Harry picked up the wand and swished it and flicked it like Sirius did, and it just didn't seem to feel right. So he replaced the wand and went for the staff, which was just a long stick. He whirled it around but it got loose and struck Sirius in the head.

After having a good laugh at his godfather's expense, he started looking at the different makes and models, never really finding the right thing. Then, he saw something that caught his eye. "What's that?"

"Oh, that's my newest model," Madame Ministra said excitedly, picking up the delicate, white piece, the shape just barely hinted upon. "It took me months to get it right. I actually had to go to Common New York to buy a real one and see how it worked to make the perfect masterpiece."

"I love it," Harry said. "May I?" The Assistant gently handed Harry a wooden handgun. The grip felt perfect, and when he put pressure on the trigger, it actually moved, and the hammer pulled back! "It actually works!"

"Yes, and now it's yours, young man," Madame Ministra answered. She walked back down the aisle to her counter, upon which she tapped her wand three times. It instantly transformed into a woodworking desk with several tools Harry didn't know the names of.

"Now, first, I need to place the solid core..." she waved her wand and the silver powder soared out of its vial and into the vial of dragon blood, "...into the liquid core. Then..." Madame Ministra pulled the wandgun towards her and tapped the side of it with her own wand. The wood melted back to reveal a large, empty hollow. It was into this she poured the concoction of Good Luck Golden Dragon blood and Griffon wingbones, then with another wave of the wand, the wood melded back into place, "...you need to seal the combined cores into the casing. And lastly..." she grabbed the small blue gem, revealed a square compartment in the handle of the gun, and dropped it in. The square compartment started melting over the Leviathan's heartstone and became whole again.

"So it's done?" Harry asked, reaching for it. Madame Ministra slapped his wrists with her own wand.

"Not yet," she said smartly. "I have to cast the combining spell so they all fuse together to form one perfect wand. Without the combining spell, your wandgun would look like a block of wood shaped like an 'L.' After I'm done, it'll be fine-tuned based on the ingredients."

She raised her wand high and jabbed it down onto the wandgun and barked a single, harsh word that flowed with power. There was a bright flash, and Harry blinked several times before the spots disappeared, leaving in their place his finished wand.

It had turned from the purest white to jet black, the wood grain still visible. The grip on the handle, however, was a bright, translucent green. The gun had taken shape and, though it was still completely wooden, it was carved with the minutest detail, from the sight and the trigger to the barrel and the hammer to look like one of those long-barreled revolvers Dudley had enjoyed so when he went through his cowboy phase.

"Nice," Sirius commented as Harry rushed forward to collect his new wand. "I think it'll be great for point-n-shoot spells. But..." his tone grew concerned, "...what about the spells with complicated wand movements like in Transfiguration and Conjuration?"

"No need to worry," Madame Ministra said airily. "I added a special feature that allows the gun to compensate for the wand movements just by the magician encanting or subvocalizing the incantation."

"What!" exclaimed Sirius. "How in the name of Merlin's sagging nuts did you manage that?" It looked like Sirius was going to have a stroke or something.

"Trade secret," said the old witch, smirking. "But I'll give you a hint." She pressed the tip of her wand onto the top of Harry's new one. The surface suddenly glowed with miniscule runes that had to have been carved by the tiniest of chisels. They glowed bright blue against the black and green of the gun.

"Of course," Sirius muttered, almost to himself. "The wand movements are just drawing the neccessary runes in the air and using them for intricate spells. Carving the runes onto the wand allow for more rigid structures of the wands." He turned to the old lady and bowed at the waist. "Ma'am, you have my deepest respect. You're a bloody genius!"

"Thank you," she said, nodding. "That'll be twenty galleons. For you two, I'll throw in a free enchanted dragonhide holster."

Sirius counted out the gold coins while Harry clipped the holster, which was dark gray in color, onto his belt and set his wandgun in it. The gun fit like the holster was made for it, which, now that Harry thought for a moment, it probably was.

As they walked out of the shop, Sirius grinned at Harry. "So now that you've got your wand, how about we start getting some books so we can start your training!"

"First, I'd like to go in here," he said, pointing at the robe store that he'd taken an interest in earlier. "I think I want to get some clothes from Hot Topic. And then maybe visit a music shop so I can get a guitar."

"A guitar?" Sirius repeated, surprised. "Have you ever played one?"

Harry shook his head. "But I heard a man playing one in the subway, and I decided that if I got enough money, I'd want to get one."

Sirius shrugged, then nodded. "Sure, kid. You know, your mother used to play for us at Hogwarts when we were kids. She was downright wicked with it, too."

A/N: And so, as with all things, chapter the second comes to an end. So, originally, I wanted to do a sick-ass time skip to when Harry's fourteen and returning to England because Dumbledore found him, but I realized that it would take too long to explain all the stuff that happens during that time. In fact, the part about Atlantis and Harry getting his wand wasn't going to be in this fanfic, but I decided to put it in anyway. I don't know what I'm gonna do now, but I'll figure it out. Peace. FMW