Up on their brooms the Witches stream,
Crooked and black in the crescent's gleam;
One foot high and one foot low,
Bearded, cloaked, and cowled, they go.

Then round they swoop past the glimmering Lion
To where Sirius barks behind huge Orion;
Up, then, and over to wheel amain
Under the silver, and home again.

—Walter de la Mare, "The Ride by Nights"

Chapter Seven

Holly did not know which direction to look at first. Everywhere she turned there were little Victorian looking shops, all done up for the holidays, but not one of them was selling anything that Uncle Vernon might call "normal." There was a cauldron shop, and near it an apothecary. A dark shop was filled with owls, called Eeylops Owl Emporium, and across from it was a shop that had Quality Quidditch Supplies written across it in bright letters. Her feet slowed when she saw the large life-size picture of a woman in a dark green dressing gown on a broomstick, throwing a ball through one of three hoops. Holly blinked and then blinked again. The picture was moving. She gasped, looking up at McGonagall, whose lips twitched.

Beyond the Quidditch store were shops selling clothing, one of which was called Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Holly quickly realized, just from looking around, that wizards and witches dressed differently from non-magical folk. All the men and women were in long dress-like outfits that touched the floor. When they did lift up, Holly saw that both sexes seemed to wear boots beneath. Some of the younger crowd, those who seemed like they must be out of school, but not McGonagall's age yet, were wearing trousers made out of animal hides and t-shirts with band names on them. They were rarer though. Those that did wear non-magical clothing—Muggle, Holly inwardly corrected—were wearing purple and green, just like Holly and Professor McGonagall.

Soon, Holly was standing in front of a tall white building that had ionic columns, and towered over the neighboring shops. The façade was cold, but impressive. "This is Gringotts, the Wizarding Bank," McGonagall told her.

"I—I can't take your money, Professor," Holly said, realizing she had no way of paying for anything. It hadn't occurred to her to ask Uncle Vernon for money, as she had never had to before, and never received any pocket money. Stomach churning, she thought of the shame of returning to Privet Drive to ask for some. Holly straightened her shoulders, determined to do what she had to for Hogwarts. This was the world she belonged in, and she could be brave for its sake.

"Really, Miss Potter, I can assure you that won't be necessary. Your parents left plenty of money in your vault." McGonagall seemed amused by her presumption, though she didn't smile. Her strides were long, and Holly skipped to catch up.

"Truly?" Holly asked breathlessly "Wicked!" Had her parents set up a trust fund for her school tuition and school supplies? She was about to ask this, when she saw the guard in front of the bank, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold. It was a goblin. He bowed as they passed through the bronze doors, and Holly barely refrained from staring after him. Before she could even truly comprehend the fact that magical creatures existed, they met a second pair of doors, made from silver that had words engraved upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.

Eyes as wide as saucers, Holly looked up at the Professor who smiled down at her. "Did you see the poem?" McGonagall asked.

Holly nodded dumbly.

"It would be rather foolish to attempt to rob the place, and I say attempt, for no one has ever successfully stolen from Gringotts." McGonagall then led her inside, and across the vast marble hall. Gleaming gold chandeliers hung from the vaulted ceiling, giving off the light of a thousand candles. Within the hall, there were more than a hundred goblins sitting on high stools behind a long, curving counter. Some were weighing ounces of gold and sorting gems, while others had rolls of parchment they were marking upon with feather quills. Holly looked around, noticing several doors that led off into hallways and offices. Customers were being led around by the goblins into the various rooms.

McGonagall stepped up to a free goblin, and said, "Re-key for Miss Holly Potter and a withdrawal from her vault."

The goblin looked annoyed, but gestured to Holly. "Step up here, young miss." Holly did as ordered, and watched as he pulled out a long parchment scroll with green cramped writing on it. He then added another entry, and then said, "Hand."

Holly held out her left hand, watching in fascination as he pressed what looked like a wax sealing stamp to her index finger. There was a sudden pinch that brought tears to her eyes, but she blinked them back to watch as the goblin stamped the blood on the document next to the green writing. Her eyes widened when the blood was absorbed into the document. The goblin nodded in satisfaction, turning then and pulling two golden keys from a drawer. They had no divots or impressions on them, looking like keys to nothing.

"Ironfist," he called, summoning a uniformed goblin from nearby. "A re-key and a withdrawal from Vault 414."

The goblin led them to one of the doors off the hall, and McGonagall and Holly followed him. They stepped down into a narrow stone passageway lit with torches, and their footsteps could be heard in the echoing dark. The floor pitched downwards to where little railway tracks sat on the floor, and once there, the goblin gave a quick whistle, and a small cart came rushing up to meet them. All three climbed in, and soon they were hurtling down into the vastness below. The cart passed through endless twists and turns of an underground cave system, taking different ways and forks in the track. The goblin wasn't steering, but the cart seemed to know its way, and they plunged deeper and deeper into the dark, passing a subterranean lake. Finally, the cart came to a stop by a small door in the passage wall.

They all clambered out, and Holly smiled, turning to McGonagall. "That was amazing!"

The professor shook her head, sniffing. "You are certainly your father's daughter, Miss Potter."

The goblin stood at the small door. He was putting the blank keys in one by one, and seemed to be doing something for Holly could hear the locks clicking inside. Eventually, the door opened and the goblin turned and handed Holly the now carved keys. "Vault 414," Ironfist intoned. "Ownership passing now from Lily Heather Potter to her heir Holly Ivy Potter." He then stepped aside and Holly saw beyond him and gasped.

Inside were piles upon piles of coins. From gold ones to silver and bronze ones, all climbing up to the roof of the vault. "This was my mum's?" she asked the teacher in confusion. Holly couldn't understand it; the Dursleys had complained more than once that it was expensive to feed three children, and Holly had never heard her mother and aunt had come from money.

"From what your mother told me, she received a substantial inheritance from her grandmother when she passed away. Petunia—er—did not receive anything as her husband was not approved of. The rest is, I assume, the money she collected from her portion of the sale of your grandparents' home in Cokeworth."

Holly nodded. "How much should I take? What is it all even called?"

"The gold coins are called galleons. Seventeen silver Sickles to a galleon, and twenty-nine bronze Knuts to a Sickle. One silver Sickle equals one pound. Simple enough." The professor leaned forward and scooped up at least ten of the gold coins, and equal amounts of the others. "Wands are expensive," she told Holly. "A witch only buys one wand in her life, if she is lucky, and they are made of extremely rare magical ingredients. Tuition for Hogwarts is withdrawn directly from your family vault, five galleons a term. You needn't worry about it."

Though Holly tried to focus on McGonagall's words, her mind was spinning at the thought that she had at least a million pounds worth of gold in her little vault. Then she fully comprehended what the professor said. "Family vault?"

McGonagall nodded. "Yes, indeed. The Potters are an old wealthy wizarding family, and you will be able to access the family vault when you turn seventeen. From the way I understand it, your parent set up your mother's personal vault to be your trust vault while you grow."

"Don't I need keys for the family vault too?" Holly asked.

"No keys," the goblin interjected rudely. "The family vaults are protected by magical creatures and can only be opened by a goblin."

Holly opened and closed her mouth, finally asking, "And what creature protects the Potter Family Vault?"

The goblin bared his teeth in a feral smile. "Potter, came over with the Norman Invasion, that would put their vault in the diamond range, and that means…griffins."

Holly said nothing as McGonagall led her back to the cart. They ascended quickly, her mind a whirl as she thought of all the implications of what she had just learned. She was rich; bloody rich, in fact. Aunt Petunia had always called her parents layabouts, but it seemed that even if there hadn't been a war on, James and Lily Potter wouldn't have had to work if they didn't want to.

When the cart reached the surface, Holly was led by the Professor out of the bank. The cold wind bit at their faces, and the young witch quickly shoved her hands into her pockets. Her mind slowly began to piece together what she had learned. "Professor," she began, avoiding puddles of melting snow, "did my parents have a home beyond the house that was destroyed?"

"There was a large townhouse in London that your father rather obscenely referred to as 'the flat,'" McGonagall said dryly. "Once, Lone Hill Hall was the Potter seat, but I am sorry to say it was burned by You-Know-Who and his followers during the war. It was empty at the time, as your paternal grandparents had died the year previous of Dragon Pox. From what Lily said, much of the tapestries, paintings, and books were saved and are now being stored in your family vault. The building itself was a total loss though, and James never did get around to rebuilding. That can be something for you to do, if it is your desire."

Holly gave her a weak smile, following to a narrow and shabby shop. Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382B.C. was written in peeling gold letters across the top. A single wand lay on a cushion in the window. Looking at the Transfiguration Professor dubiously, she followed her inside.

It was a small space, filled from floor to ceiling with tiny boxes. A single spindly chair sat in the corner, though Professor McGonagall frowned at it as if the chair offended her, quickly conjuring herself a high-backed oak chair to sit in while they waited. Holly blinked at this casual display of magic.

"Good morning," an ethereal voice said.

Holly jumped, turning to see a little old man looking at her with pale, rheumy eyes. "Good morning," she returned.

"Professor," he bowed to McGonagall, before turning back to Holly. "Ah, yes, Holly Potter. I thought I would be seeing you soon. My word, you look just like your mother. You have your father's eyes, of course, but the rest of you is pure Lily. It seems only yesterday she was in here buying her wand, ten and a quarter inches; long, swishy, made of willow, with a unicorn hair core. Nice for charm work. Now Miss Potter, which is your wand arm?"

"Well, I'm ambidextrous," Holly said, drawing out one of her favorite words, "but I favor my left hand more."

"Ah, just like your father!" He pulled out a measuring tape that began to zoom around Holly of its own accord. The little old man bounced forward on the balls of his feet as he spoke. "And he, your father, that is, favored a mahogany wand. Elven inches, pliable, and with a dragon heartstring at the core. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

"Or witch," McGonagall interjected, causing Holly to grin.

"Quite so," said Mr. Ollivander.

The tape measure flew about some more, and Ollivander hummed. After explaining about the cores and woods of his wands, he turned and went to comb through his boxes. The tape measure fell to the floor as the proprietor returned with a few boxes under his right arm. "Here," he said, handing Holly a wand. "Walnut and unicorn hair, ten inches. Just take it and give it a wave."

Holly waved, feeling much like an orchestra conductor, and immediately the wand was pulled out of her hand.

"Rowan and dragon heartstring, nine and a quarter, whippy."

She waved again, and again, but that wand, nor the twenty that followed found their home with her. Apple, maple, and cedar wands, were quickly removed, falling to the side in a large pile. After a while, McGonagall had reached into her reticule and pulled out a book (that couldn't possibly have fit in her bag) with the words Transfiguration, Today and Tomorrow emblazoned across the cover. Meanwhile, Ollivander seemed as happy as a clam, getting more and more excited as time went on. Holly would have begun to wonder if she was magic at all, save for the fact that neither the wandmaker nor McGonagall seemed concerned.

"Tricky customer, eh?" Ollivander crowed, laughing to himself. Finally, he pulled two dusty boxes off the highest self, and looked at Holly with something like calculation. He held one up, and then the other, finally putting the second one back. "Perhaps a different approach, I think. Try this one. Willow and phoenix feather, eleven inches, swishy."

Holly took the wand, and felt an immediate rush of warmth to her fingers. With a gentle flick of her hand, a cascade of red and gold sparks came dancing out and filled the air. A large grin split her face, and for the first time in a long time, Holly felt completely at peace. The wand belonged to her, and her alone.

"Oh, bravo," Ollivander said, clapping his hands. "Lovely, just lovely." He took the wand from her, placing it back in the box and wrapping it with brown paper. Holly took the money bag from McGonagall. "Seven Galleons, if you please. Curious, yes very curious."

"I beg your pardon, but what is curious?" Holly asked, frowning slightly.

Mr. Ollivander was now looking at Holly with those pale eyes of his, which seemed to soften suddenly. "I remember every wand that I have ever sold, Miss Potter and every wand I have ever created too. Every single wand. It just so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother is why it is the professor in here today with you, rather than your parents."

Holly felt faint, and McGonagall gasped.

"Yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the witch, remember…I think we must expect great things from you, Miss Potter. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, but great."

Tears sprang to Holly's eyes. "Are you saying that my wand is bad?" She swallowed. "That I am bad?" Professor McGonagall put her hand on Holly's back.

"By no means," Ollivander said, looking surprised at the suggestion. "This wand of yours is more than just its feather—it is a combination of many things, as are you. Originally the feather was fitted to a different wand, but I noticed one day in 1979 that the wood had cracked. The feather was too precious to throw away, so I refitted it to another wood, and this wand I like even better. You might be interested in this bit, Miss Potter, for I made your wand with a piece of wood that I took from a willow tree in Salisbury. I've made several wands from that tree over the years, and one such wand went into the hands of a young red-haired girl with bewitching green eyes. Willow wands are often matched to those who need them, and when they are no longer needed, their time is done. It is a common saying in my family that she who has furthest to travel, will go fastest with willow. So it proved for your mother, and will again, I think, for you."

Holly considered his words for a long time, looking at the wrapped box carefully. She didn't want her wand to be connected to Voldemort's—to the man who killed her parents. To the man who had failed to kill her. But it was connected to her mother too. Her mother, who had been brave, and good, and dead long before her time. A smile lit Holly's lips then, and she nodded, decided. She would not be afraid of ghosts; not if she could help it.

"The wand chooses the witch, indeed," Ollivander said when he saw her decision. He paused, looking thoughtful. "I think though, Miss Potter, that I might be seeing you again, sooner than we both might think."

She was ushered from the shop by McGonagall after that, and yet Holly looked back for as long as she could. After, the rest of the trip was a blur. They went to get robes, of which she got her requisite three black ones, self-adjusting, and McGonagall allowed her to purchase two more to wear on the weekends. When Holly wanted to buy more, but McGonagall refused, seeming rather amused by it. Next came the gloves and the hat, along with the winter cloak. She also got a pair of black, dragon hide boots that would grow with her feet. The cost was dear, but even McGonagall said it was a wise purchase. Eventually they left Madam Malkin's and they picked up the cauldron and phials, along with the telescope and brass scales.

The bookshop, called Flourish and Blotts, was at least six stories, and every bit of it packed with books. Oak cases gently cradled their treasures, while large wooden ladders rolled back and forth as the staff plucked books from high rows. Holly could have happily stayed in there forever, but McGonagall was straight to the point, taking her to get her school books, but saying in an aside that she would have to order her Defense text later. Holly wanted to browse, but the professor led her out. All of her packages were shrunk, save the wand, and put into McGonagall's handbag.

"There now," the professor said. "We have to get going or we will be late."

"Late?" Holly repeated. "Late for what?"

"Well, for your birthday surprise," McGonagall said. "That is, of course, if you wish to continue?" Holly didn't need any time to think, nodding eagerly. The professor led the child to a queue that was forming outside the Quidditch shop. Holly watched in fascination as the people lined up were handed strange objects by a man in a black and white uniform. They were anything, from rubbish tin cans to taper candles. And one by one, groups of four took the items, the uniformed wizard checked his pocket watch, and the people disappeared.

When it was their turn, two young wizards (wearing mud brown scarves with crossed bulrushes on them) took a grey woolen sock, and McGonagall touched it as well. "Touch the sock, Holly."

Holly did as requested, and it felt as though something had suddenly hooked her navel, jerking her forward. Her body left the ground and she was hurtling through the air, spinning in a whirl of color and wind. The finger she had used to touch the sock was glued to it, as if sealed with cement. Her feet suddenly slammed into the ground and she fell back onto her bottom.

"Oomph."

McGonagall gave her a hand up, and the young girl looked around in wonder. The alley was gone, and in its place was wild country moors as far as the eye could see. They were standing on a hill, and it seemed that nothing was nearby until Holly turned and saw, in a valley, a huge stadium that looked as though it could be used to host the football world cup. From the tops of it, two large flags were being flown. One in mud brown, with those golden bulrushes once more on it; the other was in black and white and had a black bird etched in silver upon it. A huge sign was hanging above the entrance where thousands of people were wandering in, and it said, Montrose Magpies v. Puddlemere United, flashing over and over in neon purple.

"Twelve fourteen from Diagon Alley," a bored looking young man said, as he took the sock from them and threw it in a box full of discarded items.

McGonagall led her from the arrival point, quietly explaining about portkeys on the way down to the pitch. When she finished, Holly expected an explanation to be forthcoming, but when none was, she said, "Uh, Professor? Where are we?"

"We are in Bodmin Moor, Cornwall," was the succinct reply she received.

"Yes, but why?"

McGonagall stopped then, and smiled at Holly. "This is my gift to you this year, a trip to your first Quidditch game. Your father would be very proud."

Holly looked at McGonagall, tilting her head to the side, the excitement of the day fading slightly as she realized how ungrateful she had been earlier. This was what the professor wanted to show her, pieces of the world her parents had loved. "This is the first of those trips you mentioned, isn't it?"

"Indeed," McGonagall said. She helped Holly over a fallen log, and then continued along. "I do want to apologize again, Miss Potter. I followed the law with regards to you, though I did not do so happily. That does not mean, however, that I forgot about you for a moment, or did not wish to see you in all those years since you were small. I hope that now—now that you are part of our world once more—that I might make-up for my absence."

Nodding, she gave the professor an apologetic smile. "Well, I think this trip will be awfully hard to top, but you are welcome to try." Holly squeezed McGonagall's hand.

The professor quickly squeezed back, her lips turned up. McGonagall then turned, lifting her free hand to cover her eyes. "Now, where is—ah, there he is!" She plunged forward into the now thickening crowd, and pulled Holly over to a tree-stump where a man who looked nearly thirty years older than the professor waited for them atop it. He was wearing a mud brown scarf, and holding a black and white one. At the sight of the professor, he beamed and waved, hoping down to the ground. McGonagall led Holly over to him quickly.

"I was wondering if you'd get here on time," the man said, kissing McGonagall on the cheek and handing her the black and white scarf.

"Yes, well, there was some busy shops in Diagon; it's Christmas, you know." The professor was blushing when she then turned back to her charge. "Holly Potter, I would like to introduce you to my husband, Elphinstone Urquart."

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Urquart."

"Say, that's a right mouthful. Call me Phin, and that stick-in-the-mud I call my wife is Minerva," he said to Holly, smiling. She grinned boldly back. "Now, little sprite," he spoke again, his Scottish brogue thick. "This is the most important question you can answer: Magpies or the United?"

Holly laughed at his mock gravity. "I don't know, I've never been to a Quidditch game before."

"Now, that is a right shame," Phin said. "So, here's the basics. The Magpies are the sorriest team that ever did play, and the United are only slightly better. Alas, you do not get to see the wonder of the Wigtown Wanderers today. But, as they're better than the Magpies, I'll cheer for the United all the same. Anybody but the Magpies; cheating scoundrels."

"PHIN!" McGonagall yelled, smacking him on the arm. Holly laughed, reaching for the mud-colored pennant when Phin offered her one of each.

"There's a fair lass. Beauty and wisdom, that's a rare find," Phin intoned teasingly, leading the pair of women into the stadium.

Within an hour's time, Holly discovered three things: one, that it was possible to turn into a human ice-lolly if outside long enough; two, that Quidditch was the craziest, most fun thing she had ever witnessed; and three, that she couldn't wait to get to Hogwarts.

By the time that she made it back to Privet Drive that night, Phin was practically carrying her. When they reached Number Four, the lights were all out and the house locked up. Minerva opened the door with a quiet, "Alohomora!" She stepped inside quietly, gesturing the young girl to come along. Holly followed, only turning back to wave at Phin who stood on the pavement. The professor led her up the stairs and quietly into her room. Once there, she began unshrinking Holly's packages and piling them on the bed.

"You will find that the charm I just used to open the door, also will work to open the trunks in your closet," McGonagall told her with a smile. "There are many things of interest you might find in each, which might perhaps allow you to forgive me for not letting you have your head in the shops this morning."

Holly smiled, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around the older witch's waist. "Thank you for today, Professor. It was the best birthday, no, the best day, of my life."

The professor hugged her back. "I'm glad. So you agree then, to the plan about going on outings during the occasional weekend?"

Holly nodded eagerly. "Yes, please."

The professor cleared her throat. "Well then, goodnight Holly. I will send word by Muggle post."

"Goodnight."

After the professor had left, Holly placed her precious new things on the floor, determined to sort through them in the morning. Once she had cleared the bed, she saw a single envelope sitting on her pillow. On it was written in childish, blocky printing HOLLY. The young witch opened it up to see a picture of herself, Bobby, and her cat Artemis in front of Privet Drive. Holly and Bobby's drawn selves were holding hands. She grinned, kissed the drawing, and placed the picture on her nightstand.

The gift warmed her heart. It was magic too, but of a different sort.