A/N: Chapter 2. I have up to and including chapter 3 written already, so next week I'll post that and hopefully get chapter four out the week after.
"Malana," a young voice said, coming from the mouth of the cave network they'd made their home. Through a little application of runes, and some very fine hearing, they could converse from a mile away as if they were standing in the same room. His footsteps approached her room swiflty. Obviously, something important had happened. Did it have to do with the beating wings she heard arrive earlier? "An owl has arrived, bearing a letter."
"Truly?" she said without looking up from her book. Hypothesis confirmed. She'd built an exception in the obscuration wards specifically allowing owls when she was informed that the mages here used owls as a primary mode of communication and she obtained a subscription to the local newspapers. "Have you checked the letter for the usual fare, Tyragos?"
"I have, malana," Tyragos, sporting a shoulder-length head of azure hair that neatly covered his forehead and pointed ears accompanied by electric blue eyes, said as he walked into the room she was in. "My spells do not detect magic beyond ambient levels on the letter."
She hummed and looked over at the letter still in her son's clutches, extending her senses. Just as her whelp had said, the only magic on the envelope or the letter within was that which she could explain with ambient magic . The owl that had taken up a position on her whelp's shoulder didn't feel like it had any unwanted immaterial guests either. "Go ahead, fanal, open it," she said.
Tyragos did so without further ado. "Dear Mr. Potter," he read out loud. "We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all the necessary books and equipment. Term begins on the first of September, and we await your return owl by no later than 31 July.
"Yours sincerely,
"Minerva McGonagall
"Deputy Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
"The second page has a list of items I need."
Cyanigosa hummed at her whelp's words and looked at the owl. She saw a spark of intelligence behind its gaze that she hadn't seen on other owls. "We're to send the return message with you?" she asked the bird. A single hoot was her answer. "What do you think, Tyragos?"
"It sounds like an opportunity I cannot afford to miss," Tyragos said after a minute's thought. She agreed with the sentiment. Everything she'd read about Hogwarts made it sound like a boarding school, and boarding schools were excellent places to make connections.
She should know, the Blue Flight used to have an equivalent back before the War of the Ancients.
"And?"
"I have no idea where Diagon Alley is," he admitted ruefully. Cyanigosa smiled at her whelp's admission of weakness, slight as it was. It appeared that her attempts at keeping him humble enough to be aware of his own flaws – unlike herself, who only acknowledged her flaws after it had been far too late – had worked,even if admitting he didn't know a location was minor in the grand scheme of things.
"Fortunately for you, whelp, I do," she said. She'd found the Alley fairly early on, that amount of magic was very hard to miss, but Tyragos demanded her attention often enough back then that she felt uncomfortable leaving him alone, so she waited until he was six before she first entered Diagon Alley. "We can go after we review your Human disguises again, unless you want people to see your Elven superiority."
Tyragos grimaced. "Not particularly, no. Once was enough."
She grimaced as well. Despite her better judgement she'd taken him to a nearby village before he mastered his Human disguise, five years ago now, and people had gotten jealous. Jealous Humans were nasty to a level she'd previously only associated with upper-level politics or the Black Flight. They'd managed to convince people that it was a 'cosplay', a term she'd learned of practically three seconds before that, but it had been a narrow thing, and Tyragos had vowed not to go out without having mastered his Human disguise. It wasn't at mastery even now, for it fell off while asleep or unconscious, but it sufficed for trips into the villages nearby their hill and they had not had a repeat of that first time.
"Write your acceptance to Hogwarts and run it by me before it gets sent," she said, and Tyragos turned to do just that. "And feed the owl," she added to his retreating back. "I'm sure we've got some bacon left over from breakfast."
He didn't reply. "Cheeky whelp," she said with a hint of fondness in her voice.
It sometimes felt like it was just yesterday that she'd accepted Lord Norgannon's offer instead of ten years ago, and now her whelp was already going out into the wider world.
She thanked her lucky stars that he'd kept the relatively swift emotional maturation of his Human origins, or this would have been very ill-advised. As it was, she still wasn't sure this was a good idea, but the geass she'd since confirmed had shifted itself to Norgannon told her that this had to happen – how, she wasn't sure, as all the geass theory she knew said that that behaviour was impossible, but then again, this was Lord Norgannon –, and that it had to happen now.
So she would do it. She wouldn't like it, but she would do it.
She rose from her chair and put her book down. She had a few experiments running that needed to be stabilized before they could go.
– – – – Two days later – – – –
A quiet pop sounded from an equally quiet back alley in London that no-one was quite sure existed. The mages of this world had, back in the day, placed a number of enchantments on a number of alleys to keep them out of sight of the non-magical folk, and this particular alley was one of those.
The enchantments on the place served to make non-magical eyes just go from one side to the other without registering the empty space in between. It was an impressive bit of magic that would have been utterly impossible on Azeroth, but the different way in which these mages channelled their magic naturally meant that different things were easier and others harder.
For example, the mages of this world found elemental magics nigh-impossible, while they were some of the first spells she ever learned. Tyragos was lucky in that regard, as he had both this world's magic and a magical core similar in style to the ones on Azeroth, allowing the use of both magics concurrently. She was capable of this as well, but since her core-less magic was different than Tyragos', many skills of this world were quite hard for her. The downside to not being a native to this world, she'd supposed when she learned of that.
One of the skills from this new world that did come quite easy to her, since it was essentially a long-range Blink spell, was Apparition. She'd made arrangements to learn the skill after she first visited the Alley six years ago and she learned that it would be decidedly sub-optimal to create portals like she did on Azeroth. The lack of proper anchors aside, the only portals this world knew were those involved in summoning demons. So portals were out lest she cause mass panic.
Apparition had its own downsides, though. Bending spacetime like Apparition did took a toll on the body, though it lessened with repeat exposure.
A retching sound emanated from beside her hip, followed by a splattering sound as Tyragos' breakfast vacated his body. "Eeurgh," he said intelligently as his body shook with the after-effects of Apparition.
"You were the one who wanted to go to Diagon now, and you know what they say," Cyanigosa said, conjuring a glass of water with a near-negligent wave, vanishing the vomit in the same motion. She exited the back alley with her slightly sick, but sobering swiftly, whelp, Human disguise firmly in place, in tow. "We are the architects..." she trailed off, ignoring the shocked exclamation of a mother behind her.
"... of our own fate, and we must abide by the consequences of our decisions and actions, whether glorious or tragic," Tyragos finished without pause or hesitation. "Or vomit, in this case."
"Rightly so," she said, a pleased smile fluttering over her face. That phrase was one of the first things she taught her whelp when she began his magical education at three years of age like all members of the Blue Flight, as it was the cornerstone upon which all magic was practised on Azeroth, serving additional use as general life-wisdom. "Come on, fanal, it's this way."
Tyragos hurried to keep pace with her stride as she crossed the street to the Leaky Cauldron. There was an Apparition point inside the Alley itself, of course, but she wanted her whelp to be able to find the Alley even without the aid of Apparition, and the alley she used to pop into the city used to be Diagon Alley's Apparition point until some mage got it into his head that a point inside the alley would be much more useful, and the point she had used had been all but forgotten in the years since.
The Leaky Cauldron was, as the name implied, a rather run-down place. The scent of stale beer, old wood, and the musty air was rather overpowering to her nose, though she did have to admit that the place was cleaner than it had been six years ago, when she'd not-so-subtly implied that his pub was the first or damn-near first thing first generation mages saw of the magical world, and that it behooved him to ensure that this introduction was not one of decadence, but of splendour. As much splendour as a pub could have, of course. Channelling some magic to her nose to reduce its effectiveness to Human-normal told her that the only reason the scent overpowered was because of her superhuman sensory organs. With a Human-normal nose – or at least, the closest thing she could get to it, having never had a Human-normal nose –, it smelled like any ye olde pub in Silvermoon that she'd visited, rather than one of those places out in the middle of, say, the Redridge Mountains or Dustwallow Marsh.
"Gah, what is this stench?" Tyragos asked from outside the door, a hand firmly clamped over his nose.
"Your superior senses, fanal," she replied. "To a Human-normal nose, it smells like any bog-standard pub."
"Right," he said without much conviction. "Let's just hurry, shall we?"
"By all means," she said, and walked into the pub proper.
"Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron, folks!" the barkeep, a kindly old man named Tom, said jovially. "What can I do ya for, miss Sapphire?"
"Just passing through, Tom," she said. "My son is starting at Hogwarts this year. Henry, meet Tom the barkeep. Tom, this is my son, Henry."
"A pleasure to meet you," Tyragos, temporarily named Henry while in his Human guise, said with a shallow bow.
"No need to be all formal 'round these parts," Tom said. "We ain't big on formality in here, though it's good to see that there's still parents what teach their kids manners, unlike some."
"Indeed," Cyanigosa said, a flash of blond appearing in her mind's eye. "Though we must be off for now, we will want to enjoy dinner here. Until then."
"See ya," Tom said with a wave as she made her way to the far door with Tyragos in tow, thanking her lucky stars that she'd had the foresight to not make Tyragos' 'Henry' disguise appear similar to how Harry Potter should have looked at his age. They rounded his face some, made his nose a slight bit more bulbous, and gave him electric blue eyes to go with his azure hair. The only thing they found he couldn't change was his scar, and his hair did an adequate job at disguising that identifying mark.
The result was that no-one recognized Harry Potter, or Tyragos as he went by these days.
Once on the other side of the far door, Cyanigosa channelled some magic to her finger and tapped three bricks in succession, tapping them slowly so Tyragos knew which bricks to hit should he need to visit the alley on his own.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," she said, mirth lacing her voice at the wide-eyed look her son was giving the street as they walked through it.
It was very similar to her own reaction upon her first visit. The construction itself hardly rated up there on the weirdness ladder, but there was a chaos here that Dalaran, the closest equivalent she could think of, simply lacked. A variety of animals hissed, squeaked, meowed, and roared – among others, but she couldn't think of the names of their cries off the top of her head – in a shop on the left, while a shop on the right proudly declared that they had the finest selection of owls of all kinds and the hooting to go with it, even though even her ears could barely pick it up. Further down the winding street, a display window advertised cauldrons of all sizes and makes, and another store sold brooms – actual brooms that flew, Tarecgosa would have been ecstatic because she'd never succeeded in making one do so –, and yet another sold ingredients that mages back home would have had to hunt themselves. Frog's eyes, lizard liver, eyes of newt, spleens from various animals, and much, much more. Including, to no insignificant amount of distaste, powdered dragon scales.
Eventually, she saw his gaze settle on one particular store, and she had to swiftly grab his hand to keep him by her side.
"Malana," he said, in a rare moment of whelp-like petulance. His eyes were big and dewy as their owner looked pleadingly at her, then back at the store he'd been walking towards.
"No, fanal," she said firmly. "At least, not yet. We have a shopping list, and as such no time to get lost in the bookstore."
Tyragos pouted adorably, but she would not be swayed. The first time she went to Diagon Alley, she was drawn to Flourish and Blotts like a moth to the naked flame in a manner very similar to her whelp just now, and she'd stayed there until she was kicked out at closing time – a full seven hours later – at which point she realized she had no money that was accepted here.
Fortunately, raw gold was a universal currency. That, she had more than enough of, having amassed quite the fortune over more than ten millennia of life.
The next day, she went to the building that was their current destination. The large marble building that towered over all the others, the front embossed with golden lettering that read 'Gringotts'. She greeted the diminutive goblin guard standing outside the burnished bronze doors with a nod and ushered Tyragos inside, where she promptly pushed him to a corner, leaning down to whisper in his ear. Several nearby goblin guards saw them and turned to listen to what they had to say, but she ignored them. She had forgotten to teach her whelp how to deal with goblins, so she had to rectify that with a crash course in goblin-human interactions.
"Quick crash-course in dealing with goblins, little whelp," she said softly and quickly. "First, goblins are a warrior race. Be respectful, but don't simper. Second, as a consequence of the first, goblins like to be challenged, and they like to win. It is our job to make sure that the goblins feel like they're winning when they're not, just as they will be doing the same to us. Don't let yourself get spooked by whatever antics they put up. Third, eye contact is important. Unless you're reading a piece of parchment they have given you, maintain eye contact with the goblin you're speaking to."
Tyragos nodded uncertainly.
Cyanigosa decided that it would have to do for now. She made for the counter, her son in tow.
"Good morning," she said to a free goblin, placing a little golden key on the counter, the handle engraved with the number '813'. "We've come to withdraw some money from the vault of Sapphire, number 813, and," she added, placing a second key on the counter which was identical to the first in every way except for the '687' embossed on the handle, "from vault 687, belonging to Harry Potter."
She turned to Tyragos. "Drop the illusion, Harry," she said. Tyragos, as practised, turned his straight azure hair black and messy, his nose sharpened, as did his face, his cheekbones rose a little, and his eyes turned a brilliant green. His hairline receded to show his scar.
The teller raised an eyebrow and, after inspecting both 'Harry' and the keys, nodded. "This seems to be in order. I will have someone take you down to the vaults. Griphook!"
Griphook was, unsurprisingly, yet another goblin, one she wasn't familiar with, that led them to one of the doors leading off the hall. Unlike the other publicly available areas of Gringotts, these narrow tunnels were made from stone and dramatically lit with flaming torches to give the place an intimidating air. The tunnel sloped downwards steeply and tracks started on the floor a little ahead of them. Griphook whistled a whistle that made Tyragos flinch, and a cart barrelled down the tracks towards them. They climbed in, and Cyanigosa put her arm around her whelp.
"This is the fun part," she said with a feral grin as the cart set off at a rapid pace.
It only took three turns for Tyragos to start whooping in joy at the sensation. She may have run out of Quel'Dorei blood for the ritual she used to modify the infant Tyragos and may have used the convenient Blue Wyrm she found intact in her pocket dimension – one of the things she was absolutely certain had not been there before –, followed by a runic seal to lock him out of his draconic form so that he would mature at an elven pace instead of a dragon's, which would have seen him as a whelp barely capable of taking care of himself for the next half-millennium, which simply would not do. Fortunately, elves matured only slightly slower than humans.
There had been additional unintended, but very positive consequences, of that ritual, not in the least that his three main forms were absolutely flawless. If he had bloodwork done in his Human form, it would return only Human results. Likewise for his Quel'Dorei form and the draconic form he'd been in for all of three hours.
"Vault 813," Griphook announced as the cart slowed to a halt outside a metal door marked simply as '813', handing Cyanigosa the key to the vault. Cyanigosa walked over to the door and inserted her key. With a soft click, followed by a lot of rattling, the door melted away in the manner most Gringotts doors did. She swiftly collected a large helping of cash and piled it into a small bag that didn't appear large enough to be able to hold it all. She left the vault, the door sizzling back into place behind her, magically ejecting the key into her hand when it was done.
She climbed back into the cart next to her son. "Can it go faster?" he asked eagerly of their goblin driver, who looked at him with a surprised expression.
"One speed only," he said gruffly, and they set off.
Tyragos resumed whooping in joy as they turned right, left, right, took a middle fork, another right, right fork, left fork, middle fork, left, left, left, right, right, left, dropped vertically a few dozen metres, then took another right fork, right, right, left, and finally came to a halt. She wondered if Tyragos had had enough of a presence of mind to notice that the cart appeared to be steering itself.
"Vault 687," Griphook announced. Unlike with her vault, Griphook got up and unlocked the door for them. Apparently her son rated higher security than she did. A lot of green smoke billowed out, and her whelp gasped when it cleared.
"This is all mine?" he asked upon seeing the mounds of gold, the columns of silver, and the heaps of bronze. She almost snorted. Like all Blues, her son liked hoarding. Usually, Blues hoarded knowledge, but in the end they were dragons, and like all dragons – it was one of the few stereotypes Cyanigosa knew was actually true for the vast, vast, vast majority of Azerothian Dragons– they had a certain appreciation for the aesthetic value of money.
A lot of money.
"This is all yours," she confirmed. "The gold-looking coins are called Galleons, and are the biggest denomination the mages here have. The silver ones are called Sickles, and seventeen of them equal one Galleon. The bronze coins are Knuts, and twenty-nine of them make a Sickle."
She helped her whelp pile some of it in a bag. "Now, keep in mind that this isn't actual bronze, silver, or gold. They used to be, but some mage got it in their heads a century or so ago to smelt his Galleons down to gold, sell it to the non-magical people, and then take that money back to Gringotts. Since the exchange rate was so favourable, he made a killing and nearly bankrupted Gringotts until they outlawed the practice. To be sure that it never happened again, a modern Galleon is made from Pyrite, also known as Fool's Gold. Similar constructs make up the Sickles and Knuts."
"You are very well informed in Gringotts history," Griphook remarked, a hint of approval in his voice.
"I like learning," she replied simply. "Magic is my favoured scholarly pastime, but history is a very close second. Politics are a rather distant third."
Griphook nodded approvingly. "The lessons of yesterday carry us forward to tomorrow," he said wisely, then motioned for them to come back into the cart. "Time is money, and time's wasting."
"Right you are," she said, and they took off again once they were seated.
One wild cart ride later, the pair stood outside Gringotts, blinking rapidly as their eyes adjusted to the sunlight. Tyragos started to run off, but a hand fell on his shoulder and he shot her a betrayed look before it changed. His irises and pupils grew larger and gained a glistened sheen to them.
Where and when he'd learned the dreaded Puppy-dog Eyes – as she eventually learned it was called – she didn't know, but should she ever locate him or her and get her claws on that person... heads would roll.
"I meant what I said earlier," she said, unmoved even in the face of the infamous crusher of resolve. She'd been exposed too many times to them for them to have a real effect these days. "Bookstore last. Let's start with your uniform," she added with a wave of her free hand towards Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "I happen to need a new robe as well."
They entered the shop, the pair separating to go to their respective corners of the clothing store. While she was examining their current selection of summer robes, she kept an ear on her whelp just in case.
"Hello dear," she heard Madam Malkin say. "Hogwarts?"
"Yes," her whelp said with hardly any shake to his voice despite being truly on his own for only the second time in his life.
"Hello," another young male's voice said a moment later, after being led to another corner of the shop. "Hogwarts too?"
"Yes," her whelp said simply while someone was fussing with his measurements.
She scowled at the clothing in the store. Nothing caught her immediate fancy. She sighed as she made a mental note to go through the catalogue and walked through the aisles until she was just out of sight of her whelp, just in case he needed an intervention.
"First-year as well?"
"Yes." A moment later, "My name's Harry Potter."
"Dean Thomas," the boy replied. "Da's outside making googly eyes at all the violations of the laws of physics as he knows them," he added with a snort. "Ma's keeping him out of trouble, aided by Professor Flitwick."
"Who's Professor Flitwick?"
"He's the Head of Ravenclaw House," Dean said promptly. "But I thought you already knew that, since you weren't there with the other muggleborn."
"I'm not exactly muggleborn, but also not really raised around magic here," her whelp said, and she almost applauded. While Tyragos had been raised in a very magic-heavy environment, most of it was Azerothian magic. She only introduced this world's magic when he was nine and they'd just returned from their holiday to Hungary to visit the Dragon Preserve, and she'd focused heavily on the theoretical subjects. Runes, Arithmancy, and more general magical theory.
"I see," Dean said. "Makes you practically a muggleborn, it does. Want to join us for shopping?"
"I'd have to ask mom," he said.
"Okay," Dean said, and she took this moment to join the scene, stepping out from behind the wall she'd been leaning against. "Is that her?" Dean said, pointing at her.
Tyragos' turned around, earning him a few tuts from Madam Malkin. "Now now, dear," she said, adjusting a few pins. "Stay still. You don't want your clothing to come out all crooked, do you?"
Tyragos turned back around, not wanting to wear crooked clothing.
"I am indeed his mother, Mr..." she trailed off as if she didn't know his name already, studying him intently. Darkened skin – not quite brown, but far darker than a tan – betraying non-British heritage, tall, but otherwise average build.
"Thomas, Dean Thomas," Dean said.
"Mr. Thomas. I'm Sapphire, no last name. And to answer your question, I do not foresee much trouble joining your group," she said. "It's not like we're on a tight schedule."
Both their faces lit up. It seemed her whelp had already made something of a friend, despite only knowing the other for less than ten minutes. She'd have to check him for potential in empathic magic when they returned home. She turned to the store's proprietor.
"Are they done, Madam Malkin?"
"Mr. Thomas has been done ever since they started talking, while your boy's almost done, ma'am," Madam Malkin said. "Just a few more measurements, and then we'll send you an owl when the robes are done and ready to be picked up."
"Sounds reasonable," she said. "The address is Sapphire Hill, North York National Park."
"That's up near Scarborough, isn't it?" Madam Malkin asked while she made a note on a scroll of parchment.
"It is," she said. "They're practically next door neighbours."
"There, you're all done," Madam Malkin said a moment later, prompting Tyragos to jump off the stool, joined a moment later by the other boy. The pair of children, stalked by Cyanigosa, made their way to the counter to pay for the robes. After the money had changed hands, the trio made their way outside to a short, excitable little man who was being bombarded by questions. Most parents would ask questions on the social structure of Hogwarts, maybe what classes were offered, lament on classes that were absent that the parents would have liked their child to attend, but the parents of Dean Thomas were not your typical parents.
"...es Transfiguration not violate every known law of the conservation of energy and mass?" Mr. Thomas – senior – asked pointedly.
"I'm afraid Transfiguraion isn't my field, Mr. Thomas," the little man she guessed was this Flitwick squeaked. "You'll have to ask my colleague, Professor McGonagall."
"Drat," he said, then turned his head to the approaching group. "Hello Dean, you got your robes all sorted out?"
"And picked up strays, I see," the woman who was likely Mrs. Thomas said at the same time that Dean nodded. "I'm Marianne Thomas, pleased to meet you. This is my husband, Mark."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Cyanigosa replied, shaking both their hands. "I'm Sapphire, and this is my adopted son, Harry."
Professor Flitwick made a little exclamation that she couldn't decipher. "Harry Potter?" he asked excitably. Sighing, she nodded. Not transforming back to 'Henry' was a mistake they could now not afford to undo.
"It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Potter," he said excitedly. "You're rather famous around these parts for surviving what and where no-one else has before you," he added when Tyragos' eyes remained blank.
Dean gasped. "An actual celebrity?"
"Yes, Mr. Thomas," Professor Flitwick said. "Mr. Potter here is quite possibly the most famous person in magical Britain, up there with Headmaster Dumbledore."
"First time I hear about this," the now-revealed celebrity said, shooting a look at Cyanigosa.
"I figured it was best you weren't raised knowing there were people out there who would crystallize your every breath and store or sell it if given opportunity," she replied promptly. The fact that she had no idea her whelp was so famous until her first trip to Flourish and Blotts would go unmentioned.
"Thank you," he said at the same time Professor Flitwick said, "A wise decision. Many an adult has let fame go to their head, no telling what would happen to a child."
"Shall we continue shopping?" Tyragos said in an obvious attempt to change the subject.
"By all means," Mr. Thomas said amicably. "The uniform has been taken care of, but we've not yet obtained the rest."
"Neither have we," Cyanigosa said. "We were intending to pick up a trunk first to store our purchases, then make our way down the list, leaving books for last."
"Why the books for last?" Mrs. Thomas asked. "You don't like books?"
"On the contrary," Cyanigosa said with a slight, very fake, cough. "We're leaving the bookstore for last because we know that there's a more than even chance of us losing track of time in that place."
Professor Flitwick laughed. "I don't think I've ever heard of a bibliophile that had it that bad, excepting perhaps this year's Ms. Granger, who will be starting in September like young Mr. Thomas and Mr. Potter here."
Within short order, they had purchased a large trunk with three compartments – nowhere did it say he had to have a standard trunk, and who knew what the extra two compartments could be useful for? Professor Flitwick agreed –, parchment and quills – including a bottle of ink that changed colours as one wrote –, a cauldron – "It says pewter on the list, Harry, not gold, no matter how pretty it is." –, potion ingredients plus an extraordinarily useful book on the interactions of magical ingredients with each other that was left off the list for some reason or another – recommended by Professor Flitwick –, and a telescope.
"... and that's why Giggs is going to be awesome this season!" Dean proclaimed. Tyragos nodded numbly. He'd never really seen the allure of football, much preferring archery Cyanigosa had introduced him to at age seven. "So what's left?" Dean asked as they left the telescope store.
"Pet, wand, and books," Cyanigosa replied instantly.
"I would personally recommend an owl," Professor Flitwick said. "They not only have the least food burden, being fully capable of hunting on their own, but can also be used to carry messages to and from home."
"You're getting an owl," Marianne Thomas said immediately. "No way am I going to not hear from you while you're there, Dean."
"Yes, Ma," Dean said obediently.
"We'll be getting an owl as well, Harry," Cyanigosa said. "For much the same reason."
"Yes, Mother," Tyragos replied, equally obediently.
Eeyloops Owl Emporium was a place where, as one would expect from the name, there were owls. Hundreds of owls, primarily the Tawny, Brown, Snowy, Barn, and Screech variants – the latter of which was very appropriately named – lined the walls of the shop, every single one hooting loudly to create a cacophonous noise that literally stunned Tyragos for a second as he crossed the noise dampening ward that covered the shop. He'd been taught methods to reduce the sensitivity of his ears for just such a situation, but he'd been completely caught off-guard by the sheer suddenness of the noise, as the magic ensured that almost none of it leaked outside, unlike with the other pet shop.
"Go on and look around for a suitable owl, Harry," she said, pushing his shoulder with a magic-charged hand that brought him out of his stunned state.
"Right," Tyragos said, stepping forward to do just such a thing when a snowy owl swooped down and made itself comfortable on his shoulder. Both Blues, joined by the other four of their impromptu party, looked at the owl with a raised eyebrow. An indignant and impatient hoot, as if to say 'hurry up and buy me', was their sole reply.
"I say, I didn't expect that to happen," the salesperson said, barely making himself heard over the din. "That owl's been difficult, she has. Nearly scratched out the eyes from three earlier clients, she did."
She hummed thoughtfully. There was something off about the owl, but she wasn't sure what. It was familiar, somehow. "We'll take it. Her," she corrected when the snowy owl hooted forcefully. Another hoot, more placid this time, sounded from the owl's throat at her correction.
"Excellent," the salesperson said with obvious relish. "Since you're buying the bird that cost me a few sales, I'll throw in the usual accessories, Owl Treats, a stand, and the like, for free. That'll be two Galleons, fifteen Sickles."
Coins and items exchanged hands, and they left the shop to exclamations of gratitude. "All you need now are your wand and your books," she said softly while Flitwick and the Thomases were still inside. "Being a Blue, you don't really need a focus, but it'll help you blend in. I fully expect you to work on wielding the magic you learn at Hogwarts the same way you wield the magic at home."
"Of course, malana," he replied dutifully, just before the others appeared from the shop with a barn owl perched on Dean's shoulder.
"Time for a wand, I think," Flitwick said excitedly. "It might be best if we split up again for this, as Ollivander's does not have a very large customer area. I would recommend that you and Mr. Potter go first to Ollivander's, while the Thomases purchase their books. I will accompany the Thomases to Flourish and Blotts, because having a guide in Ollivander's is less than useful. The wand chooses the wizard, Ollivander always says, not the opposite."
Cyanigosa and the elder Thomases nodded in agreement. "Very well," she said. "Come on then, Harry."
The shop in question was a rickety-looking thing with a weather-aged sign that read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC. The display window was equally unattractive, featuring only a single wand on a faded purple cushion behind a dusty window.
A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they opened the door and stepped inside. The customer's waiting area was tiny, as Flitwick had said, and bare save for a single chair upon which Cyanigosa seated herself, taking the owl from Tyragos without a word. The atmosphere was similar to the Violet Library, or the Archive of the Eye – respectively, the libraries of the Kirin Tor and the Blue Flight – in that the ambience somehow caused one to swallow questions that would otherwise have been asked because it would be impolite to disturb the silence.
"Good afternoon," a soft voice said. Her whelp jumped a little, but she was distinctly unaffected by the sudden noise. She had lived for ten millennia, it would take more than a sudden voice to startle her. She steadfastly ignored that she had done the same thing as her whelp when Norgannon took her aside.
An old man that hadn't been there before stood behind the counter, his wide, pale eyes shining like a pair of moons on a full moon's night in the gloom of the shop.
"Hello," her whelp said awkwardly.
The man narrowed his eyes for a moment, frowning his brows in thought before he cleared his face less than a second later. "Ah yes," he said. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems like yesterday that she was here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Perfect for charms work.
"Your father, on the other hand," he continued while approaching Tyragos with those unblinking eyes, "favoured mahogany. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power, and a very fine wand for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it... it is the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."
"How does that work?" her whelp asked suddenly. "How does a wand choose a wizard?"
"Complex enchantments layered upon the wood as it is processed for the purpose of having a wand crafted," the man said, a bit more lively and much less creepy now that Harry had shown interest in his profession. "The enchantments soak into the wood, granting it a modicum of sentience that allows it to identify a wizard with magic compatible with the wand's own. Since every wizard's magic is unique, every wand is unique, though there are certain trends that spring up with the generations. The Malfoys, for example, have been using yew wands for close to ten generations now."
"So the wand can react, for want of a better word, with the magic of a wizard?" her whelp asked, and a small smile played upon her face. If this line of inquiry led to what she suspected, they would save a lot of time. She knew teaching him to get a picture of his surroundings with just his magic would be useful, though she didn't anticipate it to be so soon. It had been barely two weeks.
"A better word would be recognize, but yes, that would be the case, Mr. Potter."
"So if I were to pulse my magic similar to how a bat echolocates, would a wand, or wands plural, react?" her whelp asked, and her small smile broadened.
The old man looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "I never considered or encountered such a phenomenon, but I do not see a reason why it would fail to work," he said, opening a flap to the side of the counter, allowing her whelp access to the numerous rows of wands behind the counter.
"Do be careful with your pulses," he said. "Some of these wands are centuries old."
Her whelp nodded and, as softly as he could, pulsed his magic repeatedly as he walked through the aisles. After five minutes, he re-emerged with three boxes. "These three gave a reaction," he said, handing the boxes to the old man.
The man blinked a few times, proving that he could, and opened the three boxes. "Very curious," he said, picking up the first. "Yew, thirteen and a quarter inches, heartstring of a dragon. Stiff. A powerful wand, suited for offensive magic, transfiguration, and carving runes."
She suppressed her gut reaction at hearing the nature of the wand's core, reminding herself once again that the dragons of this world were little more than animals. He put the wand down on the counter and picked up the second. "Eleven inches. Unusual combination of Holly and Phoenix feather. Supple. Another high-power wand, but focused on healing, protection, and defence rather than offence."
The second joined the first, and the third wand was lifted from his box. "Fifteen inches, longest wand I've ever made. Oak and heartstring from a particularly vengeful Hungarian Horntail. Somewhat bendy. This is, by far, the most powerful wand I have in the store, and it is an all-purpose wand very capable at every branch of magic, though it is slightly better at offence that it is defence, and has a slight preference for Charms."
He put the wand down on the counter, next to the other two. "You are only allowed one," he continued. "The enchantments are such that, as long as one wand has an active bond to you, another cannot supplant it."
Her whelp sank into thought, staring at the three wands with an intense gaze.
After three minutes, he picked up the oaken wand. The moment his hand made contact, the room lit up and transformed into the same black void where she'd met Lord Norgannon. While her whelp and the stranger were looking around in awe, Cyanigosa smiled victoriously. Evidently, Lord Norgannon approved.
The next moment, the void had disappeared and the three were back in the shop. They blinked a few times to re-orient themselves. "I dare say that was the most unique reaction I have seen in my long career," he said. "I think we can expect great things from you, Harry Potter. Very great things indeed."
"Thank you, I guess," Tyragos said. "How much do I owe you?"
"Normally, that wand would be forty Galleons," he said. "But your reaction to the wand is a new experience, and they are rare at my age. You can take the wand home for twenty Galleons, twenty-five if you purchase a wand holster."
"Wand holster?"
"They became popular after Mad-Eye Moody demonstrated in public what happened to people who had their wands stored in their rear pockets," the man replied with a shrug as he showed the pair of dragons-in-disguise a leather holster with straps that indicated it was supposed to be mounted on the arm. "Blast off a buttock in public and suddenly everyone wants a wand holster."
"Imagine that," Tyragos answered wryly in time with her snickering. "One wand holster, please."
"The holster is affixed to the wrist," Ollivander said. "Flicking the wrist like this will summon the wand to your hand, while a flick in the opposite direction will return it to storage. That'd be twenty-five Galleons."
Tyragos handed the money over and, with his new wand firmly affixed to his right wrist, exited the shop. When Cyanigosa exited two seconds later, he was nowhere to be seen.
Cyanigosa sighed fondly and set off at a slightly-faster-than-sedate pace for Flourish and Blotts.
– – – –
Four and a half hours later saw their purses fifty Galleons lighter, and their bags forty-eight books heavier, the vast majority of which would go straight into her whelp's personal library. He wasn't ready yet for the pocket dimension spell, and wouldn't be for a few years to come, but that was why they'd obtained the multi-compartment trunk.
It was a good start to a Blue's library, if a little late. The books they'd purchased from York and Scarborough were technically already part of her whelp's library, but a Blue's true library was all about magic.
He'd selected books on magical theory, Ancient Runes – which was a laughable concept to her, as she was older than most of the civilizations mentioned in the books –, Arithmancy, magical history, and a book on Enchanting she'd missed the first time around. They had the last two copies of the book that wasn't going to be restocked because so very few people bought it. Most Enchanters didn't appear from self-study, instead being trained almost exclusively in a master-apprentice system due to the extreme difficulty of Enchanting. The art combined Ancient Runes, Charms, and Arithmancy to create even the most simple and basic of enchantments.
The sun hung low in the sky as the pair, Tyragos once again Henry rather than Harry, walked back into the Leaky Cauldron, now empty of most of its patrons. Professor Flitwick and the Thomases had said good-bye a few hours before, when the pair of dragons-in-disguise were still in the bookstore. Tyragos wanted to go home immediately to read his new books – an admirable wish –, but she reminded him that they had promised to patronize the Leaky Cauldron for dinner, and that no dragon, not even the Blacks, went back on their word.
There were few insults worse to a dragon than being called an oath-breaker.
The dinner, thankfully, was excellent. It was a simple dish of grilled chicken, potatoes, and cauliflower, but one didn't go to the Leaky Cauldron and expect to be served a five-star meal. As an added bonus, Tom was an excellent cook, despite a limited repertoire, and they eventually departed from the Cauldron very satisfied.
Going back to Sapphire Hill, known otherwise as Urra Moor, was as easy as walking into the alley opposite the Leaky Cauldron, grabbing Tyragos's arm, and Apparating out.
– – – –
A month later, on September the first, the pair travelled back to London. Everything inanimate was stored in the trunk, the trunk was in Cyanigosa's pocket dimension, and Hedwig, named for a particularly stubborn witch found in his History of Magic text, could be found on his shoulder, happily hooting away as she rode shotgun on dragonback in the chilly September air. Cyanigosa had cloaked them in a standard invisibility spell that was still far beyond Tyragos' skills on the way there, planning to transform into her Human guise – Hedwig had taken their non-humanity really well, all told – only after she'd located King's Cross, since she didn't know where it was.
They made good time on the way there, completing the journey from Urra Moor to London in two hours, arriving at ten a.m. sharp. Locating King's Cross was as easy as identifying the largest railway hub, and Cyanigosa wondered why she hadn't noticed it before, on her first trip to Diagon Alley. She put the question out of her mind as she glided down and landed in a large secluded parking lot near King's Cross. Cyanigosa transformed back to her Human guise, ensured that Tyragosa was in his Harry Potter form, and dropped the invisibility.
"Come on," she said as she collected Tyragos' trunk from her pocket dimension. "The ticket said the train left at platform Nine and Three-Quarter at eleven sharp, and time does not waiting for anyone."
Twenty minutes later saw the pair plus owl pushing a trolley with a large trunk across the platforms of King's Cross. Locating the entrance to platform Nine and Three-Quarters was not the simplest thing Cyanigosa had ever done, but it ranked up there.
Aforementioned entrance registered on her magical senses like a nearby supernova on a cloudless new moon's sky. Magic washed over the station, and Cyanigosa honed in on the source of the magic like Arcane Missiles speeding towards their target.
It was just her luck that she encountered a mother with four sons and a daughter, all of them red-headed and all of them pushing trolleys with trunks the approximate same size as Tyragos', and additionally were in possession of an owl. She admitted that, to the best of her knowledge, owning an owl wasn't actually illegal, but it certainly was odd, and diurnal owls were even odder.
Her hypothesis wasn't supported by a lot of hard data, but chances were good that this woman was a witch that knew how to get onto the platform. Her senses were good, but with this level of magic flowing out, sensing triggers – like Diagon Alley's three bricks – was beyond her. She sped up a little, her son trailing in her wake, and approached the woman.
"Excuse me," she said, drawing the attention of all six redheads. "But you don't happen to be going to Hogwarts, do you?"
"Hello dear," the plump, matronly witch said. "And yes, we do. First time?"
"Yes," she said as they started walking again, pleased that her supposition wasn't wrong. "Father preferred homeschooling, but I'm sending my son to Hogwarts come hell or high water."
"A fine choice," the mother said. "Ron's new too," she said, indicating the youngest male redhead. "The trick to get onto the platform is to just pass through the barrier," she continued. "It's important that you don't think you're not going to make it, because magic is weird that way."
"Will is important, yes," she agreed readily. "Without proper strength and focus of mind, magic is useless."
"Exactly so. It's best to do it at a run if you're feeling a bit nervous," she said. "Otherwise you get caught up in the vicious cycle of 'what if'."
"Thanks," she said politely as the group of eight approached the barrier between platforms nine and ten.
"Go on then, you two go first," she said. "We've done this trip numerous times already, and this way we'll be here to fish you out if you do get stuck."
"Much appreciated," she said. "Come on, fanal," she added with a wave of her hand, ignoring the plump woman's raised eyebrow at the word.
Tyragos nodded and drew up beside her. "Yes, malana."
She pushed him forward and he sprinted towards the barrier. The moment he touched it, he vanished from sight. Translocation of some kind, or a thick illusion over the entrance?
She intended to find out. Pushing the trolley ahead of her, she ran after her son, and opened her magical sense fully moments before impact. The magic of the barrier engulfed her, found her magic, and gripped it tightly. She kept running as the barrier pulled laterally at her magic, stretching and compressing it at the same time. Her eyes, long used to seeing magic, saw both the dark tunnel and the miasma carrying all the colours of the rainbow that the tunnel was made from, and her eyes widened at the intricacy of the enchantment.
This wasn't the work of some two-bit crackpot, this was a masterpiece that she doubted she'd be able to construct from scratch in less than half a century, and would even have given Lord Malygos difficulty.
She didn't know how it was accomplished, but platform Nine and Three-Quarters was its own contained stable pocket dimension that somehow had breathable air. She vowed to return afterwards to study how the train left this platform without being torn asunder by the spacetime distortions necessary. This was so much more advanced than her own pocket dimension that the only thing the two had in common were their classifications.
"Welcome to platform Nine and Three-Quarters, malana," her son said, sweeping his hand across the railway station. It appeared identical in most way to the platforms outside, with the obvious exception of electricity. A sign hung near the railway that read 'Hogwarts Express – 11 o'clock'.
Acrid grey smoke wafted over the platform and the heads of the crowd chatting on the platform. Cats of various sizes and colours ran around, and owls hooted over the din of conversation and the scraping of trunks. Cyanigosa swiftly recovered from her surprise at the barrier and the nature of the platform to grab Tyragos' shoulder just as he was walking off. Behind her, the gaggle of redheads emerged from the portal and walked past the pair.
"Alright, my little dragon," she said, her eyes feeling suspiciously wet. "This is where we part for now. I expect weekly letters, though more than that is overkill unless something has happened that affects either of us and that I need to know about immediately."
Tyragos nodded uncertainly. "Now, stay safe, don't get into scrapes you don't need to be in. Remember that your illusion still drops when you're asleep or unconscious."
She hesitated a little, then kissed him on the forehead. "Ana belore dela'na, dalah'surfal fanal'o."
"Ana belore dela'na, dalah'surfal malana'o," her whelp, her son, her fanal, completed the ancient parting of ways.
She helped him load his trunk onto the train and forced the tears back as a few minutes later the train's whistle sounded, the doors closed, and the train gathered speed. A lone tear fell down her cheek as her waving son disappeared into the distance. She'd grown attached to the whelp over the decade she'd cared for him.
She Apparated out before more tears could fall. She had a public image to maintain. She ignored the fact that no one she knew – or whose opinion she cared about – could see her.
- – – –
Thalassian translations (both from official sources and stuff I made up myself). Do note that Thalassian is, like Japanese, heavily context dependent and implies social cues that are missing in English. Translations with an asterisk are my original creations.
Minn'da: Mama
*Malana: Mother
*Fanal: Son
Belore dela'na: Eternal sun guide.
Anu: Us
Dalah'surfal: Beloved. Depending on context, can also mean 'my love'.
*The presence of 'I' and 'My' is often implied in Thalassian, and only explicitly said through either the suffix ' 'o ' appended to the noun that is possessed by the speaker, or through addition of the words 'I' or 'O' after the possession. For example, in the above parting of ways, 'dalah'surfal'o fanal' and 'dalah'surfal fanal'o' are both legitimate phrases, as are both 'dalah'surfal fanal I' and dalah'surfal I fanal' all of which translate to 'my beloved son', though the latter pair is only encounter in legalese. Of the first pair, the first sentence emphasizes 'beloved' while the latter emphasizes the fact that the addressee is the speaker's son. Leaving out the possessive suffix still allows for the translation to 'my beloved son' due to context without any potentially awkward social elements.
– – – –
A/N: The original version of this chapter (never published) regurgitated the canon year 1 shopping trip for a large portion, but because the trip happens two days after the first letter is received (a Saturday, owing to experiments that Cyanigosa had running), rather than after a mad dash through the country trying to escape the letters, I figured that that would be idiotic and rewrote it. As such, I figured it would be best if they would go when some of the muggleborn were being shown around the alley, because character interactions :D
There's not going to be all that much about Tyragos' youth beyond references here and there, because I suck horrendously at writing pre-teens. I'd debated starting in year two for just such a reason, but eventually discarded that. The first year will be important enough that skipping it is not exactly advisable.