The Son of James and Lily
As soon as the bus crashed to a stop, Harry zipped down the stairs and was out the door before it was even fully open.
"Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron," the conductor announced in the same bored monotone he had greeted them with. "We hope you enjoyed your journey and-"
"Shut up, Stan," Harry snapped. He was bent over, pale, shaking and trying not to vomit. His temper could be short at times and right now the man's grating voice was the last thing he wanted to hear.
Stan gave him an affronted look. "Oi, you listen here mate! I -"
"Shut up, Stan."
Stan flinched and immediately molded himself to the side of the bus. "Sorry, 'Sheda," he muttered squeakily.
Harry glanced up as Burbage and Babbling stepped off the bus. He blinked; when had she changed her hair? Rather than the neat ponytail it had been in before it now hung in gentle, honey-brown curls down to her shoulders.
She fixed his doubled over form with an amused smirk, one corner of her mouth curling up her cheek while the other stayed put. "Having fun?" she asked in a tone that said she knew he wasn't.
Burbage frowned at her out of the corner of his eye as Harry's narrowed gaze met her own. "A blast," he muttered, tone as dry as a salted cracker.
They stood on the pavement of a busy street with people bustling to and fro around them, apparently unfazed by the giant, purple monstrosity that had appeared explosively not seconds ago. Harry frowned as he studied the faces of the passersby; their wandering gazes roamed from one end of the bus to the other without seeming to register any of what was in between.
"Can't they see it?" he asked, gesturing to the bus, before jumping as it disappeared with a loud bang not a second later.
"No." Burbage shook his head, ignoring his assistant's snort. "There are powerful enchantments on it that keep the muggles from noticing anything strange."
Harry stopped glaring at Babbling and turned his attention to the professor. "Enchantments?"
"A way of bestowing magical properties or functions onto otherwise ordinary items."
Harry turned his head up in thought. "Like what you did to the coffee table?"
Burbage chuckled. "No, no, that was transfiguration - turning one thing into something else. Enchanting is more along the lines of giving a broomstick the ability to fly, or spelling a water fountain to spray out chocolate whenever you want."
"Or like making pockets bigger on the inside than they should be?" he questioned, remembering how Babbling had pulled that large stack of documents from her skirt. He glanced her way and did a bit of a double take. He could have sworn she was wearing stockings earlier.
"Yes, exactly!" exclaimed Burbage. "Expansion enchantments are incredibly useful, if a bit pricey. Something as small as a music box can hold something as large as an elephant."
"How?"
Burbage blinked. "How?"
Harry nodded.
"Magic," he said, as if that explained everything.
"Okay, but how?"
The professor looked as if he didn't quite understand the question. "I…. are you asking about the arithmancy behind it or…?"
Harry's eyes shone brighter at the unfamiliar word. "What's arithmancy?" he asked, taking a step forward.
Burbage blinked again and started to haltingly explain the subject as best he could. "Well…. It involves the use of numbers to…. Um…. You can do a great many things with it."
"Like what?" came the immediate response.
More than out of his depth, the professor looked to his impatiently waiting assistant and silently asked her for help. Babbling rolled her eyes.
"It's like magical maths," she answered shortly. "You need it to create new spells."
"I can make my own spells?" Harry was practically vibrating with excitement, all traces of his experience with the Knight Bus gone. A near manic grin stretched across his face and Burbage began to look a bit wary. "Can I learn how to do that? Do you teach it at this school?"
"Yes-"
"What other things do you teach?"
"I-uh…." The man was actually leaning away from him now. "T-Transfiguration, Astronomy, my own subject, Muggle Studies, Defense Against the Dark Arts-"
"What are the Dark Arts?"
"Merlin's balls, kid, stick a cork in it."
"Bathsheda!" Babbling rebuked, tone reproving but expression grateful. "A little professionalism, please!"
"He was acting like an obnoxious Ravenclaw." She scowled. "And-"
"Yes, yes, I know," the professor interrupted with a hand wave, sounding exasperated.
Harry's eyes flicked between the two and he had to fight down a grin as he connected a few dots. "What's a Ravenclaw, Ms Bathsheda?" he asked, caring more about the response than the answer. His voice carried as much enthusiasm as the last several questions and all the innocence of a newborn lamb.
He was fixed with a very dirty look.
"Hm-hm!" Burbage cleared his throat pointedly, shuffling a bit so that he was in between the two. "Why don't we save the questions for now, Mr Potter? I promise that we will explain everything in due time, but we should really get under way with your shopping."
Harry held Babbling's gaze a second longer before regarding the professor. His immediate instinct was to protest; he had too many questions and an urgency for answers. He thought better of it, however, when he remembered his shopping list contained items such as a wand, ingredients for potions and textbooks on magic.
Magic textbooks!
"Let's go," he all but demanded, manic grin back in place.
The Leaky Cauldron was a surprise. Standing outside, Harry had to wonder just why one had to walk through a weathered, seedy pub to get to what was apparently the main hub of Wizarding Britain. Surely there were other entrances?
"Most people floo or apparate in."
The question on what those two words meant died on his lips; killed by a pointed look from the now undoubtedly teenage girl. No adult possessed an attitude like hers. He swallowed his curiosity and annoyance and smiled disarmingly at her, deliberating the best way to drive her up the wall.
Then they walked inside. Harry had to blink a few times, his brain struggling to make sense of what his eyes were seeing. This disorientation was in no small part due to the discrepancy between the sizes of the interior and exterior. Standing outside had led him to believe the pub was no bigger than his house, when in fact it was many times larger.
'Expansion charms,' he thought in delight. His head rotated on a swivel as he struggled to take in everything at once. It was cleaner and better lit than the facade had advertised; sunlight shone through various windows and gleamed off the floorboards beneath their feet. Varnished stools sat along the length of a marble bar and patrons ate and drank at round tables and the booths lining the wall closest to them. A set of stairs on the side of the bar closest to them led upward to the floor above, while an archway on the far side led deeper into the establishment, flashes of green light spilling out into the main hall every now and again.
Harry's rotating head suddenly stopped and for a few seconds the boy stood, entranced by a floating mop a few feet to the left of the door. It dragged itself laboriously across the floor, back and forth and back and forth, before wringing itself out into a nearby bucket, moving a foot or two away and beginning the process again.
He stared at it unblinkingly, turning his head to watch as a hand at his back guided him over in the direction of the bar. A flash of blue in the corner of his eye and he whipped his head around to see a robed wizard lighting his pipe with a blue flame conjured from the tip of his wand.
Tom was old, even by wizarding standards. He'd celebrated his ninety-seventh birthday a few months ago, in the back room of his pub with family and close friends, just as he had the last fifty. In that time, he and his establishment had seen a lot; two wars and the soldiers on both sides of them, all manner of relationships being forged and broken over glasses of alcohol, wizards and witches more powerful and worldly than they had any right to be and too many bar fights to count.
And still the sight of a wide-eyed muggleborn child witnessing magic for the first time never failed to bring a cheery smile out of him. He chuckled as Avery Lockerbin finally noticed the pair of bright green eyes devouring his every movement and startled a bit. He couldn't really blame the man; even by muggleborn standards, that hungry stare was a bit unnerving.
He gave Scabior Fletch a searching glance as he served him his drink, trying to gauge his reaction to the trio. The man was quiet and unassuming, and had never caused trouble in the many years he'd been a regular, but his true opinions were a bit of an open secret to those in the know. The scars on his arm were all one needed to see.
"Tom!"
He smiled as Charles arrived at the bar; they saw each other fairly often and had had many conversations over the years. The professor got quite chatty after his second glass of firewhiskey.
"Hello Charles," he greeted in return, nodding politely. He suppressed a snort as he, over the man's shoulder, saw his assistant transfigure her blouse into a flowy turquoise shirt, much to the muggleborn's confusion when he caught sight of the change not a second later. "And the beautiful Ms Sheda. How are you, my darling?"
"Good as ever, you old flirt. Though I do say, a bottle of butter beer can only improve my mood."
Tom ignored Charles' pointed clearing of the throat and silent admonishment, used to the two's dynamic by now, in favour of the raven-haired youth standing between them. The boy had gone back to examining his surroundings with those impossibly green eyes of his. Something like familiarity prickled at the back of his mind, but was gone in the next second with a shake of his head.
"Hello lad," he greeted, stretching over the bar to offer his hand. "My name is Tom, owner and barkeep of the Leaky Cauldron. From one magical to another, welcome to the Wizarding World."
It was something he did for every first-generation wizard on their first visit. While a bit ostentatious, it almost never failed to bring a smile to the children's faces, and now was no exception. A grin stretched the eleven-year-old's cheeks and he damn near shook Tom's arm out of its socket in his enthusiasm.
"Harry Potter. Nice to meet you."
Tom chuckled, even as that sense of familiarity returned, slightly stronger than before. "The pleasure is all mine, lad. It's always good to see some new blood walk through the door."
"New blood?"
Charles and Bathsheda didn't exactly tense, but Tom definitely felt the weight of their attention increase. "Muggleborns," he explained with a bit of hesitation, glancing Scabior's way. There was no reaction from the man.
"Oh, I'm not a muggleborn."
Tom blinked and turned back to the boy. "You're not?" Then what the hell was he doing here with the Muggle Studies professor?
"Nope!" Harry chirped, his chest puffing out slightly. "Both my parents were magical!"
Tom frowned in confusion. All muggleborns had their letters delivered by the Muggle Studies Professor; they were by far the most qualified to conduct a smooth introduction to the Wizarding world. Plus, it allowed them to keep up to date with the muggles and their ever-changing culture and technology. Half-bloods and purebloods, however, needed no such guidance, even those who were orphaned. So why…?
Wait….
"Potter? As in James and Lily Potter?" Tom clutched the edge of the bar, leaning forward slightly. "You're their son?"
Crash!
Harry's reply was interrupted by the sound of breaking glass. Looking down the bar, his gaze met that of the man who had been sitting quietly as they talked to the old barkeep. He was a scruffy-looking fellow, with long, messy brown hair and a general look of unkemptness about him. His drink lay in a smoking puddle at his feet, shards of the tumbler scattered everywhere.
There was a lull in the noise around them. Everyone had turned to look at the man, but he didn't seem to care. His eyes stayed locked on Harry's, conveying shock, surprise and what seemed to be a hint of apprehension.
Harry could only blink at him owlishly, wondering what had startled the man so. A second or two of silence passed. People started muttering.
"Scabior?" The barkeep - Tom - asked.
That snapped the man out of whatever trance he was in. Casting a quick glance around, he got up from his stool and slapped a couple of silver and bronze coins on the counter, then turned and hurried out of the pub without further preamble.
Harry watched him go in bemusement, as did everyone else. No sooner had the door swung shut than chairs creaked and he found their stares turned on him.
It took a few seconds of him squirming uncomfortably for Tom, who had been staring himself, to regain his wits and send a stern look to the room at large. His patrons quickly turned back to their drinks and conversation resumed in short order, though a few continued to sneak glances at the boy every few seconds.
Tom waved his wand and at his muttered behest the pieces of glass lifted themselves from the floor and slotted back together, the tumbler reforming in a matter of seconds. "Sorry about that," he muttered. "Not quite sure what that was about."
Harry had a strange notion in the back of his head that the man wasn't being entirely truthful. "It's alright."
Professor Burbage looked just as uncomfortable as Tom, while Babbling was looking at him with undisguised curiosity. It took two pointed throat clearings from Burbage before she reluctantly averted her gaze and scowled at something in the corner of the room.
"We should be going now, Tom. You know how shopping is." The Muggle Studies chuckled weakly as he hurried Harry toward the flashing archway. "Perhaps we'll stop and get something to eat on the way back."
Harry opened his mouth to ask the man what the hell had just happened, but the question was snatched from his tongue as took in the passage before him. Two rows of massive, flagstone fireplaces filled with emerald flames faced each other, the light that spilled from them painting everything an eerie green. He watched blankly as, in quick succession, three of the fires flared brightly and people stepped out of the flames and into the passage, brushing soot from their clothes and exchanging pleasantries with those already there.
He pointed wordlessly, a dumb expression on his face.
Professor Burbage smiled. "This is part of what's called the floo network. It connects the fireplaces of almost every magical household and establishment in Britain and allows for people to travel between them using an alchemical agent known as floo powder."
So many questions. Where to start?
"How?"
There, that about summed it up.
Perhaps sensing the flood that was coming, the man quickly directed its path elsewhere. "I am afraid I don't know, young man. However, Ms Babbling is quite knowledgeable on subjects such as these. I'm sure she can answer any questions you have."
He remorselessly ignored the look of betrayal and indignation his assistant sent him as the boy turned his unnerving gaze on her. Better her than him; besides, he knew she enjoyed talking about the things she was passionate about.
She did a good job of making that out to not be the case, however, replying to the boy's questions in short, grunted answers as they joined the throng of people heading toward the exit. Her explanations became longer and more in depth when it became clear Harry wouldn't be deterred. The fact that it was a topic that she actually enjoyed talking about didn't help her resolve in being stubborn. She was halfway through describing how Arithmancy and Runes had been used to imitate phoenixes' - "Immortal fire birds" - unique form of teleportation in what was essentially a massive ritual hooked up to a bunch of "runic matrices" that used floo powder as a catalyst when they stepped into Diagon Alley and the impromptu lecture ended abruptly.
For the first time that day, Harry felt overwhelmed. He hadn't once doubted the reality he had suddenly been thrust into, but he hadn't really had time to accept it either. It had barely been an hour since the two magicals had shown up at his doorstep.
And now the entirety of it, all the wonderful impossibility, strangeness and amazing implications of the Wizarding World were being shoved in his face all at once, and he didn't know what to do with it.
They were surrounded by buildings that an architect would either cry over or worship; either way, physically impossible in design. Wizards and witches of all ages and ethnicities, dressed in fashions that seem to range from every era of every world culture, wandered around with bizarre shopping items tucked beneath their arms or into bags. Many stopped in the middle of the street to call out jovial greetings to people they knew, or start up conversations. Street performers entertained the crowd with acts that sent thrills spreading throughout his entire body; actual fire breathers and people who produced music from thin air. Animals roamed here and there, with scales, wings, fur and sometimes all three. A collared dog with two tails pranced dutifully behind its robed mistress as she levitated a trunk up the street.
There were so many colors. From stark white to pitch black and everything in between. Smells and sounds he had never encountered before assaulted his nose and ears. Goosebumps broke out across his skin.
Harry felt faint. There was too much. It was loud, aromatic and bright. It was all just too much; too much to see, too much to experience, too much to take in. He could scarcely believe this wasn't a dream.
'Please, don't be a dream.'
Some indescribable mix of wonder and awe swelled inside his chest, threatening to burst free, and he had no idea how to deal with it. He felt his eyes prickle and hurriedly closed them, feeling silly and small. It was just a street; nothing to get so worked up over. He took slow, shuddering breaths, clenching and unclenching his fists as he tried desperately to calm down. It was either that or burst into tears.
When he opened them again, it was to see Burbage looking at him with a concerned expression and Babbling pretending to be interested in the window display of a nearby clothing store. Swallowing his embarrassment and the volatile emotions that were stuck in his throat, he offered his best smile. The corners of his mouth shook with an almost imperceptible quiver.
"Shall we go?"
The set off without another word, for which he was grateful. He did his best to tune out his surroundings as they walked, lest he be overwhelmed again. It turned out that required slipping into a small reverie, his feet carrying him forward as his head wrestled back control over his emotions.
He had almost succeeded when a body moved closer to him, snapping him out of his thoughts.
"You okay?" Babbling asked softly, somehow managing to sound awkward and concerned at the same time. Harry blinked, surprised she had even made the effort.
"Yeah. It's just…." Words failed him. He gestured around him with a shaky laugh.
She nodded her understanding and they continued on in silence. Harry took a breath and found that he felt steadier, more assured. His lips quirked and he turned to voice his gratitude to Babbling; the thanks withered on his tongue as he found her skirt had been exchanged for jeans, a not-quite-hidden smirk on her face as she stared straight ahead.
Great, they were playing this game again.
….
And goddamnit, he was competitive! Which made the fact that he failed to catch the next three apparel switches very frustrating.
Babbling, on the other hand, was enjoying herself. Yeah, she hadn't been the friendliest to him so far, but that was who she was and how she interacted with people; especially people whose insistence on going right that instant forced her to cancel afternoon lunch dates with extremely attractive guys.
Seriously, who wanted to spend their birthday shopping?
So what if she was a bit meaner to him than usual? Kid was a smartass apparently; every barb she threw he either brushed off or countered. His little display of emotion, though, had thrown her off guard. She wasn't used to people making themselves vulnerable around her, and on top of making her uncomfortable, it reminded her she was dealing with an eleven-year-old. Not one of her old housemates, but a kid only two years into the double digits who had just had most of what he'd known about the world flipped on its head.
Unbidden, she recalled the scene between him and his family. After a moment's pause, she stepped a bit closer to him.
"You okay?"
He had cheered up after that, to the point where she didn't feel guilty when she started to play with him again.
Turns out messing with Harry Potter was quite fun, made so in great part by how expressive he was. Each and every time he saw that she had transfigured an item of clothing his face flashed with annoyance and childish frustration.
Was it wrong that she derived joy from it? Maybe, a little. Did she really care? Not in the slightest.
"Oh, come on!" he eventually exclaimed. He had looked away for little more than a second and she suddenly had a jacket. Babbling couldn't help herself and a snicker escaped her lips. Harry scowled and crossed his arms, looking away from her.
She took the opportunity to switch the colors of her shirt and shoes and transfigure a hairpin into a hat. He didn't turn around. Babbling added some embroidery to the waistband of her jeans. Still, he faced the window display of Avalon's Antiques.
She looked past him to see if he was simply being stubborn as she thought he was or if something had actually captured his attention. There wasn't much of interest in the display, just-
Her eyes met his in the reflection of the window. He wore a broad, smug grin on his face.
'Gotcha.'
His reflection waggled his eyebrows at her surprised expression, before the boy laughed and ran to catch up with the professor, who hadn't realised that either of the two had stopped following him.
Babbling watched him go with a contemplative look. A half-annoyed, half-impressed grunt escaped her.
"Hn."
Harry was disappointed to learn their first stop would be a bank. He had been to a bank before, with Vernon; arguably the most boring experience of his life. He'd sat in a plastic chair with nothing to do for three hours while his uncle discussed investment options.
That was a muggle bank. Wizarding banks had rollercoasters.
"Was that a dragon!?"
The goblin manning the cart glanced in the direction of Harry's urgently pointing finger, then snarled at him. Or grinned. He really couldn't tell.
"We feed them prisoners and thieves. And employees that made particularly grievous errors."
Harry gaped at him. "Really?"
This time it was definitely a grin. "We use the term 'fired' more literally than most."
They came to a stop a short while later, in front of Vault 687. Harry stepped off the cart, eyes practically glittering in the dim light.
"That was bloody wicked!"
Babbling and Burbage exchanged amused looks as they followed the little goblin to the Vault doors. It was further down than they had imagined.
"Stand back, please." The goblin - Griphook - thrust his palms toward them and they shuffled backward a few paces. Harry and Babbling raised their eyebrows a bit at the dramatic gesture, then raised them further when he spun on his heel and stomped to a stop facing the lock and paused for a moment, hands clasped behind his back and pointed nose in the air. Harry almost thought he would give a sniff, too.
Unwittingly the two exchanged wry glances, then realised what they were doing and hurriedly turned their heads to watch the goblin run his fingernail down the groove in the lock and push open the doors.
Harry felt his mouth go dry.
'That's a lot of gold.'
Indeed, the pile of large coins that lay before him was taller than he was and could have filled the beds of two trucks. That was ignoring the virtual mountains of bronze and silver that sat behind it. Harry glanced sideways, trying to gauge his companions' reactions. If the way Babbling was staring in open-mouthed awe was any indication, the amount was definitely extraordinary. Even Professor Burbage looked taken aback.
'Bloody hell, I'm rich.'
Gingerly stepping foot into the vault, as if it might dissipate the second he did so, Harry reached out and picked up one of the gold coins. He weighed it in his palm and recalled the price of gold that appeared on the news the night before.
He held a good few hundred pounds in his hand.
"Don't even think about it."
Harry looked at the goblin. "Think about what?"
"What every wizard with two brain cells to rub together thinks of doing at some stage." Griphook sneered. "Trading with magical currency in the mundane world is not only prohibited by the Statute of Secrecy, but also by the treaty between Gringotts and Magical Britain."
While Harry didn't know what the Statute of Secrecy was, or why there was a treaty between Magical Britain and a bank, he understood what Griphook was telling him. 'No spending in the muggle world.'
"And what happens if I do?" he challenged.
The goblin's grin was vicious. "It depends on who catches you first. It will most likely be Gringotts."
Remembering the dragon and its diet, Harry wisely put the thought out of his mind. Even if it was only in the magical world, rich was rich.
"I don't suppose you know how much is in here?"
Griphook quickly retrieved a clipboard from the cart, flipped a few pages and then showed it to Harry.
"Galleons?"
"Those are the gold coins," Professor Burbage explained. "The silver ones are sickles and the bronze are knuts. Twenty nine knuts to a sickle, seventeen sickles to a galleon."
Harry's nose wrinkled. "What sort of value system is that?"
"A perfectly good one!" Griphook snapped. Harry regarded him warily, before deciding it must be a touchy subject and turning back to the clipboard. He frowned.
"This says all this - " He gestured around the vault "- comes from Vault 417."
"Yes, the ancestral vault of the Potter Family."
"There's more?" Having been silent up until that point, Babbling marched up to the threshold of the vault and tried to peer at the document over Harry's shoulder. He moved so that she couldn't see, earning himself a scowl which he ignored.
"Could we go there next?"
"No."
Harry blinked. "Why not?"
Griphook took the clipboard back and handed him a bag in its place, gesturing for him to start taking what he needed from the vault. "In cases such as yours, where an underage wizard is left a sizable inheritance, standard procedure is for Gringotts to hold the amount in trust until certain conditions are met so as to prevent irresponsible frivolousness."
Harry paused in scooping a handful of galleons into the pouch. "What conditions?"
There was a minute sigh and the sound of pages being flicked. "You will have access to your Ancestral Vault upon reaching the age of fifteen."
"Fifteen?" Babbling asked, ignoring the stern look the professor sent her. Both had stayed outside the vault and a good few paces back, which, after a moment of thought, Harry supposed was a polite gesture. "Isn't it usually seventeen?"
"Not that it is any of your business - " Harry grinned at the sour look that crossed the girl's face " - but yes, the usual condition is that the witch or wizard in question reaches majority." The goblin shrugged. "It is simply different this time."
Harry scooped one last handful of the bronze coins into the pouch, which he had since discovered also boasted expansion charms, and stood, weighing the bag in his hand. It was heavy.
"Is this all there is?"
Babbling gave him an incredulous look. "What, is this not enough?" she asked sarcastically.
Harry shook his head hurriedly. "No, I mean…." He turned to Griphook. "Did my parents leave me anything else? I dunno'... like… letters or something? An heirloom maybe?"
There was no mistaking the hope in his voice. The goblin flicked through the papers attached to the clipboard before shaking his head.
"No."
The ride back was not as fun. Mostly because it was a slower journey back up, but the awkward silence might have also played a part.
Once outside the bank, the group split up. In the spirit of efficiency, Burbage sent his contrite assistant off to collect the standard school supplies Harry would need while he took the boy to get the more personalised items such as his robes and wand.
The man was cheerful and took to explaining everything he could about the things that crossed their path. How, yes, that was actually dragon liver. Dragons were bred in colonies all over the world and were a font of magical resources and food; certain species had even been domesticated.
That song? Oh, an old, old nursery rhyme. "Though I must say, that chap is quite impressive. It's quite difficult to manipulate the air to make music you see."
Harry had thrown a galleon into the man's cap and quickly figured out he'd been too generous when the man stopped playing and grinned gleefully at him.
"You can actually exchange wizarding currency for British Pounds at Gringotts, though not many do. I think it's about one hundred pounds to a galleon.
Too generous by half.
It was hard to stay sullen when he was surrounded by magic. Harry couldn't help but feel grateful, recognising the man's attempt to cheer him up for what it was. In return he did his best to keep his questions to a manageable level.
Their first purchase was a trunk. Then and there, Harry would have happily gone bankrupt buying something called a 'Leviathan Chest' had Professor Burbage not stopped him. No, he didn't need a seven-layered interspatial oaken artwork that boasted feather-weight, fortifying and shrinking charms and a security system that would make Gringotts jealous, but who the hell had said anything about needing it?
They eventually left with an ordinary, boring trunk and made their way to a bookstore called Flourish and Blotts where, again, Harry nearly emptied his coin purse. On top of his school books he left with five other large tomes, and only that few because if he bought any more he wouldn't have any space left for his other supplies.
The Leviathan chest wasn't looking so silly now, huh Professor?
Madam Malkins had been a bit of a disappointment; initially because of the lack of enchanted armor and battle-mage robes that Harry had half-expected to find there, and then because of the frosty-haired little cretin he was stuck beside for the next twenty minutes.
"Ow! Stick me with a pin again, woman, and see what happens!"
"My apologies, Mr Malfoy." Harry thought she hid her irritation well. That was only the second time she'd pricked him and he couldn't help but wonder if it was in retribution for what he'd called her after the first time.
"Honestly," the boy, Malfoy, scoffed as she began taking his leg measurements. "How can someone be so bad at such a talentless job?"
Harry raised his eyebrows; even if he did agree, he wouldn't have been brave enough to say as such when a handful of pins was that close to his groin. "You make a lot of clothes in your spare time, do you?"
The boy looked at him in surprise, as if just noticing his presence. "What?"
Harry just smiled at him.
A frown crossed his face and he looked Harry up and down, as if judging his worth. "And who are you?"
"Harry Potter."
His frown deepened to something just short of a sneer. "Potter? I don't recognise that name. You're not a muggleborn are you?"
He asked it in the same way Stan Shunpike had. Even though Harry didn't really know what it mattered either way, he felt a flash of irritation run through him. A hard edge entered his smile.
"What difference does it make?"
"All the difference! Muggleborns are- Ow!"
The seamstress had pricked him again. She turned her head ever so slightly, ignoring how the eleven-year-old berated her, and gave Harry a wink. He beamed right back and discreetly shot her a thumbs up.
They endured the boy's presence in silent camaraderie for a few minutes longer, listening as he bemoaned the Hogwart's rules regarding broomsticks (something Harry made note to question Professor Burbage about) and pets as well as the school's choice in staff. Apparently a giant, savage drunkard served as the groundskeeper.
All the while, he shot Harry unsure and questioning glances. Trying to work out if he was a muggleborn, no doubt.
When the last of Malfoy's measurements had been taken, he went to stand by the door. A few minutes later a man walked in and Harry had to hold back a snort. He was undoubtedly the boy's father. Back straight and head held high so that he was looking down his pointy nose and his hair hung away from his shoulders, he glided into the shop, dressed in robes so fine even Harry could tell their quality and holding a cane that thumped against the floorboards with every other step. It was topped with a silver snake's head, with emeralds for eyes.
Honestly, he would have looked quite elegant were it not for his bearing; if the son was a little up his own arse, the father might as well have been the ouroboros personified, with how he treated and spoke to the teller. The way he threw the coins onto the counter did nothing to endear him either.
'What a tosser.'
The man must have felt he was being watched, because he turned and met Harry's gaze.
The cane fell to the floor. All at once the man's body stiffened and the whites of his eyes were put on display as some intense emotion peeled the lids back. Gray stared into green and a charged silence fell across the shop. The man's lips moved in the motion of an unspoken word. Harry was no lip reader, but he knew it all the same.
'Potter.'
Harry watched, nonplussed and with a strong sense of déjà vu, as a plethora of emotions crossed the man's face. Shock, anger, uncertainty, fear and finally a stone-cold stare. A cold stillness froze everything around them as everyone stared at him staring at Harry, who grew increasingly uncomfortable and nervous as the seconds ticked by.
The tension grew until it snapped, with Harry clearing his throat and stuttering out, "C-Can I help you?"
The man said nothing. He didn't even move.
"Father, what's the ma- Uhk!"
Malfoy junior squawked as his father suddenly grabbed him by the back of his neck, scooped up his cane and dragged him out of the shop, the boy's feet barely staying on the ground. Harry, the seamstress and everyone else in the room watched with open mouths as the door swung shut behind them.
"Did I do something wrong?"
The young woman shook her head, looking bewildered. "Not at all." She looked him over, as if to make sure she was telling the truth. "Though you can never really tell with those sorts."
Not twenty seconds later Professor Burbage entered with a concerned expression on his face. "Did something happen just now? I saw Lucius Malfoy rush out of here as if a troll were at his heels."
"I - No, nothing. He just saw me and…" Harry trailed off. "You know him?"
The professor grimaced and nodded. "He's tried to put me out of a job a few times."
"What? Really? Why?"
The man grimaced again, but said nothing.
The last of his measurements were taken and after a few minutes' wait, he was paying for a bundle of tailored black robes and the rest of his school uniform. "All that is left now is your wand. After that we'll meet up with Bathsheda at the Leaky Cauldron and have some lunch." Burbage hesitated for a second. "There is something we need to discuss with you as well."
Harry's curiosity was piqued, but the professor's tone said 'later' and so he waited.
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
"That long?"
"Oh, yes," Garrick Ollivander said, handing him a nine-and-two-thirds inch dogwood wand with a unicorn-hair core. "Though, to be honest, my family has only been making wands specifically for the past six hundred years. Before that it was staves and other forms of magical foci." Harry waved the wand and, much like the last seven times, something broke; the bottom two rungs of the ladder leaning against the shelves. "We even specialized in swords for a few generations," he said, snatching the wand away and holding out a new one. "Maple, phoenix feather, eight inches exactly. Flexible."
Harry paused just short of taking it and looked the man in the eye. Swords? Magic swords?
"I don't suppose you still sell those, do you?"
The man chuckled. "I am afraid not, young man." There was a knowing look in his eyes that Harry didn't quite understand. "Our work couldn't hold up to that of the goblins."
Harry flicked his wrist and was nearly swept off his feet as the air swirled into a whirlwind around him for a few seconds before violently dispersing. Boy, professor and proprietor stared at the wand for a second before it was snatched away and replaced with another one. There was an excited gleam in Ollivander's eyes as he rattled off the wand's specifications. "Willow, eight-and-a-half inches, phoenix feather core."
It was a beautiful thing; straight as an arrow and tapering from a base as thick as his thumb to a point as fine as a pin. Gentle contours (Harry wasn't sure if they were carvings or the grain of the wood) swirled and flowed down the length of it, twisting harshly around the base to form a sort of grip.
It was snatched out of his grip almost immediately.
"No, no," Ollivander muttered, as if rebuking himself. "Of course not." Harry was left blinking, fingers curled around empty air. He'd liked that one. Somewhere behind him he heard professor Burbage sigh.
A few seconds later the man returned holding yet another small box. "Willow, dragon heartstring, eight-and-three-quarter inches. Quite sturdy."
Harry knew before he even touched it. It looked almost identical to the previous one, except it was slightly thicker and less tapered. The air sang as he touched it; he could feel it thrumming against every square centimeter of his skin, vibrating intensely as a piercing, keening note filled the small shop. The sound was neither loud nor soft, terrible or inoffensive. It was as if someone had struck a gong. Several small items of the counter nearby shook under the assault of the frequency.
Harry felt as if he had suddenly become aware of another appendage, one that had always been there but had been inactive his entire life. Like a perdriplegic suddenly regaining feeling in their legs. The appendage was fluid, and he could feel it both inside and outside his body. It flowed smoothly, like water, but was also caught in a perpetual explosion of violent movement. Air on the inside of an ever-beating drum. All the energy of an inferno, and yet the parts that burned hottest were as inert as rock. It was all nothing, with the potential to be everything. Anything. It filled him from head to toe. It was him. He was it. It would obey his directive as surely as his arm would. He just needed to push and pull and shape -
"Stop!"
Harry stopped, not remembering when he had started. The fountain of multicolored sparks spewing from the tip of his wand began to peter out and the wind that had swept through the shop like a squall died abruptly. There was a smell in the air like burnt metal and when he lowered his hand, he realized he was shaking.
"Uh," he began nervously, shrinking into himself as he surveyed the damage he had wrought. None of his previous attempts had even come close to this mess. Whatever loose items had been in the shop now lay scattered all over, many of them broken in ways that they shouldn't be. Some of the wooden objects looked like they'd melted and then set again. Flowers that had been part of an arrangement lay in glittering, glass-like shards across the floor.
Oh, and speaking of glass, the shop window was gone.
Both adults ignored all that to stare at him in astonishment. Harry glanced between them and immediately started spewing apologies. Ollivander's cackling laugh cut him off five words in. The laugh continued, gaining volume by the second until the old man was bent double over the counter, wheezing and with mirth. "Brilliant! Absolutely marvelous! Oh, this is just…" He couldn't continue, devolving back into delighted laughter. Harry shifted nervously from foot to foot, anxiously clutching his new wand with both hands and looking to Professor Burbage for help. He found none; the man was staring at Ollivander as one would a lunatic.
When the wandmaker eventually calmed back down to a degree where business could continue, he extracted a promise from Harry to come visit his shop again next year.
"Why?" he asked as he counted out seven galleons into the man's hand. Ollivander's eyes gleamed and a grin stretched the skin eerily across his face.
"I want to hear your stories firsthand."
That small exchange seemed to unsettle Professor Burbage as much as everything else that had happened in that store. All the way back to the Leaky Cauldron he shot Harry worried looks. Sometimes Harry thought he was going to say something, but he always swallowed his words and faced forward.
"Did I do something wrong?" he asked after growing tired of the glances. "Was that not normal?"
Professor Burbage chuckled nervously. "What happened when you found your wand, you mean? No, that was normal. Well… your reaction was a bit strong." Under his breath Harry heard him mutter, "Very strong."
"And what does a strong reaction mean?"
"Not much, really." The man shook his head and sighed. "Magic is chaos. Without the ability to wring order from it, everything becomes unpredictable. And unpredictable circumstances inevitably lead to incredible stories." There came another sidelong glance. "I suppose Ollivander expected you, more than most, would have some incredible stories to tell by the end of the school year."
Harry didn't really understand the explanation and spent the rest of the journey trying to puzzle it out with no success. They found Babbling sitting at the bar drinking from a glass mug full of bright yellow liquid, a pewter cauldron stuffed full of potion supplies and 18th century school stationery next to her on the floor. Harry spared a second to give the quills and ink bottles a doubtful look as he packed them into his trunk; he didn't see what was wrong with using pens. They certainly took up less space. And were less messy, he thought as his fingers came away smudged.
After telling Professor Burbage what he wanted to eat the man went to order at the bar, leaving Harry and Bathsheda Babbling to sit in awkward silence alone at a table near the floo passage. For want of something to do, they decided to engage each other in a staring contest.
Or, at least Harry thought that's what they were doing. It wasn't a spoken agreement exactly; more the result of a sudden realization that they were staring at each other and an inexplicable urge to not look away first. If the way the girl started squinting and fidgeting after a minute was any sign, it was indeed a staring contest.
One she was losing at that.
"What is wrong with your faces?"
Babbling blinked rapidly as a plate of food was set in front of her. She stared down at it for a couple of seconds; when she looked back up, her face wore an uncaring expression that refused to meet Harry's smirk head on.
"Nothing," she said in an all too casual voice, taking a bite from a chip. Harry was delighted at the traces of petulance he could hear.
Burbage sighed and stared at something in the corner of the room for a moment before shaking his head and sitting down.
Things were relaxed for a while. In between bites of his steak and kidney pie, Harry begged the two to teach him some spells. Both declined, Babbling with far less politeness than Professor Burbage, leading to his current attempts to figure it out himself. What had started out as mocking swishes of his wand, no real effort to perform magic behind them, had since become frustrated attempts to feel that same power he had felt in the wand shop. No matter how hard or often he tried, sitting there, the feeling escaped him. It was like trying to hold water; no matter how tightly he cupped his hands, the feeling slipped through his fingers. And that was when he could feel it at all.
Babbling watched him struggle vainly with undisguised amusement, while Burbage looked a little more anxious. No doubt he was remembering the chaos that had erupted in Ollivander's shop. His eyes kept flickering about, as if looking for things that had abruptly broken or spontaneously combusted.
"-Potter... looks like…"
The words reached Harry's ears in the middle of lull in the pub's din, causing him to freeze.
"-green eyes… Envy… Malfoy said… -itting image…"
He peeked over his shoulder. Two tables away sat a group of men bent over glasses and mugs, their heads as close together as the edge of the table allowed. They were tucked away in a dark corner, but to a man their eyes glittered as they stared directly at him.
Harry whipped his gaze forward again and made to mention the group to Professor Burbage, then stopped. The man seemed twice as anxious as before, eyes darting all over again. No, not all over. From him, to the bar, to the table beyond him. Looking over to the bar, Harry saw Tom was wiping down a glass he thought the man had been cleaning five minutes ago, sending discreet glances at both the men's table and theirs. The next time he looked back at theirs, his eyes met Harry's and with a start, he set down the glass and disappeared into the kitchen.
Professor Burbage cleared his throat and started to get up, eyes fixed on an empty table on the other side of the room. "Say, why don't we…." He trailed off as a wizard and witch came down the stairs and headed straight for where he was looking. "Nevermind," he muttered as he sat back down. His eyes once again flickered from Harry to the whispering group behind him.
"-fucking Shadeface!"
That hadn't been whispered. Harry spun fully in his chair to stare at the group, as did practically everyone else in the Leaky Cauldron. Now that he was looking at them head on, he realized that they were a strange collective; a few were dressed with all the style and wealth that the Malfoys had displayed earlier. Hints of silver and gold were glittered about their person and they looked well groomed.
From there the level of apparel and cleanliness deteriorated bit by bit as Harry's eyes roved over all those who sat at the table, until he came to the man who had shouted. He stood, stiff as a board and clenched fists pressed against the tabletop in a puddle of spilled alcohol. He was filthy. Grime coated his torn clothes and creased, scaly-looking skin and grease soaked his hair. What hair there was. It grew from the back of his head, but made decreasing appearances as you moved forward until only one or two tufts remained at his forehead.
From his forehead down was where the horror lay.
The man had been the victim of something terrible. The skin of his face was pulled tight over his skull and had a waxy, shiny look to it. His features were twisted and marred, with eyes that looked like they were at different heights and a lopsided gash of a mouth that didn't want to close properly, exposing rotten teeth for the world to see. One of ears was nothing more than a wrinkled lump of flesh fused to the side of his head.
He looked as if someone had shoved his face into a vat of boiling oil and held it there. It gave the man a horrific, frightening appearance. The full force of which was thrown behind the glare he had fixed on Harry. His companions were whispering urgently to him, making motions for him to sit down. His neighbor tried to tug him back into his seat by the sleeve of his coat, but the man refused to budge. He just kept glaring with hateful, bloodshot eyes at Harry, his face growing redder by the second.
Harry gripped his wand tightly and swallowed, but didn't break eye contact. He couldn't. The man petrified him, freezing him in place. His senses were screaming that he was in danger and, not giving a second to question them, he clawed for that power inside him, that feeling he had felt in Ollivander's shop. It was there, he could feel it now, but it refused to budge, staying inert and unmoving. Desperately he kept on reaching for it, again and again, each time without success.
There was so much hate in the man's gaze; it was unbelievable. As if he wanted to erase Harry from the face of the earth. As if he wanted to kill him. Crush him. To throw him against the far wall and drive spikes through his hands and feet. As if he wanted to summon a storm of fire and -
Harry's eyes snapped down to the man's waist and widened. His hand was creeping to the coat pocket where Harry knew he kept his wand.
In a second, certainty that the man was going to try and kill him filled Harry and he felt fear. More fear than he had ever felt in his life. Stifling, freezing, choking, it filled him.
He reached out once again for his magic, and this time, he grabbed it. And he pulled. It filled him in an instant, like an explosion, expanding and raging and scorching and-
A plume of fire burst from the tip of his wand. It wasn't big; comparable to the effect Dudley had produced that afternoon he'd decided to play with hairspray and matches. Harry flinched back from the unexpected flare up of heat, holding his wand away from him.
"NO!"
Harry jumped and then stared, shocked, as the man screamed once again, loudly, from the back of his throat.
"NO!" All traces of hate and rage were gone, replaced by terror and panic. "Stay away from me! Away! Fire! Fire!"
He tried to back away, and in his haste, toppled over his chair. "Don't burn me! Please! No more!" He scrambled backwards, away from Harry, whimpering and crying. His eyes shook in their watery sockets. "No more! Please!"
When his back hit the wall, and he couldn't crawl any further away, he collapsed into a sobbing ball on the ground, arms curled around his head.
Harry stared, blind and deaf to anything other than the man and his cries. Never before had he seen something like this, and he felt sick.
Sick with the certainty that he'd caused it.
AN: Hey all. It's been a while, I know, but I haven't given up on this story, or any of the others for that matter.
2021 was a crazy year. Started my first year engineering studies in university and I just barely managed to scrape by into second year. On top of that, I'm just really bad at procrastinating. I know my updating time sucks balls, but hey, this is a hobby that I do for fun.
Now, in proofreading/editing this, I realised that I probably produced more questions than answers. Good. That's what I was going for. Some people have come up with some theories for what's going on that are quite amusing to read; I've actually come up with a few ideas for the future after hearing them, so thanks to all you who did review and PM your speculations. Please feel free to do so again. I dropped some hints as to what the alternate history of this universe is, though I don't think it's enough for any of you to completely piece together what's going on. Much more information will be given on that in the next chapter.
Btw, I'm not sure what story I'm going to update next. I'm kinda flying by the seat of my pants through life at the moment, but I will get around to updating one of them at some point.
So, yeah. It's been a while, life's hectic, it's going to get more hectic, I haven't given up writing and don't plan to. Oh, and leave a review; I appreciate and read all of them and love to hear constructive criticism.
Until next time. Cheers!