Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter series and its universe. No profit is made here and no offense intended.

Chapter 1: What the Boy-Who-Lived Knew

Harry Potter stared in shock at the letter in his hand. His surprise was for good reason. There were plenty of startling things about the letter. It was addressed to him, first of all. No one ever wrote to him. Still, there it was, in emerald green ink and beautiful calligraphy:

Mr. H. Potter

The Cupboard under the Stairs

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

How did they know that he lived in the cupboard under the stairs, for one? Could there be people watching the house- no. Of course not. The answer to that question, as well as why and how he'd received the letter, was simple: magic.

Despite his aunt and uncle's best efforts, Harry knew that magic existed. How could he not, when he was constantly bombarded by it? He wasn't sure what had first prompted his knowledge of it, whether it was the potions properties of the flowers he tended to, in Aunt Petunia's garden, or the blood wards that surrounded the house, or the sowilo scar on his forehead. He'd know that he was magical, a wizard, too, for a long time. It explained many strange things that had happened in his life, from the time his hair had grown back overnight when Aunt Petunia had shaved it nearly all off (apparently, he had latent Metamorphmagus abilities), to the time he'd accidentally Apparated onto the school roof while running away from Dudley and his gang, to the time Dudley's old sweater had shrunk when Aunt Petunia had tried to stuff it onto him. And those were only the instances of his accidental magic. He'd been practicing his abilities - wandlessly, of course, since he didn't own a wand - for as long as he could remember.

But, as he turned the envelope over and examined the purple wax seal with a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding the letter H, Harry marveled at his first indication that there was a magic school.

It made sense, the more he thought about it. Harry knew that, unlike him, most wizards and witches didn't have mysterious knowledge that simply appeared in their minds at different prompts. They had to go somewhere to learn, like Muggle children, so of course there would be a school for magic.

Hogwarts. Harry let the information about the school flood into his brain. It was in Scotland, hidden away from Muggle eyes … its students ranged in age from eleven to eighteen … it taught magic in subjects, seven mandatory with five additional electives … it was founded in 990 AD by four friends with alliterative names, Godric Gryffindor, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Salazar Slytherin, who founded each of the Houses students were split into … its current headmaster was Albus Dumbledore … there was a curse on the Defense Against the Dark Arts post-

"Hurry up, boy!" came a shout from the kitchen. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?" Uncle Vernon chuckled at his own joke, while Harry absentmindedly doubted that there was a bomb small enough to fit in a standard letter. Hmm, but no, letter bombs did exist. Apparently, they'd been used since at least the 1700s…

"Get over here now!" Uncle Vernon shouted again, growing impatient. Shaking himself from his thoughts, Harry hurried into the kitchen. His uncle held a hand out for the mail, but Harry didn't give it to him.

"Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia," he said formally, causing both adults to look at him strangely. He took a small, steadying breath. "I received my Hogwarts letter, today."

The reaction to his words was somewhat comical. Uncle Vernon's normally red face paled, to the grayish white of old porridge, while Aunt Petunia's eyes bugged out, and she looked about the faint.

"W-what did you say, boy?" Uncle Vernon asked shakily.

"What's he talking about, Dad?" Dudley asked belligerently. Both his parents ignored him, and his face grew red in anger. "Dad! Mum?"

"Shh, Dudley," Aunt Petunia said absently.

"I received my Hogwarts letter, today," Harry repeated. "And I think it would be in all of our best interests if I went."

"Are you threatening us?" Uncle Vernon's face had regained its normal color, vaguely. It was now so red Harry wondered if the Colour Change Charm had been cast on him. Colovaria, was the incantation. He'd once accidentally used it to change his teacher's hair to blue, but he hadn't had much success in reproducing the effects since. It was OWL-level spellwork, though, so he wasn't concerned.

Belatedly, Harry realized Uncle Vernon had spoken. "Oh no, of course not!" For now. Harry had never wanted anything more than he wanted to attend Hogwarts, now. Escape from the Dursleys, a formal education in how to use his magic, and maybe even a chance to figure out where his strange knowledge came from. He would not let his relatives take that away from him. "I'm just saying, that if I went, I'd be away nine months out of the year, at the very least." If he made friends, maybe he could stay with them, over the summer holidays, too. "You could say I'm at some other school, like St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys." That would make Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia happy, he knew, because they loved nothing more than to tell him that he was a no-good freak. "And I get to go to Hogwarts. Everyone wins."

He examined the faces of his relatives carefully. Uncle Vernon was still red-faced, as his tiny brain tried to piece together what Harry had said, but Aunt Petunia's gaze was thoughtful, calculating. And Dudley, of course, was utterly confused, but for once had the sense to stay quiet.

"And if we don't let you go?" Uncle Vernon asked.

"Vernon-" Aunt Petunia began quietly, but stopped at the dangerous aura emulating from Harry. The room seemed to get several degrees colder, and all three Muggles knew, somehow, that they were in great danger.

"Oh, I'm sure we can agree on an arrangement," Harry replied cheerfully.

"Vernon, we could let him," Aunt Petunia said. "We wouldn't have to deal with him, except for during the summer. Get rid of him, like we always wanted to."

Harry waited patiently, as his aunt and uncle spoke. He knew what their answer would be, now. The perfect mixture of fear and logic, all carefully combined to get him on the train and to the castle.

"Oh… alright. You can go," Uncle Vernon finally conceded. Harry smiled brightly in response.

"Great! All I'll need, is for you to drop me off tomorrow in London, for my school supplies, and on September 1st at King's Cross." He watched, triumphantly, as his relatives nodded. "Oh, and, I'd like Dudley's second bedroom." It was amusing to see Uncle Vernon's face flush again. "They, know I live in the cupboard under the stairs." He flashed the letter at them, long enough for them to see the words, The Cupboard under the Stairs. "I'll pack my things!"

Harry exited the kitchen, and chuckled as he heard Dudley questioning and protesting, and yet losing the argument to his parents, for the first time in his life.

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Diagon Alley was amazing. The tiny, grubby-looking wizarding pub of the Leaky Caldron hadn't quite been what he'd expected, but he'd let his hopes rise as the bartender, Tom, led him into a mysterious alleyway behind the building, and tapped a brick thrice with his wand. Harry had, wisely, made sure to cover his distinctive sowilo scar with his bangs, before the excursion, and the old man had assumed him to be a well-mannered Muggle-born. And as the bricks disappeared and the archway serenaded the alley, Harry wasn't disappointed.

Diagon Alley. He'd known all sorts of facts about it, of course, but knowing the various stores and history of the alley was nothing compared to actually seeing it.

The sun shone brightly above the street, illuminating numerous colorful banners and signs, advertising everything from caldrons to broomsticks to robes. There was even an ice-cream parlor! And there were so many people! Harry had never seen so many wizards and witches in his life. Most were dressed in various dark-colored robes, while others wore Muggle clothing, some of which was very … interesting, to look at.

The most impressive building, though, had to be the snowy white building partway down the street, that towered over the other shops. Gringotts, the wizarding bank, run by goblins and much larger than it appeared on the outside, Harry's mind informed him helpfully. That was his first stop; Harry was fairly certain his parents would have left him something, especially given how old the Potter family was. And if not, he knew there was a small fund for orphans attending Hogwarts.

Harry nodded politely at the goblin who stood by the bronze and scarlet outer doors, who bowed back. He glanced at the words engraved in the silver inner doors interestedly.

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

"But only if you're caught," Harry murmured, careful not to let the two goblins who bowed to him at the inner doors hear. Of course, that was true for any crime. If you weren't caught, you couldn't be punished. The Dursleys had taught him that, long ago.

Harry approached an empty counter. "Good morning, Master Karluk," he said, reading the placard at the counter. The goblin looked pleasantly surprised, and Harry guessed that most wizards didn't care to remember the goblins' names. "I'd like to visit my vault," he continued, "to withdraw some money. I'd also like to be informed of the status of my account, and what else I may have inherited." His knowledge gift was strange, in that way; it only told him the general state of things, and not the specifics as they related to him.

"Name?" the goblin asked.

Harry smiled. "Oh yes. Harry Potter." Karluk's eyes widened, but Harry had to commend him for his relative poker face. He didn't know exactly how famous he was in the wizarding world, especially among goblins, but he knew enough about his supposed victory over the Dark Lord, Voldemort.

"Griphook!" the goblin called, and yet another goblin walked over. "This young man claims to be Harry Potter, and would like to know about his accounts."

Harry followed Griphook, who apparently was the manager of the Potter estates, through the bank, down a long corridor and into an office. He sat obediently in the chair in front of the desk, slightly annoyed that his feet dangled above the ground. He'd always been small for his age.

"Mr. Potter," Griphook said, drawing Harry's attention towards him. "I understand you'd like to view your accounts. First, however, we'll have to confirm your identity."

Confirm his identity … through a blood test, his mind prompted. He nodded, and took the ceremonial dagger Griphook presented him, cutting lightly into his thumb and dripping three drops of blood onto the parchment. His name spelled itself in elegant letters, and Griphook took the paper, satisfied.

"Thank you. Have you gotten statements, throughout the years, of your accounts?" Harry shook his head. He hadn't realized that wizarding banks would also send statements. Griphook frowned - or at least, Harry thought he'd frowned, since goblin expressions were different than human ones. "We'll address that in a moment. You have a couple vaults, Mr. Potter, as well as three properties. One is your trust account, within which 50,000 galleons are deposited each year on your birthday. As the vault has not been touched since its opening, there are now 500,000 galleons within it."

500,000 galleons, and an exchange rate of about 5 pounds per galleon, meant he had at least £2,500,000 he could access! That was enough to buy a mansion!

"Additionally, there is the Potter family vault, which you'll be able to access once you reach your majority, on your seventeenth birthday or if you are otherwise emancipated. This contains, not only money, but also many possessions and family heirlooms." Family heirlooms? He'd had no idea, though of course, the idea made sense. The Potter family was, from what he could tell, a very old line. Pureblood, until James Potter had married Lily Evans, a Muggle-born.

"But I won't be able to access that vault until I turn seventeen?" he asked, frowning slightly. And that was six years away…

"Unless you are emancipated, no; however, others, such as your guardians, will also be unable to access the vaults."

Was Griphook talking about the Dursleys? He wasn't aware Muggles had any financial rights in the wizarding world. Hmm, it seemed as though most magical orphans also had magical guardians, and that his godfather, Sirius Black, was in prison. He'd have to do more research on that later. "Who are we talking about?"

"Your magical guardianship lies in the hands of Albus Dumbledore." Harry's eyes widened involuntarily. The headmaster of Hogwarts, defeater of the dark lord Grindelwald, who held many other titles in the wizarding world, he knew. But he'd never even met the man. Weren't guardians supposed to take care of their wards?

Another thought struck Harry. "Can he access my trust vault?"

"No," Griphook replied, and the boy relaxed. Good. He knew nothing of the wizard, and he wasn't about to entrust his newfound wealth in someone who, or so it seemed, had abandoned him to the Dursleys without a second thought.

"Okay. What are some heirlooms in the vault?"

"Some more notable ones include jewelry, the Potter family Grimoire, other family books, and some family wands." Harry nodded, frowning slightly. It would be nice if he could get his hands on those earlier… Through emancipation? He'd need to pass his OWLs, prove his ability to manage his financial and other affairs, and get the permission of his guardian. At least he'd be able to observe Dumbledore, once he got to Hogwarts. Knowing the wizard's achievements didn't mean he knew the man himself; that was why, for the longest time, he'd had no idea why his relatives hated him.

Griphook waited a moment, for further questions, before continuing. "You also own three properties: Potter Cottage of Godric's Hallow, Potter Cottage in Oxfordshire, and Villa de Lune in Versailles, France."

Harry nodded again. "And lordships? Are there any I've inherited?"

"Once you have reached your majority, you may claim your lordships and seats within the House of Lords. Currently, you are heir to the Potter and Black lines. A combination of seats willed to you, however, has resulted in a total of eleven seats that you will hold in the House of Lords."

The emerald green eyes snapped towards the goblin. "In the Wizengamot?"

"Yes."

Eleven seats in the wizarding equivalent of Parliament? Harry knew that even seven or eight seats was quite a lot of power in the legislative and judicial branch of the Ministry of Magic, especially since many of the seats were empty, from where the family lines had died out. Only… "Who manages my seats, now?"

"Your magical guardian." So, Dumbledore again. The idea of that man having so much power over Harry's life was starting to unsettle him.

Griphook cleared his throat, drawing Harry's attention back towards him. "There may also be other seats you have inherited; we would have to do a bloodlines test to determine your heritage, however."

Harry didn't entirely understand. His mother had been a Muggle-born, so he couldn't have possibly inherited from her, and, from what he knew, the Potter line had been well documented. Still, he could tell Griphook knew something he wasn't telling Harry. Maybe it was something the goblin wasn't allowed to tell Harry? "When can we do the test?"

A fearsome smile greeted his query. "Now, if you please." The goblin stood, turning to a cabinet behind him and withdrawing a vial the size of Harry's thumb, filled with a crimson-colored liquid.

"That's the Bloodlines Potion?"

"Yes," Griphook replied. "It will cost five Galleons, if you please."

Harry nodded. "Take it from my trust account."

"It shall be done." Griphook placed the vial onto the desk, and looked back at Harry, as if daring him to make the next move. This was a test, Harry realized, a test to see whether Harry would be trusting - or naïve - enough to drink it.

Only, he knew it was the Bloodlines Potion. He knew more than he'd ever need to know about the potion, in fact. So, without another thought, he picked up the vial and downed the potion in a single gulp. Griphook's dark eyes gleamed oddly in response.

Harry squeezed the wound on his thumb, prompting another three drops of blood, that fell onto another parchment. He glimpsed a large family tree that emerged, before Griphook grabbed it and peered ferociously at it.

"Mr. Potter," the goblin began. "It seems, there are an additional two seats that must be added to your collection. The seats of the houses Aquila and Ravenclaw." Emerald eyes stared incredulously, but Griphook's gaze was perfectly sincere.

Those couldn't possibly be from his mother … could they?

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A quick trip to Diagon Alley's Owlery covered his response to the Hogwarts letter, and soon, Harry was wandering the streets of the alley for his school supplies.

Uniform

First-year students will require:

Three sets of plain work robes (black)

One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear

One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)

One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags

Madam Malkin seemed nice enough; the squat, smiling witch didn't even comment, as his famous sowilo scar was revealed, though he knew she noticed it, by the slight widening of her eyes. Another boy was also in the store during Harry's fitting. He introduced himself as Neville Longbottom, and was another first-year. Harry thought he seemed nice enough, though a bit quiet and shy - Neville (or was Harry supposed to refer to him as Longbottom? From what he'd heard of conversations, wizards tended to refer to each other by their surnames) had been content, throughout the fitting, to merely sit in silence.

Course Books

All students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Draughts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble

Harry wondered absently, as he entered Flourish and Blotts, why so many of the authors' names fit so perfectly with their subjects. Emeric Switch, when Transfiguration was all about 'switching' things; Phyllida Spore, when a spore was literally a characteristic of a fungi; Arsenius Jigger sounded so similar to arsenic, which could poison, which was a type of potion; and Newt Scamander was literally 'lizard lizard,' wasn't it?

Why was that book, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, on their list, anyway? Harry was certain first-years didn't take Care for Magical Creatures.

But, Harry thought further, for the authors whose names weren't obviously linked to the subjects, would that trend still apply? If so, that was a bad sign, wasn't it? Bathilda Bagshot made it sound like her subject, History of Magic, would be 'batty' or 'baffling', much like Adalbert Waffling. And did Quentin Trimble mean that Defense Against the Dark Arts would be 'trembling'? Harry hoped not; he didn't think that would help them learn a lot. Not that he really needed help learning information, of course.

Still, Harry knew there was a lot he couldn't know simply from the information in his mind. He might, through his strange ability, know a lot of the theory, but he'd need to actually practice to be able to do things.

It occurred to Harry, very briefly, that he might want to buy a few additional books, perhaps for upper years in case his knowledge made him ahead in class, but he dismissed the thought. Most everything he wanted to know appeared, magically, in his mind, and there was a library, at Hogwarts.

Other Equipment

1 wand

1 caldron (pewter, standard size 2)

1 set glass or crystal phials

1 telescope

1 set brass scales

Student may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS

Parents were reminded… but Harry's parents were gone, so did that mean he hadn't been reminded? He dismissed the thought; he didn't need a broom, anyway, since he was fairly certain first years weren't allowed on Quidditch teams. Unless it was to sweep, and there were house elves at Hogwarts for that.

Harry approached his last mandatory destination, a narrow, shabby shop that was the exact right mix of mysterious and eerie, with faded gold lettering that read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. He couldn't help but smile. At last, he was getting his wand! At last, he'd officially be able to do magic! He'd done spells before, of course; the strange information had helped with that, but he couldn't wait to have a focus point to do magic with. Though, Harry knew, if he wanted to maintain his wandless abilities, he'd have to keep practicing them. He didn't want to become too dependent on his wand.

A tinkling bell rang, as he entered the dusty-looking store, and some part of Harry's mind made a strange joke about wands and brooms not getting along as the reason why the wandmaker hadn't found it necessary to clean up the store. He watched, slightly amused, as an old man with wide, pale eyes emerged from a corner of the room.

"Good afternoon," the man, Mr. Ollivander, greeted.

"Hello," Harry replied cheerfully. "I'm here for my wand."

"Yes," Mr. Ollivander said. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." Harry frowned slightly - was he really that recognizable? "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

"Willow wands are known for healing, hidden insecurities, and yet have the greatest potential, though, don't they, sir?" Harry asked, genuinely curious to hear the wandmaker's thoughts on his specialty.

Mr. Ollivander's silvery eyes glinted strangely. "Quite," he replied. "In fact, that is almost exactly what I have written on the subject. And it is a proverb in my family that he who has furthest to travel-"

"-will go fastest with willow," Harry finished. The emerald eyes locked with Mr. Ollivander's own, and the boy felt a thrill of excitement. In all his years, he'd never gotten even a hint that would explain where his gift of knowledge had come from. But if he knew, almost exactly, what Mr. Ollivander knew of a subject… what would that mean?

"Are you well-studied in the art of wand-making, Mr. Potter?" the old man asked.

Harry tilted his head. "In a way, I suppose," he answered. "What was my mother's wand's core?"

"Dragon heartstring," came the answer. Harry nodded contemplatively.

"That's an interesting pairing, the most flamboyant and temperamental of wands with a healer's wood." Mr. Ollivander nodded eagerly in agreement. "If you don't mind me asking, what was my father's wand?"

"Not at all. Your father, yes. James Potter favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration." Mr. Ollivander stared at Harry rather peculiarly.

"But mahogany isn't a wood used for wand-making, is it?" Harry asked, confused. Mr. Ollivander smiled at him, and he realized it had been a test.

"No, indeed, it is not. Your father's wand wood was red oak, though its color made it seem more like mahogany."

"Red oak, which the ignorant say is a sign of its owner's hot temper. An excellent duelling wand. And his core?"

"Unicorn hair." The wandmaker paused, waiting.

"Another interesting pair," Harry commented. "The most loyal of wands, with a powerful, warrior's wand. And the red oak would compensate for the unicorn hair's lesser power?"

"Precisely," Mr. Ollivander praised. "Tell me, Mr. Potter, are you interested in wandlore? Perhaps, in pursuing a career in it, in the future?"

Emerald eyes widened, and for a moment, Harry was speechless. "I… Maybe," he finally answered. "Though, of course, I'm only entering my first year, so…"

"Of course," Mr. Ollivander replied. "But should you ever wish to learn more of wand-making, my store will always be open."

"Thank you." It was the only possible response. "Er… I came to purchase my first wand?"

The wandmaker nodded. "Yes, yes, of course." He pulled out a long tape measure with silver markings. "Which is your wand arm?"

"I'm right-handed," Harry replied, and Mr. Ollivander began measuring. He paused only once, as Harry's hair was brushed to the side and his sowilo scar was revealed.

"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did that," the man said softly, touching the scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew." Said to give its owner power over life and death, Harry's mind prompted, and unusual, occasionally notorious, owners. "Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"

"But you didn't," Harry responded in the same low tone. "And people make their own choices."

Mr. Ollivander's pale eyes focused on Harry once more. "A very wise and admirable perspective, for someone so young."

Harry only shrugged. "I read a lot of books." Fiction had always been fascinating to him, because it was the one subject he didn't automatically know everything about. Only while reading books, could he be surprised, could he learn new things through his own merits.

The man nodded, then continued. Harry realized, after a long moment, that the tape measure had been moving on its own. Mr. Ollivander had moved to the shelves of the store, and was taking down boxes.

"That will do," he said, and Harry watched as the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible." Beech wand matches were wise beyond their years, and Harry was nearly certain his last two statements were why Mr. Ollivander had handed him the wand.

Harry took the wand and waved it, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.

"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy." Maple wand owners were explorers and high achievers, and Harry didn't think that quite fit him. Indeed, he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.

"No, no - here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, try it out." Ebony wands were often for non-conformists, those with the courage to stand for what they believed in. The wand was quickly taken back.

Pine and phoenix feather, a pairing for an independent wizard, but that didn't fit. Vine and dragon heartstring, with an owner with a higher calling, too, was rejected. Walnut and unicorn hair, for the highly intelligent - and Harry was glad the brilliant but dangerous wand wood was paired with the loyal core - was snatched away, as was cypress and dragon heartstring (which Harry was relieved by - the idea of dying a heroic death was worrying), and a wand of ash and phoenix feather, and one of cherry and dragon heartstring. Mr. Ollivander seemed to grow happier and happier, with each wand rejected. It seemed this, the difficulty in matching a wand with a customer, was what he lived to do.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere - I wonder, now - yes, why not - unusual combination - holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple." Holly wand owners, Harry knew, were protective, with a tendency to anger, and often, engagement in some dangerous, spiritual quest. And holly and phoenix feather, he knew, indeed, was a rare pairing.

He took the wand. A sudden warmth appeared, enveloping his hand and fingers, and Harry knew he'd found his wand. He raised it above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of gold and silver sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls.

"Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good," Mr. Ollivander cried out. "Well, well, well … how curious … how very curious …"

"Outside of the unusual pairing?" Harry asked.

The silver eyes fixed onto Harry again. "Yes, Mr. Potter, indeed. I remember every wand I've ever sold. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just one other." Harry had an inkling of where this was going, now, and he swallowed quietly. "It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother - why, its brother gave you that scar."

"Oh," Harry replied quietly. That … he didn't know what to think. Brother wands were rare, and since he and Lord Voldemort were enemies…

"I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…" the wandmaker murmured. "After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great." Harry was reminded, suddenly, that wandmakers tended to remain neutral, in conflicts, providing wands to both sides.

"But he killed many people." Both Harry and Mr. Ollivander turned to the entrance of the shop. A bushy-haired girl had entered some time ago, though neither had noticed, in their exchange.

"Good afternoon," Mr. Ollivander greeted. "I can't say I recognize you. Muggle-born?"

The girl gave a slight raise of her chin. "I'm Hermione Granger," she said proudly, as if daring the two to comment on her blood status. "And, didn't he, You-Know-Who, kill many people? He started a war."

Mr. Ollivander gave a nod. "Yes, that he did."

"But one definition of great," Harry added quietly, "is of an extent, amount, or intensity considerably above the normal or average. And you can't dispute that what Lord Voldemort did had an enormous effect."

Hermione Granger blinked sharply at his use of the name, coupled with the title, and her caramel-brown eyes rested upon his forehead. She gave a small gasp. "You're Harry Potter."

Harry nodded. "Yes, I am." He turned away, back towards the counter. "Thank you for the wand, Mr. Ollivander," he said to the wandmaker. He paid the seven Galleons for his wand. "I'll see you at school," he said to the Muggle-born girl, and exited the store.

The raven-haired boy hesitated, as he walked down the street towards the Leaky Caldron, his purchases in the small pouch spelled with an Undetectable Extension Charm. It probably wasn't a good idea, with the Dursleys' treatment of him… but he really wanted to get a pet. He was allowed, from the letter, a cat or a toad or an owl, and he knew owls were extremely useful, for carrying mail, though he wasn't sure exactly who he'd write to. Or a cat; he'd love a companion, at the Dursleys' and at Hogwarts. He wasn't too keen on a toad, since they seemed sort of useless, but…

Finally, Harry succumbed to the urge, and entered the Magical Menagerie. The store was very crowded, and the witch at the counter was too focused on the customer who was arguing heatedly with her to notice Harry.

"You've got an entire half of the space! There's hardly enough room for the rest of us to move!" Harry frowned at the strange statement, following the sound of the voice.

"Well, I am at least twice the size of any one of you, so of course it makes sense for me to inhabit the majority of the space," came the reply. It definitely didn't seem to be a normal conversation… a human conversation… did English-speaking magical creatures exist? Gnomes, jarveys, merpeople, acromantulas, centaurs, ghosts, poltergeists, giants, goblins, house elves, dwarves, leprechauns, manticores, sphinxes, and veelas could speak English, his mind supplied. But there was something odd about the voices; a strange, almost hissing quality.

He rounded the aisle, but various glass enclosures, empty with the exception of variously colored gravel and some small objects, were all that greeted him.

"Well, you're just moping because someone bought Apollo, two days ago!" Harry turned, but couldn't determine the source of the voices; not, at least, until something moved, out of the corner of his eye.

The glass enclosures hadn't been empty, after all. Four variously colored snakes inhabited the enclosures, hissing at each other.

He was a Parselmouth, it seemed. But didn't the trait run in the Slytherin line? Griphook hadn't mentioned any Slytherin lineage or seats he'd inherited, but that could just mean there were more direct descendants?

§Hello,§ Harry said to the snakes, who all turned at lightning speed towards him.

§A Speaker,§ one said.

§I don't believe it!§

§You couldn't recognize a Speaker, Ariadne, if one bit you in the tail!§

§Shut up, Achilles!§

§Yeah, shut up, Achilles!§ Harry hadn't known it was possible for snakes to sound mocking.

§Um, hi. I'm Harry Potter,§ he introduced. §And you four are?§

§Achilles,§ the largest snake, a black forest cobra, hissed. Harry pushed aside the random information on forest cobras and the name 'Achilles', that the cobra prompted.

§Ariadne,§ said the smallest, a colorfully striped coral snake.

§Daedelus,§ the vivid green boomslang said.

§Pallas,§ introduced the last snake, a charcoal-blue-and-beige blue krait. §I apologize for the actions of my nestmates; they have quite disgraced our den.§

§Pallas…§ Achilles hissed threateningly. A glare from the smaller snake, though, quieted the cobra.

"I would be careful, dearest, with these snakes," a voice said from behind Harry. He turned to see the proprietor of the store. "They're all venomous, and quite dangerous. Especially that big, black one." She pointed with a slightly trembling finger, and Achilles preened in response. "We have some lovely half-kneazles and other pets up front."

"I'd like to buy a snake," Harry replied quietly, making a split-second decision. The woman blinked at him.

"… Are you certain, my dear? They are all very dangerous creatures. Their venom can often be deadly, in fact. And you'll be attending Hogwarts, won't you, in the fall? Snakes aren't on the approved pet list."

"Half the pets brought to school aren't on the approved pet list," Harry countered, gaining surety in his decision. "Exceptions are nearly always allowed. Three of the four are species known for a relatively gentle disposition, especially the coral snake and the blue krait, and there are potions to counteract all of their venom."

"… Well, if you insist," the witch agreed, after a pause. Harry noted that she'd dropped the endearment. "Which one?"

§Which of us will you choose?§ Ariadne asked, unknowingly echoing the witch's statement.

§Certainly not you, Ariadne,§ Daedelus hissed. §He'd tire of your antics in a month!§

§Would not!§

§Would too.§

§Would not!§

§Would too.§

§Well, you're not any better, Daedelus!§

"Which one?" the woman asked again, drawing Harry's attention back to her.

He hesitated, but there'd only ever really been one option. "The blue krait. Pallas." He gestured at the small serpent, who hissed, pleased.

§Pallas?! But she's the least interesting of us all!§

§How come she gets all the attention? That's not fair!§

§Quiet,§ Pallas reprimanded. §You're only showing why you weren't chosen. Thank you, Master,§ she added, turning towards Harry.

"Okay. But you'll have to take it out," the woman said quickly. Harry's emerald eyes narrowed slightly at her use of the word 'it'.

"But of course," he replied politely. §None of you will bite me, right?§ he asked quietly, under his breath.

§They won't,§ Pallas reassured. Achilles made a small movement in distaste, but didn't add anything to the contrary.

The witch levitated the lid off the enclosure, and Harry reached inside. Pallas wrapped herself firmly around his wrist, and he carried her out.

§I'm sorry,§ Harry apologized quietly to the other snakes. "Thank you," he told the witch, who seemed shocked that the serpents hadn't bitten Harry. "How much?"

"Fifteen Galleons."

"That's more than twice the price of a wand," Harry noted aloud.

"…Ten," the witch said begrudgingly.

He blinked at her, surprised at the lowered price. "Okay." Careful not to disturb Pallas, who'd climbed onto his shoulders and around his neck and was flicking her tongue, scenting him, he withdrew ten gold coins from his bag. "Thank you," he repeated to the witch, as he exited the store. She seemed oddly eager to be rid of him.

Harry hoped that, by the time he got back to Privet Drive, his things would be in his new bedroom.