Author's Notes: Good to see everyone again :). It's been a while since I ever did anything Harry Potter related in fiction. I feel exceptionally guilty about not seeing my first Marauder's fic to the end, but I've decided to write it anew. A new start, shall we say? I've had the first three chapters already beta'd, so I have no qualms about posting this up now. Hopefully, everyone won't be too upset with me about the other fanfic... I appreciated all of the reviews and alerts. I'll do my best to satisfy you with this version. I hope you enjoy it!

**RANDOM EDIT! (9/26/15): What do you know? I came to canonize the fic after the splurge of new information about the Potters :).

A Beginning's Beginning

It was dark.

Footsteps. A crash. Another crash.

A deep, yet familiar voice shouting...

Suddenly, a scream. A baby's cry.

The taste of salt drips down.

Tears?

Pain. So much pain.

Why...? Why. Why must it end in pain...

It was late in the year 1971. Summer had once again come and gone just as it always had. Typical year. Nothing too dramatic. Another war had started, of course, and the topic seemed to have become quite popular among the most auspicious of gossipers. It was a rather typical day, too, with a cloudless sky and September winds that were beginning to blow in more often than the weeks before. It happened to be the first day of the last week in August, and the day seemed perfectly normal. Strangely enough, however, 'perfectly normal' probably wouldn't be what eleven-year-old, James Potter, would call it.

James sat in the backyard of his house, leaning leisurely against a twenty-four-generations old elm tree, with his arms relaxed behind his head. His gentle hazel eyes stared out from behind his glasses and towards the horizon. The wind swept over him every so often, breezing through his dark hair and causing it to grow even messier than it already was. Oddly enough, his hair was naturally messy, and literally impossible to groom no matter what anyone did to it. The most annoying part about it, he found, was that it had a knack for wanting sticking up in the back. The messy-haired boy often caught himself angrily trying combing it down, with no avail.

Aside from his oddly stubborn hair, his attire appeared quite different from what one would normally see in one's average neighborhood. Then again, neither James nor anyone in his family lived in your average neighborhood, resulting in his getup fitting right in with what his neighbors wore. He, like most, wore a cloak (his being dark violet) that was sloppily tied about his neck and drooped down to his ankles. Beneath the cloak hid some rather simple clothes despite his family's fortunes: typical but very simplistic black dress pants and an off-white shirt. Nothing he wore was mandatory—save the cloak per his own personal preference. The cloak of this kind, explained his mother over tea one afternoon, is an item often only worn by wizards. He quite liked the feel of the light weigh upon his shoulders. It reminded him of his family heritage.

The Potters came from a long line of wizards and witches. Not a single bit of 'tainted' blood ran through their veins. Their blood was the purest of pure—not a single non-magic inherited person—no muggle—plagued their line of generations. James, along with his parents, was considered pure blood: a name only reserved to the few remaining families who hadn't interbred with the non-magic kind. It was a rather significant title for many. One should be proud to be part of such a lineage! He was, of course, just a little bit, but for James and his parents, they found it to be somewhat insulting and racist towards other people—to the majority of the living world today. The world is shared, his father would often tell him while working on a new concoction at within his office, there's more of them than us. Anyway, James didn't really care who or where anyone came from. He did have to admit that being pure blood had many advantages, but that didn't mean he'd become a snob because of it. They were happy, and that's all he cared about.

With a sigh, he stared up at the brilliant blue sky above him. He was dazed, thinking, but about nothing in particular. Not really thinking about anything, but still thinking nonetheless. Something seemed amiss in his heart; he didn't understand what this feeling was. Nothing too dramatic had happened in his life, but his heart felt abandoned. This wasn't the first time he experienced this feeling. Although dreams were rare for James, every time they occurred, it would always be about something horrifying.

This particular dream occurred just the previous night. It made him shudder just thinking about it; it was by far the worst blow he had felt in a long time. Within the dream there had been an unbearable, high-pitched scream of someone he knew to be dear to him mixed with the evil laughter of betrayal, and then a sudden flash of green light. Although much of the dream was blacked out in darkness, as though someone had turned off the lights, it still left him feeling rather shaken. It felt so real. It even continued to haunt him after he sat up in his bed, with tears rolling and sweat dripping from his face.

Did it mean something important? Something he should know or be aware of?

"James!"

The boy shook his head out of the daze and rumpled his black hair, unconsciously making it stick up even more so.

"What is it, Mum?" he called out, lazily. "It wasn't me who hexed the toilet, if that's what you're asking."

"No—" his mother began, stopping mid-sentence when James' words hit her. "You did what to the toilet?"

"I was just trying to make it flush automatically," he mumbled, sitting up. "…Is it my fault I have nothing to do?"

His mother walked toward him, looking neither angry nor entirely happy. Her gray hair was tied back with a ruby red barrette, and she wore a nice white blouse with a black skirt and dark overcoat. She had just come from some sort of meeting with her husband, which explained her business-like clothing. She looked like a professor, her stern expression giving off the appropriate qualifications. Despite the older years worn on her and the weariness in her face, no amount of time could erase the evident beauty that graced her appearance. She must have been truly a woman to behold during her prime.

She approached her son, doing her best to keep in character as much as possible. Mrs. Euphemia Potter always found it excruciatingly hard to be stay angry with James. He was her only son. Her only child for that matter! A son she was more very proud to have. After years of being childless, losing hope to despair, her miracle came in her later years with as much wit as her and as much charm and charisma from her husband.

"Always at it, aren't you, James?" she inquired, right eyebrow cocking upward in question.

The boy simply beamed at his mother innocently in response. Mrs. Potter merely shrugged her shoulders then helped him to his feet. Once on his feet, the lady was quick to spot a few grass stains and odd ruffles here and there. She simply corrected them with a flick of the wand she held.

Once she had that settled she continued, "Now, shouldn't you be at Diagon Alley collecting your items? I gave you the money this morning. Why haven't you gone yet? I've already shown you around London—and much of the world, for that matter—so don't give me the excuse that you don't know how to get there. You told me yourself just last year that when you went to get you materials for school, you wanted to go on your own!" She took a breath, face looking completely exasperated, "Now look at you, I don't even know if I should let you go to Hogwarts at all! I can probably persuade you're father to postpone—"

"Sure. Go ahead. What's the point in going anyway?" James droned, completely unimpressed.

His mother stared, in utter disbelief, "W-What's the point?" she gapped, "You've been excited to go to Hogwarts since—since—the day you heard about it! What do you mean 'what's the point?' What in all the Wizarding World has happened to my son…!"

"Quit it, mum, really. Don't tell me you didn't see it."

"It? I have seen nothing of particular interest. What are you talking about, James?"

"C'mon what else could it be…?" interjected her son, throwing up his hands in aggravation. "It even came with the bloody letter—! Oh never the mind, I'll just show you!" He shoved a hand into his front pocket and retrieved a messily folded piece of parchment.

Mrs. Potter stared quizzically as she watched James unfold it, catching a small glimpse of the Hogwarts School seal at the top of letter. Once pressed, the messy-haired boy handed it over to her. His expression was hard to read. She took it into her hands and read through from the Introduction letter to the list of school supplies on the second page about four times, but nothing seemed to be wrong with it. She looked up at James, her face full of confusion.

"Well, did you see it?" he asked again, rumpling his hair in a lazy fashion.

"Actually… I didn't see anything wrong with it."

James stared back, rather stunned. He quickly grabbed the parchment and skimmed through it. In no time at all, he found what he was looking for and pointed harshly at a sentence at the bottom of the list of things the average student needed to buy. It read:

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

Mrs. Potter scratched the tip of her nose trying to hide the obvious grin that had found its way on her lips. James fumed with internal rage. Restrictions on having broomsticks meant one thing: No Quidditch action would be happening that year. At least, he wouldn't be the one flying around, getting all the glory, or feeling the brisk wind against his face. It was his stress reliever. It was his secret getaway. It was the sport of all sports that James Potter loved the most. Life without Quidditch to Potter was like… a dog without its favorite bone, a rainbow with no pot of gold, or a musician without ears…

He sighed hopelessly attempting to pull out the portion of his hair the stuck up the most.

"James, I'm sure you'll at least get to watch them play." Mrs. Potter tried to sound at least a little bit reassuring to her depressed son.

"Watch it? That's nothing compared to playing it!" he wailed in protest. "C'mon mum! You should know your own son by now…bloody he—!"

"Watch your tongue!" she snapped fiercely, then lightened her expression, "Don't worry, you'll have a chance on a broom. They're just going to teach you the basics this year; like how to fly. You'll get to play next year, just like your father did."

"B-but I already know how to fly!" he whined.

"There are boys who don't know how… Don't be so selfish, James."

Although Mrs. Potter had put a great deal of effort into calming him, it was no use. The boy just continued to fume angrily, cursing under his breath as he paced about. His mother had to quite literally pull her son out of this trance and toward the house. She had had about enough of his pointless whining, and Diagon Alley was still waiting for him!

Upon barging their way through the front door, the first room they entered happened to be the all-important living room. Their living room was none like you would ever see in your everyday house—everyday Muggle house, anyway. At every turn was another surprise, a house full of life. A house full of magic. Just by looking around, one could see various pictures that hung upon the whitewashed walls. Each photo recalled an important memory from the past; it served almost as a portal.

Along one side of the room was a rather large shelf filled with hundreds upon hundreds of books each seeming to be very much alive. An odd arrangement of titles such as Cymbals and Chimes: Rubric to Educational Wizardry by Jane Houton and The People of Mer by Findwilas Tindolum glowed brightly as James stumbled passed. These books grew up with the boy, and had grown particularly attached to him. Their faint glow was a way of showing this affection whenever he walked by. The messy-haired boy, in turn, would nod approvingly to them; they were his best friends no matter what the occasion.

Having grown up in this kind of environment, James didn't feel amazed by these peculiar instances; it was just a part of an everyday Wizarding life—nothing completely out of the ordinary.

The messy-haired boy and his seemingly annoyed mother continued passed the living room and toward the old brick fireplace in the next room. Mrs. Potter wasted no time with explanations. She immediately reached up from the nearby shelf and brought down a small box filled with what looked to be a grayish sand or powder of sorts.

After a glance at the neatly decorated red box cupped between his mother's left hand, James unmistakably knew what was inside: Floo Powder. It was one of the most annoying and uncomfortable ways to travel around, or at least that's what he always knew that cursed powder to be. It had the capability of giving even the strongest wizards a severe migraine. Even so, it was still considered the fastest and most efficient way for an eleven-year-old to get to London and back before supper.

"Well, off you be then," said she, tossing the powder into the fireplace. "I'll come by to pick you up at eight o'clock sharp, understand? That should give you enough time to get what you need, eat, and fool around as much as you want. Just—Just stray from blowing anything up, okay?" James smirked guiltily, but nodded his head in agreement. "Now, where is it we are to meet?"

The fireplace, by now, was filled with greenish flames that were burning quite brightly and rather strongly. James heaved the most exaggerated sigh. "Leaky Cauldron. I know, mum. You need not worry yourself 'bout me. I'll be a good ol' boy. I promise."

"Well, you ought to be! And don't give me that promising gag, you take right after your father, you do. Can't trust him at all either!" she exclaimed, with a warm smile upon her face. "Go on. Shoo. I've got plenty of things to do here as it is."

James laughed. So that's where he got his witty personality! It was one of the traits he shared with her, and it was also one of the traits he loved about her. His father he also took great pride in, not only in assuredness, but also in strength and ability. He wouldn't trade this family for even the most beautiful woman in the world…

With a small kiss on the cheek to his mother, the boy walked into the flame, and exclaimed, "Diagon Alley" with precise clearness, and allowed the swirling green to engulf him completely. Within seconds, James had vanished completely—not a trace left in sight.

It was only after he had gone that Mrs. Potter's warm, comforting face wrinkled into one of worry. An eerie chill seemed to creep through her as she watched the green flames die down. Mrs. Potter wasn't one to get sudden chills, but whenever she did…it always meant bad news. Then again it was the first time she let her son go out by himself. Perhaps, she thought to herself, this is all just a mother's worry.

"All a trick of the imagination," his mother muttered to herself, but the doubt hung strong to her. "Oh dear... Those recent murder stories in the Prophet are starting to get to me."

After several minutes of what felt like tossing, turning, tumbling, sliding, shaking, and whatever other motions imaginable, James came to a complete stop in some other chimney in… Diagon Alley, I hope, thought the boy bitterly.

He had his eyes shut, and upon opening them was surprised to see he was no longer amongst the green flames. In fact, he was surprised to find that he was standing in a fireplace ten times the size of the one he had just walked into and that alone was a pretty good-sized fireplace. The one he stood in now was completely over doing the term 'gigantic'! Good for the entire family line, he thought with a twist of humor and distaste, four generations, more like it. Transportation by Floo Powder was popular around these parts, but that didn't mean James liked it. It often gave him a weird woozy feeling in both the head and the stomach, of which he felt unkindly disturbed.

Taking his attention away from the spaciousness of the fireplace, James pulled out the Hogwart's supplies list along with his map of Diagon Alley. The messy-haired boy had stayed up late the night before scribbling all over the map with things to do and where to explore. Buying school supplies was merely the excuse. He'd get all that done eventually. It was the boy's first day of freedom, after all, and James wanted to use every last bit of his time to his advantage.

"Gambol & Japes…" James whispered to himself in an airy tone as he traced his finger around the scribble marks he made, unable to contain the wide grin spreading across his face like a wildfire. "Brilliant! Best day of my life, I can feel it—!"

"Wha' you doon in der, lad?" screeched the voice of an old hunchback man, poking his head into the spacious room. The fireplace may have been big on the inside, but the doorway was mighty small. James hardly noticed the line of people standing outside waiting for him to come out, "Getz ou' of der! Keep za line movin'!" growled the man, taking James by the collar and dragging him out of chimney, snapping him out of his fantasies.

James, who had been completely caught off guard, stumbled out of the fireplace, barely able to catch his balance before hitting the floor. Both pieces of parchment flew from his hands as he struggled to regain his footing.

"Why, of all the bloody—" stammered the messy-haired boy, just managing to stop himself from disappointing his mother back home, "—S-sorry, Sir," he said, bowing toward the hunchbacked man, finally regaining his composure. He then turned to the other ladies and gentlemen waiting in line, all of which were staring questionably at him. "Forgive me, ladies and gents... M-my mind's been in a bit of a haze, you see…" James paused and heaved a sorrowful sigh, "…after my f-father passed away. Nothing's been quite the same at home…" He faked a sniff and dramatically wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It was an act he had practiced fervently at home when nobody was looking. He had always wanted to try it at least once.

Surprisingly, his audience all fell for the act hook-line-and-sinker. Several of the women, looked pitifully at James. A few of them even gave him words of encouragement while he himself smiled back weakly, pretending to look as though he were in pain. The gentlemen, on the other hand, diverted their attention away from him and back at the line; they did not wish to make the child cry for his papa. James knew well enough not to make a fool out of himself in public. He had taught himself the art of attention grabbing, throwing in whatever remarked seemed to suit the situation. Ever since he learned his first words, lying became somewhat second nature to him. He would tell you that he's mastered it, but there were a few (exceptionally few) times where he would be caught red handed.

The first rule of telling a shameless lie: Do it to someone you'll never see again.

With his last words of gratitude he bid the ladies farewell, and with the left corner of his mouth twitching upward in a sly smirk, he turned away and headed toward the door. He had over stayed his welcome in this place, and had no intention of staying any longer.

The second rule of telling a shameless lie: Do it fast and get out of there quick.

He stalked triumphantly through the other groups of people standing around idly waiting for their companions to arrive. This was his glorious moment. One moment out of the many to come. The attention he had gathered from the women in line set his self esteem straight through the roof—nothing could possibly get him down. Nothing could, until he reached the door:

"Excuse me," said a voice from behind him. It was the voice of a girl.

Another one of the fans from earlier, perhaps? thought James with a laugh. Just before dramatically spinning around, he did his best to put on the most grief-stricken face he could make: "Y-Yes? Is there a problem, Miss?"

The girl jolted back as he dramatically swung himself around to see her. His messy-hair seemed to swing about playfully as his head turned; the way his body reacted didn't seem to match the his facial expression. To the girl, there was just something off about him now. After all, the boy's aura seemed a bit too excited for a child whose father just passed away.

"I believe you dropped these," she sputtered, eyeing him with great suspicion.

The messy-haired boy caught the hint by the tone in her voice, and immediately realized his antics would not be able to save him this time. She was just about his height with strikingly deep, thick red hair that he had never seen on a person before. He didn't know whether to stare in awe or shield his eyes for the color was so true to its name that he'd be able to pick it out in a crowd of one million people. Although there was nothing extremely appealing about her appearance, James found himself staring at her for a fairly long time.

James, of course, was just a little interested in girls. Just a little curious. He wasn't at all looking forward to a relationship of any type. He just didn't know very many girls his age. Most of the ladies he encountered when with his parents were much, much older than him. Despite this, there was just something about this girl that was odd… He couldn't quite put his finger on the reason. She just seemed a little bit... weird? Was that the word? No. She seemed familiar though he knew he had never seen the like of her in all his life.

Her eyes, he thought, what enchanting emerald eyes she has. Where have I seen—?

"H-hey, you all right?" she asked, looking a bit uncomfortable now.

James started. "Yeah—sure—fine," he muttered, looking away from her. "Sorry, what was it you were saying?"

She seemed bewildered at his response. "I was just saying that maybe you dropped these…? They sort of flew at me from your direction."

The boy looked down at the two pieces of parchment that were in her hand, "Oh!" he gasped, an embarrassed look forming on his face. "Must've been when the ol' hunchback threw me. Did they hit you? Ah—Didn't mean it, you know, heh."

"It's fine," she replied shortly, tossing her red hair to one side. "Just be careful next time. You wouldn't want to go losing your supply sheet."

He mechanically took the papers from her, but just before he could thank her, someone called out from the far end of the room: "Next, number 23.415.6XXII, Evans, Lily to Muggle district—Spinner's End!" It was the hunchback man. James tried his best to suppress a laugh; so he's the chimney caretaker, is he? Just as he was about to interject something to the girl he had been conversing with, he stopped short. "Hey— Evans wouldn't be...?"

She seemed somewhat nerved now, as though not knowing what to say or do. "Forgive me, Mr... Um, what was your name?"

"It's Potter."

"—Mr. Potter. Oh! I can't stay and chat—sorry—you actually have a huge smudge on your glasses, if you didn't notice it earlier, that you might want to wipe off. I suppose see you at Hogwarts! Oh, and I'm sorry about your father—"

She said all this in one slurred breath just as she was turning to run toward the hunchback man. It took a few seconds before James could process what she was had just spoken before she dashed away toward the fireplace. He immediately took his glasses off the bridge of his nose and wiped off the large smudge she mentioned. She should have said that in the first place! What a strange girl, he thought with a shrug, and she's going to Hogwarts too? Should I be happy about this…? Shaking his head, he shoved the thought into the back of his mind. Now wasn't the time to be thinking about worthless things. With that in mind, he walked out through the door and onto the street.

James took a gander and looked about the place with great interest. It was the first time going there by himself and he was free to do as he pleased. James had the whole day planned out—all the shops he'd go to, what he'd get, and what he would eat. The messy-haired boy wasn't one to go out unprepared.

He walked about the streets a bit careful of running into people, things, and creatures that roamed about aimlessly; he didn't want to get into any trouble. At certain parts of the streets there were crowds of people that nearly made it impossible for James to get through. Upon squeezing his way out of what seemed to be yet another large crowd, he stepped to the side of the road and sat upon an old rickety wooden bench furthest away from the street. James took the time to pull out his list of things to get from Hogwarts and scanned each item.

"Hmm… Let's see…" James mumbled to himself as he read under the 'Uniform' section. "Three sets of black plain work robes… One black plain pointed hat… One pair of protected gloves, the dragons hide kind… and lastly, one black winter cloak. Is it me or is Black a Hogwarts trend…?"

"Maybe it's just you," interrupted a rather charming voice from over his shoulder. "What is it you want? I over heard you murmur a name of my kin… is there a problem?"

James quickly spun around, surprised by the voice. He had not heard nor seen anyone sneak up behind him. When he finally found the source of the voice, his hazel eyes came in contact with a young boy who looked to be just his age only a little taller. This boy good-looking, even James could admit that, with gray eyes and black hair, with a fringe that fell just below his brows. The boy must have come from a very aristocratic family because he wore some rather expensive looking clothes. Despite his sudden appearance, the boy's cheerful expression and tone of voice seemed to tell James that he wasn't that bad of a stranger.

It was just a first impression, but James knew right away that he liked this stranger.

"I…don't think I called your name," James said, trying to recall his list. "Unless, of course, your name is Dragon Hide."

The other boy bent over a little and laughed at the remark before extending his hand in an act of friendship.

"No, 'course not!" the boy said smiling. "You said 'Black' right?" James nodded. "Well, the surname's Black. Sirius is my name."

James took his hand, smiling widely.

"I'm James Potter. Pleasure!" he replied cheerfully.

That was the moment they clicked. By the time they noticed that they had been talking far too much already, an hour had past. Where did all the time go?

"Hey, Black, it was nice talking with you," said James. For some reason, saying Black's surname seemed a bit odd to him. "I've got to get a few things more before I meet up with me mum. You wouldn't know the name of the shop where I can buy a uniform, would you?"

James a saw a slight hint of disappointment on the other's face before his reply, "You'd be looking for Madam Malkin's Robes for all Occasions," Black replied thinking about it for a second, "It's just down the street. Can't miss it." The messy-haired boy pulled out his map and took a look at it once more and then down the street Black at pointed to. Black pointed it out precisely on the map whilst re-positioning the pack he was holding, "So, I'll be seein' you around then, P-Potter?"

"You bet! If not... Hogwarts, for sure."

After a good old fashion high five, the two parted ways.

About two hours had passed since he ran into Black and, by now, James had bought almost everything he needed on the list. He checked it over constantly as he entered each of the appropriate shops, to make sure he didn't miss anything. By the time the sun had began to descend in the big blue sky above, the boy had collected everything except a wand and his owl. He already knew he wanted an owl. He knew he had the option of buying a different magical creature, but after being in his family owlery, he knew an owl was what he wanted.

James entered a rather skinny, steeped-looking shop entitled: Magical Menagerie. Upon entering, the first thing he realized was a rather long hallway that lay before him. It seemed the interior of the shop was a hundred times larger than the exterior had shown it to be. There were two shelves along either walls that ran straight all the way to the end of the room. Owls were everywhere: They flew above, they hung on the shelves, and some (probably the untamable ones) were stuck in iron cages along with the other animals.

There was not but a long narrow path between the four shelves that allowed one to look and examine animal carefully. The long hall seemed never ending, and James bit his lip trying to decide. There were black owls, spotted owls and multicolored owls, each of which had its very own personality. Despite the odds, it only took a good seven minutes to find an owl that suited the messy-haired boy perfectly.

He called her Cinder because of her beautiful gray coat of feathers. Her round amber eyes had caught his attention the moment he passed her. His hazel with her amber orbs locked as thought fate had finally played out for them.

After paying for his new friend, James dragged himself out onto the bustling street once more. He had been struggling for hours carrying all of his new belongings. He was holding bag after bag of interesting items. He half-wished that his mother were there now to help him with this heavy load. He ought to have tried using a trolley of some sort, but the streets were so bumpy and cracked that attempting to use one would just be a waste of time.

With all his stuff weighing down on him, he struggled toward the famous wand shop, Ollivander's, just two blocks down from where he stood. Every step he took made his arms and legs throb under pressure. When the shop finally came into view it looked tiny and rather shabby-looking.

When he entered the shop, he dropped everything in his hands, including Cinder, and collapsed to the floor. Cinder didn't like the fall very much, but must have understood James' pain for she remained completely still and didn't start squealing in protest. Exhausted as he was, the boy managed to get to his feet again and, with a final effort of strength, heaved everything onto a small chair stationed near the window.

The room was quite empty except for the front desk and the chair James had left his things on. The shelves on the sides of the room were completely bare and had accumulated a lot of dust and cobwebs.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. James would have jumped at this sudden appearance of a man at the counter, but didn't. He was too tired for that.

The old man who had spoke walked around the counter and toward him with a bright smile across his ancient face. The man had wide, pale eyes that looked like shining moons that loomed over at him. James felt quite uncomfortable with this old man, who he presumed to be Mr. Ollivander himself. He could only stare back, finding it better to say nothing than anything at all.

"You must be James Potter, am I right?" the man said softly. James merely nodded in reply. "Why, yes, shall I see what kind of wand would suit you? Let me measure you first. Oh don't worry about you're things, just leave them there. I'll get someone to bring them to Leaky Cauldron for you."

James blinked; he had never seen such a man with so much wisdom in his air, and was awed by the mysteriousness of him. Mr. Ollivander pulled out his own wand from the small pouch at his side and showed it to the boy. It was an elegant looking wand that seemed to curve and bend to its master's will. Seeing such a thing made the boy long for a wand of his own even more…

"Like it, do you?" asked Mr. Ollivander his eyes looking at James kindly, "Ah, yes, there is both great beauty and power in each wand."

James agreed, "Yeah, I've seen my dad use his. It's amazing…"

"Ah, yes, your father. Fleamont, wasn't it? Such promise, great promise. You see, Mr. Potter, to own a wand is a very special thing; there are some that are not meant to have one—"

"Squibs and Muggles," interjected the boy, still staring transfixed at the bending wand.

"—Yes, squibs and Muggles. Curious, isn't it, Mr. Potter? Many who do not have wands have another destiny that lay ahead for them…It is not for us to decide who is what," sighed Ollivander, dreamily. "Anyway, lets find you a wand so you can be on your way. Accio!"

The drawer at the counter immediately shot open and a long role of tape measure flew out and into Mr. Ollivander's left hand. James kept note of the spell. Summoning spells were a very useful thing. The old man measured James through and through; nearly every single angle on his body was measured. James scratched his head, knowing from experience that you can expect the unexpected when you're in the presence of another wizard.

Suddenly an odd expression formed onto the old man's face, and he immediately let go of the tape measure (though it magically continued to measure the messy-haired boy) and walked around the counter to the back room where piles of wands were stored.

Unlike the front of the store the back room's walls were lined with shelves full of small boxes. James tilted his head ever so slightly to get a better view of the room without disturbing the measuring tape from doing its work. It was only a few seconds later when the measuring tape finally rolled up and flew back into the drawer where it had been before. This gave James the opportunity to walk over to the counter to see what the old man was looking for.

"Ah… done, is it? Well, I'm still figuring out which wand we should start off with first. I was thinking of maybe an elm wand," implied Mr. Ollivander, looking at the boy, "You can have a closer look if you wish. Come around, Mr. Potter."

James took his advice and uneasily wandered into the room. The shelves seemed to tower over him and they were so shoved with boxes that James thought that, at any minute now, the shelf would give way. In front of him, Mr. Ollivander stood busily looking for an appropriate wand for him; James was able to hear his periodic mumblings of, "Oh, this won't do!" and "Curious, not a single idea…"

With nothing to do, James thought it wise to find something to occupy himself, and began glancing about the boxes in hope of finding the wand himself. He skimmed up and down the many rows of boxes, but knew not where to begin; there were just too many of them. This will take forever; he shrugged then looked back at Mr. Ollivander who was apparently still deciphering between three wands. It was at this time that something caught his attention from the corner of his eye.

"Hm? Is something the matter?" muffled the old man.

James had already reached out for the small box at the far shelf when he glanced back at Mr. Ollivander.

"J-just looking…" stuttered James, "I didn't mean to—"

"Find something there?" questioned Mr. Ollivander, interrupting him. "Give it here. Let me have a look."

James obeyed diligently and handed the small box to him. Mr. Ollivander set down the three wands he had been examining and took the box from him.

The old man's eyes seemed to gleam for a second as he eyed James. "You wouldn't happen to be looking for a certain wand, would you, Mr. Potter?"

"No, not that I know of…" he replied his voice drifting, "…well, actually, I've always wanted to have one made of Mahogany."

"Mahogany, is it? Curious, indeed! This one happens to be just that," Mr. Ollivander exclaimed, "Could it possibly be that you…"

James stared at him for a few brief moments in complete awe. The boy didn't understand it himself very much, but whatever Mr. Ollivander was trying to say it had some sort of significance. Could it be that he actually picked the right wand for himself without even trying? Mr. Ollivander saw the puzzlement that shown on James' face and was quick to go on explaining himself.

"Here, go on, try it out," he motioned, pulling it out of the box and carefully handing it to James. "It's a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable."

James took it into his hands with great care then gripped it firmly with his right hand. There was a sudden surge of what seemed to be a warm sensation that ran from his hand to throughout his body. James shook with excitement: he was holding a real wand, but not just any other wand this one was his and his alone. With so much excitement brewing up within him, James couldn't help but wave it around causing the room to light up with a variety of color. Mr. Ollivander clapped his hands with delight at the sight of the wonderful colors.

"How pleasant, Mr. Potter! There have been only few that have come into my shop and picked their wands for themselves. You and your wand were destined for this," he said airily, "You will, no doubt, do marvelous things! It is your destiny, James Potter. I can barely fathom what horrors and greatness lie ahead for you..."

Destiny…? Wait, horrors? His mind wondered, but his mouth answered: "Um…thanks."

Mr. Ollivander's ancient face smiled proudly at the boy before him. Noticing the look of confusion of James' face, Mr. Ollivander lightly placed his hand on James' shoulder in reassurance. James stared from behind his glasses wordlessly, but got the message for he gave a firm nod. He glimpsed down at his wand that he held in his hand and examined it some more. Getting his first wand was definitely something he would always cherish and want to remember.

"That's a slightly powerful wand," explained Mr. Ollivander. "It is perfect for Transfiguration… tell me, does that suit you?"

James' face lit up entirely at the thought of it. "Suits me fine!"

Mr. Ollivander, who saw that his job was done, leisurely walked over to the counter and began shuffling through his drawer. James took the time to check on his belongings that he had left on the chair in the corner. There was nothing else there, but the chair. James' heart skipped a beat as he rushed over toward where he had sworn to put his stuff, but everything was gone! Ruffling his hair furiously he bent down to look under the chair—nothing. Even his new owl, Cinder, was no longer there. How could they just disappear? He hadn't seen nor heard any customers come into the shop!

It was at this time that Mr. Ollivander pulled out a small piece of parchment and a quill from the drawers and looked up to see James in such dismay. The poor messy-haired boy was now searching around frantically for any sign of where his belongings had gone to.

"Mr. Potter, calm yourself. Did you forget that I said I'd call someone to take your things for you?" Mr. Ollivander asked. "You can find your things at the Leaky Cauldron; just ask the front desk, boy."

James felt his face flush red; it had slipped his mind completely. Seeing that he had his new wand now, he felt no need to over-welcome his stay, so he immediately bid adieu to Mr. Ollivander, handed him the necessary money, and exited the place.

Fresh full of excitement and pure anticipation at getting his new wand, the messy-haired boy wandered into the street, his mind filled to the brim with pure optimism. What's the first thing I ought to do with this wand...? He thought, smirking, knowing very well that he wasn't allowed to use it anyway. He'd have the new thing taken away from him if he even tried anything funny. But... the boy still wanted to take a gander at fate and play with the strings. It was in his nature, after all. He got it from his father! Genetics, he thought proudly, nothing I can do about that, now can I?

:: TO BE CONTINUED ::

Fateful Meetings

The next chapters will come soon.

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