Over the River and Through the Wood

Though Dumbledore was master of the grounds and environs around Hogwarts, it was a rare day he had opportunity to go about the less academic portions. Preparations for the school year, his political position in the Wizengamot, and his personal studies kept the wizard rather occupied, generally. The summons from his Gamekeeper ran counter to that trend, seeing the former professor of Transfiguration walking to the half-giant's hut in the early morning. Though not an unusual trip, this day's trek gave the old wizard pause. Along the forest's edge lay a mist, despite the sunny start to the day, which though it wasn't so strange to see in the night or early morning, it's lingering nearly to noon was a curiosity.

Well aware of the inhabitants that made the shallow portions of the wildwood their home, Dumbledore still had little idea that went on in the miles-deep wood that rested behind his beloved school. Rightly he could say it was home to a number of magical beast and creature communities, one of which being a bitter necessity to keeping Hagrid's service. Acromantulas had taken a nest there, once Aragog had established a hold outside of the centaur's hunting range.

His lack of knowledge was due more to the forest itself than any lack of time. Though the wall that surrounded Hogwarts ran some distance into the near portion of the wood, effectively making it a wall in it's own right, there was no map, no path or way beyond the outer fringes of the forest that border the school. The centaurs were unwilling to venture beyond their encampments, which were barely an hours walk into the tree line, and Hagrid couldn't coax his friend Aragog to send spiders further either. Despite the river that ran through it, emptying into the Black Lake, the merfolk had little interest in exploring it, further limiting the headmaster's sources of information.

His contemplations of the Forgotten Forest ended as Dumbledore reached his goal. Hagrid's hut was less the small, open dwelling the name implied as just a simple home in scale to fit it's over sized inhabitant. The walls were rough hewn wood with thick daubing of plaster between to keep out the wind. To roof it, a thick thatch was set, with small stones to keep the winds from unsettling it. Despite them though, it seemed that a few storms had been unkind to the home. Standing outside, wringing his hands was the Gamekeeper.

"A fine morning, despite the lingering chill," Dumbledore greeted, yet the half-giant only nodded anxiously in answer. Sighing, the former professor knew that no pleasantries would still the tall man's worry, at this rate. Best to get on with it, "So Hagrid, what did you have to tell me?"

The large, somewhat of an understatement really, Gamekeeper and former student of Hogwarts fumbled with his hands briefly, before heaving a sigh. "It's a strange thing, Dumbledore. Best if you see, though," not waiting on Dumbledore to agree, Hagrid turned and made his way toward the forest edge, setting a brisk pace.

Smiling ruefully, the headmaster followed, "I'm not sure I understand your meaning, but do lead on."

"It's been some years, but it's happened again. Not sure what the meaning is, but here you go," and so saying, Hagrid stopped and bent down beside a tarp, little larger than a bed sheet and drew it back.

Dumbledore drew back slightly, raising a robed hand to cover his nose from the smell. He'd expected something akin to a charnel stench, but instead was met with the heavy earthen smell of leaf litter and compost. The secret hidden by the tarp was a form, probably little more than a young woman. Though stained, torn and in as sorry a state as she, the material draped around the decaying form could have been a pretty if simple white dress, of course thread. Young, if one were to go by height alone, the youth would have barely reached Dumbledore's shoulder. There was little left to identify beyond that, as the soft and fleshy parts of the body were far into decay. "Found her the other day. Fang'd been raising a ruckus out here. Honestly didn't expect her to be intact, but then looking... well." Seeming terribly uncomfortable, the large man nudge an exposed bone with his walking staff, causing it to splinter and break, the material much weaker, spongy than it had seemed. "Isn't like anything I've seen."

Staring, occasionally blinking in deep thought, Dumbledore passed close and kneeled down beside the body. Wand in hand, he said some small charms, going very still. "Nor I, old friend. Not for a very long time." Sighing, the headmaster looked up at Hagrid, face lined with worry. "Watch the forest, but don't venture too far in. Something has upset the boundaries. We must be watchful."

"As you say, Headmaster," the half-giant replied, pulling the tarp back in place.

Dumbledore walked with some speed back toward the school, mind whirling with his thoughts. The last time he'd seen something like that was during the war with Gellert... he'd mistaken the evidence at first, not knowing the nature of the forest by his once friend's tower. Later, reading through the wizard's records and journals it seemed less and less a coincidence that not only his tower, but Hogwarts itself were built on the border of such primeval woods.

The documents had seemed so... foreign. As Dumbledore stewed in his research, wanting, needing to understand what had happened to the fair-haired and smiling man that had shared his younger days it seemed like the man there wasn't his Gellert. Journals and diaries of his thoughts seemed clear and concise enough: they proved his ideals and theories, after enough time to decipher. Gellert was well aware of the decline of magic, the dying World Spell as he called it. Exhaustively the man had researched, after their schism, something that now Dumbledore almost felt entire his fault. Now, more than ever he realized that were he to remain by his once good friend's side, perhaps not only this war but something much more important could have been avoided.

With him tempering Gellert's iron will, perhaps now he'd not be feeling the world's magic die a slow and weary death.

It started with an innocent enough ideal. He'd spent some time measuring some ancient ritual stones, the old focusing circles that had allowed ancient societies to do spells with more stability, if only during select periods of symbolic ideal during the calendar. Times like solstices, equinox, when powers and forces not only real and magical, but in the minds of those doing them were at a peak. He'd seen the data, readily available from the historic society on the levels of magic present in the last ritual there. Then, he'd reached back further, much further... and his mind had come to a sickening conclusion.

It was a week later that Albus had met with a pale, sickly looking Grindelwald who held in a shaking hand the results of nearly four days of constant work. Though Albus knew that the young man's work seemed to be important, he'd dismissed it when Gellert had fronted an ideal... one that had initially entranced Dumbledore to his shame. Was it not logical? Was the reason not sound? How hard was it to believe that wizards truly were superior to their poor muggle relations? Such was on the tongue, in the mind of every wizard.

The Taboo Truth.

Yet, despite that siren's ideal, something in Grindelwald's manner threw the young Albus. It made him question the other youth's lofty ideals, plans. His desire, nearly consuming, for the Hallows seemed a fevered ideal. Why did he need them? It was apparent that the fame, the legend behind them was unconnected to his search. Why then did a man who never indulged in the Unforgivables strive so to cheat death? Oh, Grindelwald was dark, there was no way to excuse the results of his actions, but the man had an honor, a nobleness and innocence about his endeavors. There was never a doubt he, in his own mind, was justified in his endeavors.

For the Greater Good.

Albus had wrongly thought that his ideal was to unify the various arms of the wizarding world into a ruling body that would lord above muggles. Perhaps that would have come to pass, but that wasn't his goal, so much as the result of that state – a world aware, forced to believe in magic.

The Tower, bordering the Black Forest had been a clue Dumbledore was ill-equipped at the time to understand. Seeing the sheer number of 'dead' there had incensed him, driven him to a peak of righteous rage and vengeance that had nearly undone the structure itself in his anger. Yet, there, weak and undone before him already was Gellert. Whatever he had seen and done, it was already too late for Albus. Grindelwald was gone.

Grindelwald had taken his research in so many directions, showing himself a true scholar in his skills, if not even a graduate of his chosen school. Albus wished, not for the first time, that the man's mind was not a ruin after his defeat. He seemed emptied, unmade even before Dumbledore had found him. More shocking was the man's physical state... he'd seemed decades older than he should have been. Worn and scarred, looking to have lived two lifetimes.

He'd initially written such off as the evidence of his dabbling with the infernal, but years later, Dumbledore had found reason to doubt that. Now, he was faced with the same mystery that had littered the base of Gellert's tower, great boneyards of dead and decaying things, that seemed more wood and leaf than flesh and blood.

The same kind of form he'd just seen at the edge of this forest. His forest. What did it mean? What forces were at work that he never understood? That drive took him again into his thoughts, where he again wondered if there was some vital clues yet left undiscovered in the writings of the man's decaying mind. Dumbledore had turned in fear from the completeness of the research, after the vast and sprawling ideals on an infernal summoning. He wanted no part of that knowledge, and in his youth and arrogance, had decided that the other words, other research would be tainted in kind.

Now... now he wasn't so sure. He had no desire to tempt his mind with the taint of the infernal. Gellert himself had shown his resolve less than iron. This though... another dead wood-thing. Here. It was time to put aside his weakness, and see to understanding what danger, what hint this stood for.

It was during this contemplation that one of his instruments, keyed to warn him via the pocketwatch he kept ever at his side, sent a warning to him. Uncharacteristically Dumbledore cursed and started running as fast as possible toward his offices, hoping that he were not too late to stop whatever could be causing such an alarm.

Bursting into the office, he was shortly stunned and somewhat at a loss at the ruin some of the instruments were in, and at Arabella Figg's face, desperately calling from his floo.

The rubble had just stopped collapsing in on itself, but still small plumes of smoke rose and drifted about the neighborhood. People stood at the doors, or peered out behind their windows at the sight, one most would never see again. Some would rather never see it at all, but there was a responsibility there, for news to be passed along. It was only neighborly after all.

Privet Drive was a cacophony of noise, light and color. Between the houses numbering six and two, people swarmed in their yellow flame-retardant smocks and uniforms, stepping carefully over charred wood and stonework, looking for clues and traces. Some small distance away, a man stood with his hand gripped in a white-knuckled hold around a pocketwatch. "This should not be possible," he murmured, shaking his head sadly at the ruin. With a sigh he turned and stepped back within the shadows of Arabella Figg's home, feeling much older than he already was. "And you say that Minerva came this morning for him?"

"Yes Professor, came and left within the hour."

"Silver linings," Dumbledore murmured, staring sadly again toward what remained of the Dursley home. He didn't need the watch in truth to know that the wards were destroyed, mangled and undone beyond all hope of salvage. Though they'd protected him and his family for the last ten years, little good that did now. "And just as things begin to look bleak again," sighing heavily, the man nonetheless turned to the woman, wringing her hands nervously and looking back and forth from the noise and gathering outside to him and smiled. "I will meet up with them, and arrange for some place safe for Harry.

"I know it has been an inconvenience for you to remain here and be sentinel for so many years, Arabella. Though I had hoped it would be on a less tragic day, we must take small joys when they come." Nodding to the woman's sudden interest, he continued, "Yes, Hogsmeade. I will have my brother help you with arrangements. Now though, I must play catch-up with the children."

Dumbledore settled his blue robes and glanced in the mirror over the mantle as he prepared to leave for Diagon. An old man looked back, worn and tired from his efforts and burdens. Pushing his half-moon shaped glasses back into place, the headmaster of Hogwarts took a small handful of floo powder and considered his task. Perhaps it would be best to secure new lodgings, first.

Sighing at the hour, and hoping the one he meant to speak with wasn't too busy for his brother, Albus hazarded a noon-time call to his brother. Calling out for the Hog's Head in Hogsmeade, Dumbledore wondered at the series of events leading to Harry Potter's first year in the wizarding world. Such omens were hard to ignore.

Swirling and cavorting in the blaze, unseen or heeded by the muggle firefighters and wizards that walked hidden around them, Harry's companions went suddenly still at a different call. Gouts of water that splashed on cooling wood but refused to extinguish magical fires suddenly went dry in pressured hoses, as flames died as suddenly, seemingly sucked back into charred wood. The creaking of strained wood and stone settled, and suddenly dropped the tenuous floor into the ruined building's basement. Winds that had harried and harassed the workers in their effort to still and contain the blaze wend suddenly still, before howling in a rage and blasting off to the north, toward London.

A Spoonful of Sugar

"Forgive my rudeness, Mr. Potter," the woman he'd learned was a professor at the school named Hogwarts stood, apparently composing herself. Though he heard her words, there was a much more important thing on his mind, immediately.

Namely, figuring how he ended up... where he was. Just a few moments before, he'd been standing and speaking with the professor, answering her questions about the time he spent with the Dursleys. He didn't rightly understand why she wanted to know some of the things she did, but the woman had a way about her. There were teachers at Beaufort that were like that as well, and something about them just felt like... teachers, he supposed. It seemed silly to think about that way he figured, but there were teachers at the school that tried to be your friend, others that seemed unhappy to be where they were, and still some like this Ms. McGonagall that had the strangest way to make you feel like you did something wrong just by breathing. Looking about in confusion, Harry resettled his glasses and tried to take in the landscape.

He wasn't sure, but to all appearances, he was out of Little Whinging and somewhere closer to London. The skyline was broken by more buildings, and the roads closer together. Harry couldn't feel the gentle pulse and pull of his near-constant companions, which set an itch in his mind that stole at his attention. That too brought up a rather pointed question, one of many. First though, for the one that the woman before him could answer, "It's real. I mean, you answered the letter but it's real?"

McGonagall, unsure at the boy's meaning initially, gleaned it from his eyes and manner easy enough. "You were raised by muggles, to act like a muggle it seems. Yes, Mr. Potter, magic is real," though her tone had taken a frosty cast, she didn't seem to be directing it at him, which made him quite glad. Gesturing about them, the woman took a moment to eye him critically. "I'm afraid a number of things need to be done today. Due to the number of muggle-born students, the teachers at Hogwarts are sometimes required to assist more than one at a time in gathering their supplies and arranging transportation. If you would be so kind as to stand still a moment?"

Blinking at the woman dumbly, Harry nodded as she drew complex patterns in the air about him. He started badly when it felt like something was crawling about his arm, only to stare in amazement as it was revealed to be his sleeve itself! Shortly, his clothes took on a more fitted if still somewhat old appearance. The pullover was snug and warmer, and the trousers at least didn't need to be belted up so that he felt like a carry sack. Looking back up to the woman in wonder, she responded with a tight smile. "Cannot have you accompanying me looking like a vagabond as I acquire your company for today's work, now can I?"

Nodding, Harry simply followed along as the woman set off without preamble down the walk. The neighborhood was markedly different from his own, in that the houses, not much larger and sometimes smaller, were all different. It was to one of the middling houses that the stern faced professor lead him, walking smartly up to the door and ringing the bell without hesitation. Gulping nervously, Harry ducked behind the woman, earning him a curious glance.

"Hello?" His curiosity winning out over his fear, Harry peeked around the professor's hip to inspect the woman who answered the door. She reminded him of a woman he'd seen on television some time ago, being rather pretty. She had an open face that seemed made for smiling which was surrounded but an unruly mass of hair, that though quite wild was well cared for. Her blue eyes peered down at him and Harry briefly caught the impression of a bemused smile before he ducked back behind McGonagall.

Reaching behind her, Minerva took Harry's shoulder and pulled him gently back into view. "Good afternoon Mrs. Granger, I've come to pick up Hermione for our shopping trip."

Blinking a moment, Amanda started and giggled faintly at herself, "Oh! Right, I'd nearly forgotten. Would you like to come in?" Again she glanced over at Harry, but this time took a moment to really look at the young boy. A slight frown creased her brow, and Harry, trying not to be any larger than a thumb tack, felt his stomach tighten in nervousness.

"That would be lovely, we can do our introductions over some tea perhaps, if it's no trouble?" Ushering Harry inside, McGonagall smiled to their host faintly, setting her hat and tartan shawl on the coat rack there.

Amanda made way for them, and Harry had to assume the two had met before, as the professor seemed to know where the sitting room was without being told. Too nervous to indulge his curiosity, Harry followed along and sat, hands in his lap. Looking about, he sighed, seeing nothing to indicate his friends were with them, or that such as they were ever visited this home. That had started bothering him, after they arrived... wherever they were. Those presences had been around so long that suddenly lacking them felt like he'd had earmuffs on or something covering his nose. There was a lack there, and it gnawed at him.

Shortly, following her mother, a girl his age arrived and was introduced as Hermione Granger by her mother Amanda. Apparently Hermione's father Kenneth was still at work and her mother was at home due to a lucky day off, to which Professor McGonagall apologized. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Granger I should have written a small reminder. I forget how peculiar this all can be."

"Oh, it's no worry at all. And please, call me Amanda."

"Then it's Minerva, if you will."

"Yes, and your young friend?"

Harry started badly, having been rather intent at watching his counterpart fidget and fret nearly as much as himself. She reminded him of her mother, having the same hair and shape of face, but with higher cheeks and though he wasn't one to call out faults, somewhat prominent teeth. When Mrs. Granger had called on him, the young girl had looked up from the large book on her lap and focused on Harry, revealing warm, if somewhat nervous, brown eyes. "Oh, this is Harry Potter. He'll be joining us on our errands today."

Amanda regarded him with a smile, "Are you a muggle-born witch as well?"

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Harry was trying to break out of his nervousness to answer the woman, reminding himself these people didn't know his aunt and uncle, he didn't have to be afraid, and there was nothing wrong with answering a question that had been asked, when McGonagall seized on his silence to answer for him. "No, he's the son of two of our former students, a witch and wizard," Harry jerked his head to the woman, having never heard this before and feeling a spike of anger lance through him, at the idle drop of such information. What other surprises would there be? What more of himself was he ignorant of?

The professor continued, missing her charge's pointed look, "He's been in the care of muggles for all but a year of his life." Looking to Harry, Minerva was somewhat taken aback by the intensity of his gaze, but kept her reaction schooled, noting to ask him a few more questions before the day was through. "Harry will be joining us, as he also has no relations to assist with picking up school items, and Diagon is not a place to go alone, at eleven years old," Harry blinked as she seemed to smile very slightly at him. "I do think we should set aside a bit more time today," turning back to Mrs. Granger, the woman's face took on it's seemingly normal sternness, "Will that be alright with you, Amanda?"

Nodding, Amanda took in Hermione's nervousness and Harry's with a grin. "Yes, I think that will be fine. I'm sure these two being classmates soon, having someone their age with them would be nice. Will you need some help minding things as you go?"

"Not today, due to the crowds I'm afraid it would be a bad idea for you to join us. At a later time I'd be happy to take you on a tour of not only Diagon but Hogwarts itself."

"I'm sure Kenneth would be thrilled," Amanda replied, patting Hermione's shoulder briefly. "Now, water should be ready, lets send you off with a bit of tea." Handing each of them a mug, she slid the cup with sugar toward Harry with a smile, which he shyly returned.

Shortly after a cup each, they took their leave, Harry and Hermione flanking the professor as they strode back into the late morning sun. "Now, I expect both of you to keep your wits about you," turning her gaze to each child in turn, the woman nodded smartly. "Diagon is as safe as anywhere in our world. That said, it's very dangerous for young people who are left about alone. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Professor," both children chimed.

"Very good," favoring them with a slight smile, she offered each a hand. "Hold on tight. We'll be there in just a moment then."

Prepared this time, Harry closed his eyes against the odd sensation of being shoved hard from all directions and suddenly lacking a sense of direction at the same time. When he came back to his senses Harry looked to Hermione, seeing her panting and wide eyed, looking about the small alleyway they were in with frank anxiety. "It's ok, you get used to it," he offered, smiling slightly. The young girl only nodded and kept her eyes shut hard for a few moments.

Though they'd expected to be going somewhere like a shopping center, the two youths were surprised to find themselves outside a small tavern, looking as old and decrepit as any they'd ever seen. The professor pulled them each aside and into a small booth, keeping Harry tucked close to her. Waving her wand a moment, she nodded then did so again, spending more time on it. "There. Now, there are a few things I need to speak with you both about, that I did not feel it necessary for your mother to hear, Ms. Granger."

Turning to Harry, the woman sighed very quietly. "Mr. Potter, you may not be aware of it, but in our world – the magical world – you are somewhat of a celebrity."

Harry, properly confused, simply tilted his head.

"When you were very young, there was a very powerful, very evil wizard who nearly destroyed our world." Her voice had taken on her accent much thicker at this point, and the professor paused. Taking a stilling breath, the woman continued her tale, her eyes closed a moment as if recalling something truly unpleasant, "Voldemort, that was his name, did many terrible things, and had many supporters. I want you both to keep your own council out there."

"But why? You said "was", is he still around?"

Minerva thought about Hermione's question only a moment, "There are those who think so, yes. Part of why he was vanquished in the first place, is young Harry here." Scooting back against the booth's wall, Harry looked panicked but the woman smiled, making a soothing gesture for him to move back. "It's alright Harry. No one here will hurt you, but I also do not want your notoriety to become a problem.

"Therefore, I want Hermione and yourself to keep your names and appearance as secret as possible. For Hermione, it will help for Harry's sake, and because... because you are muggle-born."

Brow knit, Hermione regarded her escort with confusion. "Why should that matter? Is it so unusual?"

"No, not unusual, Ms. Granger, simply not something every wizard in our world likes," sighing and looking her age as opposed to the stern yet energetic woman they'd become somewhat accustomed too as the two young magicians fidgeted nervously. "I am sorry. I would have hoped you didn't ever have to learn this, but our world is not one that can boast perfection. Quite the opposite. There will be those with bigoted ideals, and those who let them have voice. I would hope you both above any of those views, but the sad truth is you may find it as early as today."

It was Harry this time, his voice catching the two with him off guard with how little he had spoken that day, "Why would they? What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, Mr. Potter. It is simply an... unpleasant opinion." Settling her shawl about Harry, the woman waved her wand again and it took on the appearance of a finely knit long poncho. "Keep this cloak about you. Hood up, Mr. Potter," the young boy complied immediately, earning him a thin smile. "Ms. Granger, I think we shall refer to you today as Mr. Brown, from the continent. Does that suit you well enough?"

"I think so, ma'am."

"Very good. Now Mr. Potter we shall call you..." her eyes, like with Hermione had flicked to his hair, but she winced visibly. "No that will not do at all. Green, for the eyes rather than hair... yes. Mr. Green. Will you be able to manage that, Mr. Potter?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Then we are already off to an excellent start. I shall get you two a pumpkin juice to brace you for our adventure, and then we'll be off." Snapping her wand at the room side of the booth, she favored her charges with a smile, before turning her attention to the barkeep across the tavern, "Tom!"

Down the Rabbit Hole

After the sweet and refreshing new treat they found pumpkin juice to be, the two renamed friends joined their minder as she swept them through the tavern. At the back of the room, she drew up and offered a nod to a man with an odd hat, who sat blinking somewhat nervously out at the room. Without further pause the three were in the adjoining alleyway, watching and memorizing a patter of taps upon a stone wall that capped off the small way. "Do you both have it?" When Harry motioned for her to do so once more, McGonagall paused, casting a small charm to make her wand tip light and trail a small path. "Sometimes the pattern helps, I find."

It did, and Harry immediately let her know so, and they progressed through the new gateway, watching in awe as it opened. Each brick seemed to turn and spin inward, away from them, as if folding into it's neighbor. Soon, an arch stood where before a blank wall was facing them, the shops and alley beyond a noisy, strange smelling and lit place that made both Hermione and Harry stare. "Welcome to Diagon Alley."

Though somewhat awed, the two children followed quickly after the professor, as she pulled out a list and looked about her briefly. "Right then, Mr. Green, Mrs. Brown, follow me please. We'll need to go to Gringotts before we can begin with getting your supplies."

At this, Harry paled and remembered one of the questions he'd had for the woman, or whoever had answered his letter. "Um, M-Mrs. McGonagall?"

"Yes, Mr. Green? And please, call me professor."

"Right, um. Professor, I don't... have any money. I know the Dursleys won't pay for this and-"

Minerva hushed him with small gesture. "Best not to mention them. Now, don't worry about money. The tuition and costs for supplies are easily covered by what we received in reply to an account inquiry to your name. Gringotts has a vault with your family." Turning from Harry's shock, she next regarded Hermione, "And, for all our... ah, students in your situation," Hermione winced slightly, but gestured for the woman to continue. "Sorry dear, didn't mean to make that out like an insult," Minerva sighed, looking about as she talked and lead the children on, "Your mother supplied the equivalent funding to a local bank that works with our own. We'll pick up your funds along with Mr. Green's shortly."

They faintly sped by most of the stalls and shops, barely having a moment to look for more than a moment at any of them, before they arrived at the bank that the professor had mentioned.

Harry at least thought it had to be a bank. It was huge, looked less like a store than a fort, and had two of the largest and meanest looking guards he'd ever seen. That they seemed a bit other than human didn't help his initial anxiety. Maybe a head shorter than a man, they were heavily armed with great-bladed polearms, axes on their hip that seemed too small for their hands, and armor that glinted silver in the sun. That they were half again wide as tall and muscular, added to the wariness he held in passing between them, having little illusion that they could easily split him, or three of him, in half with a swing of those wicked weapons.

Hermione was less subtle in her fright, clinging to McGonagall where Harry simply gazed and moved on quickly. With a start she felt a warmth from the book, and bit her lip hard, trying desperately to forget Petite's presence and her insistence on accompanying the young witch on this errand. "Relax. Enjoy the differences, rather than fearing them," Petite's voice shivered into her mind, and Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, clamping down on the professor's hand to keep her way. "Silly girl," the voice breathed in exasperation, "if you continue like this, there is no hope for you. You may as well go back to St. John's and forget magic entirely!"

"I will not!" Hermione's answering snarl sounded inside their private conversation. "It's just so new. I'm not used to this. And why are you speaking? I thought you were quite happy in your book."

The young witch got the impression of a sigh, "And it will only get worse," they stopped at a teller well away from the crowd, and the professor asked about some things that seemed not to need her attention. Such was lucky, because Petite seemed insistent on holding it, "Listen to me. I can help ease this transition. Hells girl, it was part of why I agreed to your terms! Do you think it helps either of us if you're a skittish, babbling wreck at the sight of a giant? A werewolf? Goblins? If you're scared by the simple guards of a bank, there is no hope for you."

Hermione's head jerked up, and she inhaled sharply. "I don't need you to stand up for me."

"And I won't," Petite replied quietly, the warmth of the book fading, "but I will make sure you don't fall. When you're done here, when you have a moment, read. We will discuss things further then."

Despite her aggravation and irritation at Petite, Hermione had to admit, she did have a point. Today was her first trip into the world of magic, and the first strange thing she had a moment to focus on nearly sent her into fits. What kind of witch would she end up being with so little courage? Didn't she want to be an amazing witch? Wasn't that why she now had Petite, bound to her? If she didn't face her fear and overcome it, then even that was pointless.

Hermione refused to have taken such a leap only to falter now.

"...yes, that will be all," the professor was saying, as Hermione focused again on the conversation before her. As she and McGonagall watched, Harry walked off with a goblin and down into a tunnel that seemed lit only by torches. "Ms. Brown, if you would, this is for your books and supplies."

Hermione's free hand took the small pouch the woman handed her, and it glowed very faintly at her touch. "Oh! What was that?"

The professor grinned, enjoying the young witch's wonder at so simple an enchantment, "A bondcharm. This will only work with your permission now. This is a Goblin's Wallet. With the separation of our world and that of muggles, we've taken to some exotic means of moving between the two, when needed. May I?" Hermione nodded, as Minerva took the drawstrings in hand while she watched, dropping in a large gold coin. She then tapped the sack saying 'Pounds'. Reaching back in she pulled out a few notes that Hermione was familiar with. "As wizards have more than one bank worldwide, this costs a small fee but will work with Galleons to Pounds as is," smiling, she handed the strings to Hermione. "Hogwarts believes such things are a good investment in the future, and so those who no doubt don't receive one from family, we acquire for our students."

Hermione's brain was already working quickly, and her question showed it, "Can it exchange foreign moneys? Like say Pounds to Euro or Yen?"

McGonagall's smile widened. "Yes, but each currency involves a small fee. We'll let you sort that out in time, as I believe Mr. Green is done with his errand.

Harry, looking a bit windblown and wide-eyed rejoined them, carrying a similar small pouch, which McGonagall then showed them how to fasten to a belt with it's built in charms. Shortly the party were heading back out with knowledge they had the capability to get their goods without worry.

Leaving Gringotts they took a right and passed a few shops including one with a rather spectacular selection of animals Harry couldn't even imagine and one cafe that seemed to only serve things that squirmed. Shortly they came upon a shop where the professor paused, gesturing for them to enter. "I'll be right outside. Mr. Ollivander will take care of you just fine."

Being summarily shooed inside, the children looked about themselves. The sign outside and the display seemed to indicate this was a wand shop, Ollivander's being known as "Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C" or so it said. As they glanced about the rather narrow and dusty shop, the number of boxes available made them look to one another with wide eyes.

Their shared anxiety became fear fast as Mr. Ollivander suddenly appeared, having stepped quick and quiet from between the curtains separating the shop proper from the back. "Good morning, how may I help you?" Despite the man's seemingly quiet and unobtrusive voice, Hermione took a fright and dashed behind Harry, who was faring no better. Clutching his hands and arms held down stiffly, Harry stood his ground, watching the man warily from his hooded cloak.

Though the shop was dusty, narrow and dark, the old white-haired man had an odd energy about him, and it seemed to focus in his pale, silvery eyes. Those same eyes fixed on Harry and in a moment, the wandcrafter was pushing back Harry's hood, the young boy not even noticing the distance between them being closed.

Harry moved to reach up but already the man had brushed aside a bit of fringe, and was nodding at the scar he saw there. "Yes, hm. I had expected you sooner or later." Turning, the man began to mutter, yet somehow he kept his gaze locked on Harry, which perturbed him to no end, not to mention the man knowing his name without being told. "Yes, father's hair. Mother's eyes though, perhaps a bit brighter. Curse colored eyes, indeed," murmuring all the way back around the counter, the man stopped at the center point and peaked his hands, going still.

Swallowing, Harry took a tentative step forward, wanting to ask the man about his muffled words, or would have but Hermione was huddled behind him clutching at his cloak in a fisted hand. Half turning, he ducked down and glanced at her, seeing a blank look on her face. "Hermione?"

With a start she straightened, looking up at him in confusion a moment, before the focus he'd started feeling was her normal expression returned. With a half-felt smile he reached up and took her hand, biting his lip at trying to extend her the kindness he'd so far seen from McGonagall. When she briefly took it but released him, he didn't think on it, figuring she'd regained her courage.

As Harry walked up, behind him a small war was being waged as Hermione tried to overcome the few shocks the day had so far presented, the last of which being this creepy man. Petite thankfully kept her own council as Hermione took a moment's comfort in Harry's gesture, before settling her own nerve to approach the counter with him. As the man with the moon-bright eyes watched them, she could feel the book in her hands grow warm. "Sit on the chair, your friend is going to be a small while. Lets talk."

Needing no other prompt, she murmured a brief "Excuse me," and did as Petite bade.

Ollivander seemed to take that as signal to attend Harry first, and wasted no time setting a box before him, which opened to a spool of silvery string. Harry blinked till the twine seemed to jump out and start wrapping around him, flashing briefly in a pattern it seemed Ollivander could read. "Hrm, interesting." Turning, the man broke contact with Harry's eyes and went about his works, apparently able to see the flashes reflecting off the mirrors and shined handles of great drawers that lined the shop.

As the string measured away, Harry wondered precisely why it needed the length of his left eyebrow. Shortly Ollivander waved impatiently and the thing ceased it's flitting about and settled back in it's box. Harry looked back up to see a small mountain of boxes in Ollivander's hands, and took a step back. "Yes, yes. Quite a task, matching such an instrument to a player, not unlike music and one's choice there.

"Wands are terribly personal, terribly much so, yes," the man went on, snatching the tops off old and new boxes, revealing shafts of wood that were simple, ornate, dimly polished, shining like marble, and some that seemed just strange. With a noise like a wheezing cat, the old man chuckled, "Yes, and much like music, few make much else than useless noise, yes..."

Harry's brow knit, feeling the words some sort of insult but regardless waited for some instruction. After a number of moments where Ollivander seemed more intent on inspecting his wares, Harry's impatience peaked and he leaned forward, "Sir?"

"What? Oh. Yes." Gesturing at the boxes as he'd been waiting on Harry, the man explained, "Pass your hand along them. Don't touch. When you feel one that seems right, pick it up. You'll know if it chooses you."

"Chooses me?" Harry asked, but still began passing his hand slowly over opened boxes. To his amazement some felt strangely cool, others nearly pushed him away as if there were tiny hands that refused him. The moment's similarity reminded him of his friends and he sighed. The process continued, with not one of the original set of wands reacting in a way Harry would say resembled anything like choosing.

As Ollivander brought out a second set of wands, the man looked hard at Hermione, reading in her book quietly on the spindly chair he kept. Shaking his head hard the man continued setting out and snatching back wands from Harry's probing. "Wands are an extension of you. Woods that have some meaning to you, whether you know it or not. Cores that are a binding to magic between that ideal much like one's magical core binds them to our world. Without one, the other is useless." Looking up with narrowed eyes, the man's gaze snapped up to Harry's forehead. "Hum. Yes.

"One moment," the man said with a shuffle that left Harry looking back to Hermione, who'd briefly glanced at him, as if he'd rather be anywhere else that very moment. "Yes, this one. Pick it up, go on."

Harry, thinking he was supposed to pass his hand around like the man had asked last time, winced and simply took up the wand, gasping slightly as it felt nearly molten in his hand. As he watched, a faint vibration overtook the thing and suddenly a shower of sparks, red and gold and violent nearly had him dropping it again, except for a pair of clammy hands wrapped around his own.

"Oh yes, quite curious but rather sensible," the man murmured, releasing Harry once the surprise of the wand's behavior passed and he was no longer in danger of dropping it. "I do believe you to have found your wand, Mr. Potter."

Both children looked at him with that, and the old man seemed to swell up with amusement like some silly white-haired fish. "Oh? A secret was it? Well, my apologies, but you see," leaning over, the man's finger snapped out and quickly traced the scar over Harry's brow before he could draw away, the man's voice rising in a raspy chuckle as he did shy back after. "Not many have those eyes, that scar. Hiding as you have won't keep your secret long, oh no. But here's a secret you should keep, young Potter.

"This wand's brother was the one that marked you." Looking for all the world as if he were proud of that statement, the man smiled, showing off a row of yellowing, uneven teeth. "Yes, I remember every wand, each and every one. That one, quite unique, quite powerful. Much as yours, young man, yes. Very powerful. Very interesting." Seeming to lose interest in his own dialog, the man turned and waved impatiently at the scattered boxes that littered his counter. As one, they snapped shut and stacked, the boxes flitting off like hummingbirds to their separate cubbyholes, dodging about him in a whirl of speeding wood and and labels.

Somewhat stunned and unsure what to think or do, Harry took a step back, blinking down at the carved and ornate length of wood in his hand. The label inside the box that he also held told him a bit more about it, though to be honest at the moment he felt he knew more than he wanted.

Holly from the Abbey of Melrose, taken at third hour on the turning of Lúgnasad and cured for eleven years. A Phoenix feather (shed from the tail, one of two), comprises the core.

Brow rising, Harry laid the wand back in it's case and replaced the cover, losing himself in replaying the dialog he'd just had. He kept half an ear on the way Hermione's own wand choosing went, but it seemed the man had expended his quota for creepy on Harry's choice.

Hermione suffered the odd measurements, having similar thoughts as Harry as the thing seemed to want to take it's time on her hair of all things. Ollivander kept eyeing her, then the book she held and smiling faintly which made her rather nervous. Instead of turning like he had with Harry and going about collecting wands, the man stood and watched her carefully, unflinching.

"Be wary, Hermione," Petite warned, which set her looking to the tome in her hands. "Don't meet his eyes too long. He has some form of the Sight."

Blinking a moment, Hermione had to admit that made some sense. The man couldn't possibly pick and sort the wands he had with a piece of string, no matter what spells were on it. As if hearing her thoughts, the thing yanked a bit of her hair, making her wince. Glaring, she nearly shooed it off but Ollivander beat her to it, snapping his fingers and summoning the pest of a thing to it's rest. "Now, Miss...?"

"Granger. Hermione," she said, keeping her eyes on his hands as they peaked over his chest.

"Indeed, now I don't remember matching anyone by that name before... lets see then," turning finally the man went to work with his boxes, bring forth only three or four.

At this Hermione began feeling somewhat angry, thinking the man to be showing some of that bias the professor had warned them of, but then she looked at the boxes...

It nearly felt as if one... looked back. Taking a hesitant step forward she nearly reached out, but snatched her hand back, glaring up at the beaming and leering man behind the counter. Faintly, distantly she could hear Harry asking if she were alright, but it felt as if her ears were full of cotton and bees. The box seemed to buzz and vibrate in her vision, and there was an irrational sensation of itching at her mind, that she knew would subside if she could simply touch the wand in that box...

Before she'd really registered it, her hand closed over the porous and pale wand, with it's whorl of darker colors, like it had been cast of some kind of marbled wood. As she took it up, it twitched of it's own in her hand, spraying forth a pair of blue streams that seemed to coil and swirl about one another faintly before colliding and fading.

Staring at the thing with a combination of awe and curiosity, she laid it back in it's box, taking up the card she noted was there.

Vine, cultivated for nine years, and cured for two. Harvested at Imbolc by the starlight of Spica from the Abbey of Kildare. Dragonheart strings for the core, taken and twined from twins who killed one another in a conflagration.

Eyes narrowed in thought, she looked back up into the pale orbs of the man Ollivander, hearing somewhere an echo, Petite's warning.

Drawing back, the man faintly leaped back from her. In a near hiss he spat his words, "What, what devilry girl? How come you here?"

Harry sensed something wrong, and jumped up, rushing to Hermione's side before he'd really realized what he was about. Taking a look between the two, he swallowed and leaned against the counter, drawing the man's gaze. "How much?"

Snapping his head about, the man blinked and seemed to lose whatever haunt had taken him, a moment before. "What? What are you on about?"

"For the wands," Harry said again, slipping forward so Hermione was behind him, shielded by the cloak from the man's pale gaze. She seemed to read his intent and settled behind him like a shadow. "How much for them?"

"Seven Galleons each, one more for the boxes, another for the kit," pointing with his chin, the man indicated a small set of cloths and polish. Without another word Harry pulled out eighteen Galleons and put them on the table, sweeping up two kits, Hermione's wand in it's box and nodding to the man, taking the young witch by the hand and pulling her out the door with him. Harry didn't slow down till he was on the other side of the narrow lane and unable to make out the words above the man's shop or the shadows lurking from it's windows.

Turning, he was faced with another dilemma. "Hermione?"

The girl looked shaken, clutching the book she held to her and refusing to look away from her feet. Unseen by the two, McGonagall had paused, just out of the lee of the shop and watched, a curious cast to her face. Harry looked around and fidgeted with his hands, unsure what to do but decided nothing at all was probably about as wrong as anything could be, so took a chance to reach out and lay a hand on her shoulder.

It seemed to break something in Hermione, and she fell into him, startling Harry badly as she breathed shallow and rapid against his shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said quietly, and Harry had to wonder whom she was talking to, as really he didn't think she'd done anything wrong. Looking up she took a breath and shook her head, hair bouncing wildly with the motion. "He was so... creepy! I just don't ever want to go back in there," she proclaimed with some heat, glaring over his shoulder at the shop.

"I'm not too fond of it either," he hazarded, earning him a small smile as she stepped back, looking less off center and more simply awkward from leaning on him. "Did he say something... wrong?"

Shaking her head hard, the girl took her wand from him gingerly, almost as if afraid to touch it. "No. Not really. I just... did something silly that I shouldn't have." As if anticipating his question, she shook her head, "It's nothing. I'd rather forget about that place and move on. Where's... oh. Professor!" Harry ducked away as she raised her voice, ear smarting. With a slight smile she wince an apology and set to waving instead.

Pulling his hood back up, Harry stood and waited by the young witch, waiting for their minder to catch up.

Thought and Memory

It was a quiet pair of children that McGonagall led down the street on the remainder of their errands. "Well now, I see Ollivander hasn't lost his unique charm," she quipped, trying to lighten the mood only to be met with a pair of rather stony looks from the children. "Yes, well we should see to the rest of your supplies, regardless," McGonagall continued, by this point in her life rather immune to children and their glaring.

Rather than circle back about, she took them next to the Menagerie. "Inside here are likely the most common – and allowable – collection of magical animals you can find that would be sanctioned at Hogwarts for students." Leading the two inside, she paused by the door as they went about looking at the fascinating collection of creatures.

Having remembered his list of supplies, Harry took it out and regarded it. "Owl or cat or toad," he murmured, looking about for the representatives of those animals in the store. He'd seen numerous birds – and some things he had to assume could be birds – but no owls. Cats were all about one corner of the shop, an odd glowing line separating them from the rest. None seemed inclined to break it, or approach it, though there were two other children apparently picking one of them, walking back and forth over the line without care. Hermione had glanced that way, but a rather large and bowlegged cat had hissed at her and she scuttled back to look at birds instead. Harry, disinclined to inspect the cats after that and not terribly interested in a toad, returned to McGonagall.

Seeing him back so soon, she regarded him with some small concern, "Are you not going to look for a familiar, Harry?"

Glancing about once more, as if making sure he wasn't missing something, Harry shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I didn't see any owls, though. Didn't we pass some in another shop?"

Nodding the woman seemed to lapse into thought a moment. "Yes. Yes we did. Let me go inform Ms. Brown of that as well," and so said, Harry leaned against the door, waiting for his companions to finish their browsing.

Hermione was a bit cross. She'd always liked cats, really, though her parents weren't inclined to get one for her. Not really one to argue with them, she didn't press the matter, as their reasons were reasonable enough. Still, having one hiss and spit at her just for looking it's way was rather irritating. She was just getting interested in the ravens when McGonagall startled her out of her thoughts, "Ms. Brown? A word, if you don't mind."

"Of course," stepping away toward a window, the professor looked about the shop with a slight frown. "I had not though to mention it, but there are a number of things you should consider before picking a pet, post owl or familiar.

"One, as their name implies, post owls are used to deliver letters, much as muggles use carriers and the like." Turning from her assessment of the shop and focusing on Hermione, the witch continued, "Post owls are somewhat blatant and unusual in their behavior. For muggles, they can be somewhat shocking, as you can imagine."

Seeing the woman's meaning easily enough, Hermione felt some of her earlier excitement falter. "So I shouldn't get a post owl."

"Perhaps, but you should keep in mind that the limitations on pets and familiars are for first years only. It's also a limitation that a professor, under some circumstances, can waive," with a thin smile, the woman looked back toward the Kneazle mix with a slight frown. Such curious behavior... "Though perhaps we should stay within the species boundaries. I saw you looking at the ravens, and though somewhat unusual, they are very intelligent and capable post birds. And also not quite as shocking to see as say, a barn owl at midday."

Catching the professor's meaning, Hermione smiled and returned to the cages, looking at rather large raven. Though she wasn't as keen on them as say, a cat, there was the romantic appeal to the stately birds. "That one is staring at you," a voice to her right said, and she grinned.

Harry stood, looking back at the birds as well. For a moment she wondered if perhaps he should have one, as they'd match his pitch-colored hair well enough. Turning back to the cage, she could see the raven he'd spoken of, a somewhat smaller bird, staring at her rather intently. Though she knew that ravens were very intelligent for birds, this one's stare made her pause. "Petite?"

"So we're speaking now?"

"Technically, you never stopped."

Petite snorted, "Touché. I suppose you're curious about the ravens?"

Tilting her head slightly, the raven followed, mimicking her. "Yes. Would it be wise of me to get one?"

"Wise? I don't know. Convenient? Fairly. If you're thinking on a familiar though, sometimes such things are more problem than benefit." Petite seemed to pause a moment, and Hermione recognized the somewhat weighted feel of that silence as her bonded thinking hard on something. "I think it wouldn't be a bad idea. Much more agreeable than that awful cat over there at least."

"Hey! I like cats..."

Petite seemed to take some amusement out of that, "Oh, there's nothing wrong with them. I just don't think that one likes you much. I'm sure another student or two will have them, if you simply want to be around such animals," with a snicker, the demon's voice faded, but not before one last comment reached her. "Though you should consider, you have enough hair to deal with already. Do you really need a cat to shed more?"

Growling in irritation, Hermione's conversation was lost to Harry, who only saw her looking off distantly as if in deep thought. He noted one of the ravens, the one that had been staring at them, as it walked slowly to the cage wall. Not really sure what the girl he was with was thinking, Harry was surprised when the bird leaned forward, and clacked it's bill smartly near Hermione's face.

"Oh!" Startled, she drew back, as the bird made a series of sounds, a low and gravelly prrahk-prrahk-prrahk that seemed to stun the girl for a moment. Shortly she drew herself back up and glared at the bird, who's deep brown eyes only seemed to glint the more for it. "You're laughing at me aren't you?" The bird tilted it's head, lifting it's wings in a very obvious shrug. Chuckling suddenly, Hermione walked up the the counter, intent to acquire the animal.

Harry though, had little interest in the birds, or for that matter much of the shop at all. Oh, he thought they were nice enough, and some even seemed rather smart, like Hermione's raven... he just didn't think there was much chance of him being able to keep one, outside of Hogwarts. He cringed to think of what the Dursleys would do to something as delicate as a bird, considering how badly they'd already taken the school on it's own. Resigning himself to those thoughts, Harry waited just outside as Hermione finished her purchase, ending up with an ornate cage, a small pouch of food and some light reading on the care of ravens.

The rest of their shopping was fairly subdued and uneventful. Being fitted for robes was a strange experience, as he wondered if people really dressed that way. Robes and pointy hats seemed a bit too cliché to be real. Their class instruments, telescopes and measuring devices, were a simple matter of saying they were attending Hogwarts and getting a bundle with all their tools included. He'd thought to pick out a better telescope but decided against it. Delicate instruments would be troublesome to keep safe.

He'd nearly rethought that ideal when they approached the trunk shop, but with the prices listed for the self-locking, shrinking and expanded interior models, Harry figured he may as well shop or go to school. Doing both seemed impractical. Picking up a standard trunk with only a resilience and locking charm to keep it sturdy and closed, they resumed their trip, now only lacking cauldrons and books. The latter seemed to be all Hermione was interested in, as she kept shooting McGonagall frustrated looks each time they went by the store, on other errands.

It wasn't until they entered the bookstore that Harry appreciated taking their time getting there.

The Other Side of the Mirror

Books.

Books to his head, even over it in places. Racks and shelves and stacks of them all over. He'd barely entered the building before a cage with a disgruntled raven was shoved into his hands and forgotten for the moment, as a brown-haired juvenile juggernaut barreled about the bookstore with abject abandon.

Blinking with a knowing smile beside him, McGonagall folded her arms and watched. "She is rather excitable."

Harry simply nodded, before looking around as well. The professor had taken and shrunk their purchases, making them much lighter which he was thankful for. He had little illusions about lugging a cauldron, much less two, around the alley. Feeling supremely awkward, the boy looked to the bird in his hands, which gave an indignant Krruk at it's treatment. Sighing, Harry sat with the cage and watched the various people quietly drift around the store.

"Mr. Green, I will watch over the items here, so you can go find your books." Somewhat lost in his tiredness and contemplation, Harry nearly jumped when the professor's words reached him. Nodding quickly, he stood and stretched, stifling a yawn. As he walked away, he missed the narrow-eyed look that Minerva had given him.

Too thin by far, she thought to herself, checking a watch in her pocket. Only a bit after noon as well. He's no energy about him at all. With a slight pursing of her lips, the witch decided that lunch would be a quick affair, taken elsewhere, and that she'd personally see to their orientation materials. Hovering the cage and a shoebox sized crate with their shrunken parcels inside behind her, she approached the front counter and cleared her throat, getting the clerk's attention.

As McGonagall went about acquiring all the introduction and information books the children would need as muggle-born students, for themselves and their families, Harry stood and stared in shock at a display that caught his eye.

Below a large sign, and bisected by a lightning bolt much like his scar, read a heading of books about "Harry Potter". Blinking, Harry reached out a hand and traced the words of his own name on a book, a picture of what was supposed to be him as a babe there. Another book was apparently about his birth and early life, yet another about his disappearance and a conspiracy to hide the evidence of what could be a very important investigation. It seemed sensible now, all the precautions their escort had taken for them. Harry idly ran his eyes around the shelf, seeing no others like it, dedicated to someone specifically... and frowned.

One of the books drew his attention. The picture on the front made him second guess his initial observation but realization was quick after he'd actually pulled it down. The one that caught his eye and held it bore a picture, little more than a grainy photo in truth, but there were his parents. In his mother's arms he lay, what he imagined was himself. In a daze, he opened the thin tome and stared, his eyes gone glassy.

Pictures. Words. History... as he read his movements became more jerky, his eyes darting from entry to entry. Faster he read, speeding along pages, sparing many barely a glance or note as he passed on. Their early life. Hogwarts. School years. A section on their brief work, before their... Unheeded were Hermione's, and shortly McGonagall's words as they tried to pull him away, settle what they could see was a breakdown in the making. It was pointless, as the boy, despite being thin and pale and weak looking, seemed solid as stone and rooted as if grown from the floor itself.

Lily Evans Potter... James Cygnus Potter... Died 31st of October, 1981 both at the age of 21, defending the infant Harry. Killed by Lord Voldemort, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named during his campaign... Harry's eyes again swept that passage, something cold and unpleasant settling in his chest. "Lord Voldemort," he whispered, a sound that barely seemed like speech. Harry knew little about the way the world worked – in all truth he was fairly ignorant. Still, something there felt wrong, felt completely off. For all the professor had told them in that musty tavern, some things sank in. These people, wizards... feared and hated this man. This Voldemort, yet despite it they titled him? Gave him honors? Used hushed tones and some nonsense name that made him some kind of fairytale figure...

This man who killed his parents.

Parents he'd never know.

Parents he'd believed up till just now were dim, useless tramps thanks to the unkind words of his unkind relatives.

He felt that icy something grow and crystallize through his veins, as a sound like rushing wind and howling was building up in his ears. It was a pressure he'd not felt before this day. Not when his uncle had rarely taken his hand to him, or at school for being blamed for other's misdeeds. It burned and froze his breath in his lungs and ached behind his eyes, demanding exit. Demanding something. Unsure of anything but his outrage and this insistent, unstoppable something inside him, Harry looked up and took a great, lungful of air. "Lord?!" He screamed, snapping the book shut in his hands.

The sound of his voice echoed and blasted through the room with an impact like a small detonation. Loose papers and open books fluttered, as hanging things bounced in a sudden wind. People cried out and held hands to suddenly ringing ears, unheeding as the air about them took on a life of it's own, and stirred with that wind. A wind that was also battering at the windows from outside, until the magically reinforced glass cracked and gave with a massive crash.

Those questioned later would say that out of nowhere Harry Potter himself appeared, in a whirl of wind and flame, glaring about them like a vengeful wraith. A few of the patrons, unsure what was going on had pulled wands to stun or bind the youth, not knowing who it was. Their spells were deflected by odd stones and vaporous mists that snapped in place inside that whirl of light and sound. It was later found, through a scarred and scorched book that he'd recently read a page outlining his parent's death.

Many could attest to the plausibility of such, as they each cringed at how outraged the youth had seemed at the words there. The few that were paying attention and not panicking could say that an aged woman that some recognized as a professor at Hogwarts had boldly tackled the youth, with another in tow and set every alarm in the alley to clanging as she either apparated or used a portkey.

While some were being questioned by the Ministry on what was becoming a worrisome and busy day, Minerva panted, her arms sore and creaking in her age as she slumped against the desk at St. Mungo's. Behind her were a scared looking young witch carrying a raven and shoebox, and a stunned and petrified young boy that looked for all the world as if he had pixies and sylphs racing about his person, glaring at anyone that so much as looked their way.

Behind that desk sat the day charge nurse, a woman in her late thirties in a starched uniform, a severe cap and a glare that promised anyone without a real malady that they'd soon have one for disturbing her. Looking over the small company of people, the charge nurse merely lifted a brow, this being nothing truly extraordinary. "How can St. Mungo's assist you today?"

Minerva shot the woman an annoyed glance, before gesturing to the prone form of Harry, "We need a secure ward. He's likely exhausted himself magically from an accidental burst or-" the woman's mouth snapped shut as one of the half-visible forms flitting about his swung by her and hissed, it's elfin face contorting menacingly into a maw of sharp, needle-like teeth with glaring eyes wide and watching above, before it swept back to take it's place spinning in turn with the others.

"Yes, I see," the clerk said in a bored voice. "Name?"

"Mine or his?" Rattled by the... creature's display, the woman looked woodenly back to the attendant, who raised a brow at the aged professor. Sighing, she glanced about the waiting room and not seeing anyone about, proceeded to sign them both in.

Flipping the book around, the woman behind the desk showed the first sign of emotion beyond mild annoyance since McGonagall had arrived after reading the young man's name. She fainted.

Minerva sighed, looking back to young witch watching wide-eyed as small forms picked at her hair and seemed to lose interest in a moment as more took their place, and the young man who had nearly blown up a bookstore with a tantrum. The professor then said the only thing that came to mind at that point.

"Bollocks."