To the murder of Professor Sprout, and later the equally inexplicable declaration of theft towards the philosopher's stone, many fantastical words could be applied—all of them valid. Though magic couldn't have been involved in the crime, magic also had to have been involved. From the most grizzled young veteran in the ministry to the most gossipy woman in Hogsmeade, no one could offer an explanation as to how it might have happened. There was only one point everybody agreed on.

It couldn't have happened, yet it did. For the murder to have happened, the criminal had to not only be able to cast magic despite not being able to but also be able to cast spells through solid walls. Though contact with magic naturally diminishes one's fear towards the unknown, even pure blooded wizards found a chill going through their spine, wondering that if they were to pull over that hood, they would see a fantastical wizard with powers to rival Voldemort's or the devil himself, whichever one was worse.

It must be stated, for the sake of fairness, that Harry's stay at the Quiddich camp would play a huge part in the development of the impossible events to follow thereafter. Therefore, for those who wish to shred the impossible as they experience it, close attention is recommended.

The days that preceded the Quiddich camp were surprisingly uneventful. As much of a culture shock as it had been, it was surprisingly easy to adapt to anything after living with the Dursleys. McGonagall was strict, but though she didn't show it often she had a human side that made the few weeks Harry had spent with her the best of his life.

Still, even though he had never been happier, he still found himself getting more and more nervous as the Quiddich camp approached.

"Do you really want to go to the Quiddich camp, Mr. Potter?" asked McGonagall one day, when they were sitting by the fireplace.

"Of course—I just..." Harry trailed off, and McGonagall didn't question him further.

McGonagall never questioned him further, nor did she try to push him towards a particular decision. She gave him the facts and would, once upon a blue moon, give her opinion about it. But that was it. It felt like she looked down on giving advice, as though it was stricter to give him freedom than anything else.

At first, Harry loved his new freedom and ability to decide on what to do with his life—but he soon found himself wishing that McGonagall would tell him if he was doing something wrong, because he really didn't know. That's not to say McGonagall didn't enforce rules, because she did. Harry had to sleep by ten and wake up before eight; dinner was always served at eight thirty, the list went on. But she left it to him to figure out the purpose of those rules.

Harry wasn't fully aware that it was the day the Quiddich camp started up until he heard McGonagall knock on a strangely large wooden door. Harry took a deep breath, suspecting(though he didn't have a reason to) that it would be the last relaxing breath he would be able to take for a while.

The door swung open—no, it was slammed open, with such violent force that it seemed almost magical that it didn't break, which seemed perfectly plausible. Two figures appeared before them, with a healthy amount of space between them. Harry didn't question the reason behind the separation; the reason was clear to anyone who stood before them. The two were the kind that carried an atmosphere with them, the kind that made everybody around them focused and energetic about a goal.

And they were both smiling like they had just conquered the world.

"Ah Professor McGonagall!" exclaimed the younger of the two, rubbing his hands together. "I knew I could count on you to find us a recruit. With this much love for the sport...and I'm not one to judge based on blood, but considering—"

"Considering you are James' soon," said the other, older one, "then I think it's fair to expect that—"

What they were expecting of him, Harry did not know, because at that moment McGonagall cleared her throat with the harshness of one who wants to remind others of proper manners.

"Mr. Potter, those are Oliver Wood, a fifth year student from Hogwarts, and his father, Henry Wood."

"I played with your father in Hogwarts," said Henry, with a bit of an apologetic tone. "Great player—if only You-know-who hadn't done what he did, he would probably have led England to a few world cups by now."

He shook his head bitterly, as though he was more bothered by Voldemort's effect on Quiddich than by Voldemort itself. There was, Harry thought, a disconnected quality to him and Oliver. They never seemed fully aware of anyone, they seemed to see them only in terms of how they related to something else.

"In any case," said McGonagall, with a half smile, "I'll take my leave now. I'll come back to pick you up in three days, Mr. Potter. I believe we still need to go to the diagonal alley."

McGonagall shot Harry a sympathetic, almost apologetic look as she left. When she did leave, Harry found out why. After a few very brief minutes being shown where he would sleep, Oliver grabbed him by his wrist and dragged him out of the house and into the backyard.

It seemed silly to call it a backyard, but that's what it was. It must have been as large as a football field, but it seemed completely empty. There was no paint marking the end of the territory. Rather, everything surrounding the oval shaped field was covered by a dense forest, while the field itself seemed almost like the Dursleys garden, but much larger. It gave the impression of standing inside a very deep hole.

"Feeling nervous?" asked Oliver Wood, with an excited tone that seemed to treat such condition as a mythical being.

"A little," said Harry. "I don't know the rules to Quiddich or anything like that."

"Don't worry, that's why you are here! I'm sure you'll pick it up in no time. It's not that hard to understand, even if it's a little hard to master."

Harry opened his mouth, but closed it again immediately. He wanted to say what had been haunting his mind ever since he found out he was a wizard, that he wasn't going to be as good as anybody else. Yet, there was something about Oliver Wood's energetic attitude that prevented him from saying so.

"What is it? Something bothering you?" Oliver assumed a more serious tone. "First rule of Quiddich, never hide anything from whoever is teaching you. That's how bad habits get started, and those can end careers."

"I was just thinking that..." Harry trailed off, but upon realizing the thought of diverting his stare never crossed Oliver's mind, he continued. "I was just wondering how long it usually takes for people who come to this camp to pick up on the rules."

"Ah, that. Well you are sort of our first student Harry. In fact, I'm pretty sure we wouldn't ever have a student if you hadn't joined. I really have to thank McGonagall for that."

Harry didn't respond, but he swallowed silently. The lesson began soon after, and it wasn't like anything Harry could have anticipated. It was easy, it was fun, it was wonderful. He had dreamed of flying more than anything else since he had found out about being a wizard, but he had also had more nightmares about it than about anything else. To find out that it was so easy was so refreshing, so amazing that he couldn't help but wonder if it was fine to be this happy.

"Perfect," said Henry, alternating between shaking his head with satisfaction and laughing quietly to himself. "I'll go ahead and prepare dinner—you two rest a bit over there."

Harry barely had time to rest before Oliver Wood dismounted from his broom, and came rushing over to him.

"That was brilliant! I had some expectations but never in a million years...Harry, you absolutely must come to Gryffindor."

"To what?"

"It's one of Hogwarts houses," said Wood in a hurried tone, closing his eyes and shaking his head slightly. "There are four of them but Gryffindor is the best. And it's my house too. Harry, I have never seen somebody like you before. It's incredible. If you join Gryffindor, we can definitely win the Quiddich cup."

"What do I have to do to join? Do I need to pass a test or—"

"The Sorting Hat decides what house you go to. Just do your best to think about Gryffindor when you put the hat on."

Harry didn't know what the Sorting Hat was, but Wood was the kind of guy that made asking questions a rather unpleasant thing to do.

"Can really I just decide what house I'm going to like that?"

"I have no idea," said Wood promptly. "But McGonagall would like if you went to Gryffindor. Gryffindor is her house, you know, and she really wants us to win the cup."

That, more than anything Wood had said, got Harry's attention. He couldn't quite believe that he was as good as Wood was making him out to be, but if there was any chance at all of, in some small way, paying back McGonagall for everything she had done for him up to that point...it was worth a shot.

"I'll do it," said Harry, somewhat quietly. "I'll try to enter Gryffindor, I promise. And I do, I'll also do my best to help the team win."

"That's the spirit!"

Wood punched the air as though to celebrate, then fell backwards against the grass and stared out into the setting the sun. Harry considered following his action, but wasn't fond of the idea of hitting his head against the ground so suddenly. Instead, he just sat up besides Wood, and as he did so, a sudden idea overcame him.

"Wood?" asked Harry, with some uncertainty.

"Yeah?"

"Why do you love Quiddich so much?"

The question came out so automatically, so naturally, that Harry couldn't immediately link it to Wood's reaction. Wood's face remained frozen for a few seconds, like he wasn't able to process what was being asked of him. Then, after a few moments in silence, he nodded satisfactorily to himself.

"Three things, really. One, it's the best sport in the world. You can't disagree with that, can you?"

"Of course not," Harry hurried to say, as it looked like Wood would yell at him if he said otherwise.

"Two, it's my dad. He used to be a professional player, you know? But he had to retire due to an injury."

"Couldn't you just use magic to heal him? I thought that magic could heal most things."

"The issue Harry, was with the placement of the injury." Oliver lifted his index finger and pointed to his own head. "A Quaffle hit him in the eye a long time ago. Ever since then, he can't help but flinch when they come flying to him. His reaction time went way down after it, like he hesitates. No physical injury, you see, but it's a death sentence for a goalie."

"It must have been tough on him."

"It was." For a very brief moment, Wood sighed. It seemed like he hadn't considered that point very often himself."But in any case, the last one. It's the thrill, Harry. The thrill of having a good rival, a good match, and still come out as the winner. Do you know what I'm talking about? It's sort of hard to put it into words, but..."

"I understand," said Harry. Wood's enthusiasm reminded him of Holmes, in a way. They both loved the game. The only difference was that "the game" meant different things for them, but they both made "the game" into their reason for living.

"Really?" Wood was the kind of person who never contained his emotions. He blinked multiple times and made no effort to hide his immense surprise. "It's sort of hard to explain, didn't really think you would get it. Not many people do. How do you understand it?"

Harry told him so.

"A book, huh?" Wood pondered that for a moment. "Sounds like a good book, even if I'm not much of a book person. I'll try to read it sometime."

Harry doubted this would happen, but did not voice this concern. Wood's interest in Holmes was enough.

"How was the Quiddich camp, Mr. Potter?" asked McGonagall, as they walked through the streets of London."

"It was...interesting." It was the most honest answer he could come up with.

"I was afraid you would find the Woods to be rather overbearing, but fortunately that doesn't seem to have been the case."

"They were a bit too much to handle at times," admitted Harry. "But still, it was so...fun. I liked doing that."

Harry could swear he saw the shadow of a smile pass through McGonagall's face, but a few minutes later, that question was completely gone from his mind. There was simply no space in it to think of anything but what he was seeing right at that moment.

"Welcome, Mr. Potter, to the Diagon Alley," said McGonagall, but Harry was barely listening. It was like the world he had always dreamed of. The streets, the stores, they all seemed to belong a few centuries back, when Holmes ran through the thick fog, chasing after another adventure. But the fantastical things before him were not compatible with Sherlock's time.

Everywhere he looked, he found a sign of magic. Magical pets, magical books, flying cauldrons, old men with long robes and pointed hats. It was like had stepped into a world of wonder, a world that he belonged in.

And he couldn't quite believe it.

"I understand that it all must seem a bit shocking, but please remember we have to move on."

"Of course Professor McGonagall," said Harry promptly.

But he couldn't stop himself from gawking at some of the most fantastical items, despite his best attempts at moving past them. To his surprise, McGonagall did not attempt to hurry him as much as he thought she would.

Their first stop was Gringotts, the only bank of the wizarding world. Harry was sort of hesitant about entering it. What if, when he opened his parents' vault, he found out the Dursleys had taken it all? Would McGonagall shake her head and say he couldn't go to Hogwarts anymore? Would he had to go back to a normal, non magical life? Would—

"Oh, what a wonderful surprise!"

A slightly fat witch ran up to them, and Harry's first thought was that her fingernails would give Aunt Petunia a heart attack. The witch and McGonagall exchanged greetings for a bit, and then turned to Harry.

"This must be Harry—"

"Yes," said McGonagall, cutting her short. She then looked over her shoulder, but not without discretion. "We are trying not to attract much attention, so I would appreciate if you didn't say his name out loud, Pomona."

"Of course, of course! I understand. Just be sure to say hi to Quirrel, he's having a drink by the Leaky Cauldron and has been mumbling to himself something about seeing you and Harry nervously." She paused to consider this for a moment. "Then again, he's always nervous."

McGonagall smiled at Harry. "This is Professor Sprout. She is one of Hogwarts best teachers, and I'm sure you'll give her no trouble as a student."

McGonagall shot Harry a look that said "Or else."

"Minerva, there's no need to scare the boy!" Professor Sprout looked at Harry kindly. "Would you like to see something interesting?"

"I—sure!" Harry tilted his head to the side. "But what is it that you want to show me?"

"Minerva told me you are quite good at guessing things."

The word "guessing" annoyed Harry slightly, but he tried to hide it.

"A little. But my best guess would be...some sort of plant?"

"Why—yes!" she seemed positively delighted that Harry had guessed right. "You are just like Minerva said! How did you know?"

Harry was slightly uncomfortable to share his deduction, because it was far too simple to even be called such. As he was gawking at every store in the Diagon Alley, he saw some books that had some sort of plant motif on their cover, meaning Hogwarts probably taught something about magical plants. And the woman's boots were covered in dirt. He told her as much.

"Very good! Unfortunately, you are only half right. It's related to plants, but it isn't a plant. It's a stone."

"Oh," said Harry, unable to hide the disappointment in his voice. That wasn't half-right. That was fully wrong.

"Oh dear," said Professor Sprout. "Let's hurry to the carts, before a goblin notices that I'm leaving footprints behind. They wouldn't be pleased, oh they would not."

And in a bit of comical hurry, she began to move, and Harry and McGonagall followed after. Business obligations were taken care of, and Harry felt that the goblins would have stared at him for much longer than they did if McGonagall wasn't with him. Not too long after, they went through the trip to the vaults. It resembled a roller coaster more than anything else, though Harry had never been in one.

When Harry reached his vault, he could barely believe what he was seeing. There was so much gold, silver and bronze that there was a very real possibility he was richer than the Dursleys right now.

"Is this really mine?" he asked, stupefied.

"Yes, Mr. Potter, it is," said McGonagall.

What followed would later be carved in Harry's mind forever, though at the time he didn't know that. When they got to Professor Sprout's vault, she went right past her money—not nearly as much as Harry had—and grabbed a small dusty package.

"This," she told Harry, "is a Rosetta. It's a rare stone that lets some plants grow in climates they are not used to. It's not to be used lightly, but I need it to teach some of my seventh year students. Keep it a secret, okay? I want it to be a surprise for them."

Harry promptly agreed, feeling excited for being trusted with a secret—even if it didn't seem important.

Though it didn't seem important, it must be stated that it would soon turn out to be, though it would be a while until Harry realized that. After leaving Gringotts, McGonagall told Harry to go buy a wand while she handled some Hogwarts businesses.

A magic wand...it seemed so surreal, yet so within his reach. But it seemed almost commonplace compared to what the wand salesman told him after finally finding a wand that matched him.

"It's curious," he said. "That you and he are connected to such an extent...this wand, you see, it has a twin of sorts. Both it and its twin use feathers from the same phoenix. And that wand, Mr. Potter, it was the one that created that scar in your forehead."

Harry didn't know how to respond. He paid for the wand, and left to find McGonagall—or so he would have wanted. Just as the wand maker had gone to the back of the store, the door swung open and a nervous looking man came in. He stuttered repeteadly, enough times for Harry to become aware that he wore a purple turban and was sweating a lot.

"Mr. P-p-p-potter," he said, nearly falling over as he walked up to Harry. "I'm P-p-p-rofessor Quirrel."

"Nice to meet you professor," said Harry, slightly put off by the man's nervousness.

"I-I-I-I just had to see you, I'm glad I d-d-did." There was a pause, followed by a nervous laugh. "Are you-you enjoying the Diagon Alley?"

"Yes!" Harry nodded enthusiastically. "Very much sir! Do you enjoy coming to the Diagon Alley?"

"N—not...partially," he said, laughing nervously once more. "I can't stand G-g-g-g-g-gringotts and going underground..."

"Professor Sprout didn't seem to like them much either," said Harry. It wasn't entirely a lie, but it wasn't entirely the truth either. He just felt like he had to say something to make the pitiful man in front of him feel better.

"P-p-p-p-p-professor Sprout?" asked Quirrel, with something that could have been either interest or simple surprise. "S-she took something out of her vault? I—I—went to her vault with her a few days ago, she should have gotten her gold already."

"She didn't take any gold with her, just a small package."

"A package?"

Quirrel's response came so sudden and so clearly Harry nearly stumbled back for a moment. Quirrel must have noticed this, because he appeared exceptionally fragile a second later.

"Yes a st—" Harry cut himself short. "I'm sorry, I promised not to tell."

"Ah," said Quirrel, obviously disappointed. "I-I-I-I see."

Feeling the conversation was becoming far too awkward to handle, Harry said goodbye to Professor Quirrel and left to look for Professor McGonagall, completely unaware that he set Voldemort walking down the long distance of murder once more.