A/n: An idea I've been working on. It's mostly in an [AU] setting, but retains most of the original cast and characters.

In this story, schools play a more important role, as they're not just institutes of learning, but also parts of the country's military might. For example, Hogwarts and Durmstrang would be two opposing factions, with tensed treaties and on the brink of an erupting war.

Magic works differently in my story, in such a way only mixed and pure-bloods are allowed into such institutions, as Muggle-borns lack the ability to naturally see and grasp "magic." (More about magic / reasons for no muggle-borns in future chapters.)

Story mostly revolves around Harry's life in Hogwarts, the sort of people that he would meet / come across, the challenges that he would need to overcome. There would be romance of course, but not in the early stages of the story.

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Chapter: 1

The gathering clouds above Diagon Alley were redolent of a night long passed, the darkening skies a solemn warning of the approaching storm. Garrick Ollivander looked up from beyond mountains of dusty parchments as flashes of lightning soon accompanied the soft platters of rain. His attention was momentarily diverted from his work, as pale eyes focused tiredly onto the trails of seeping rainwater running mockingly down the walls, opposite of where he sat.

While his little store was once a spectacular establishment, leaky ceilings and rotten floorboards soon undid most of his illusive fantasies of better days, condemning him in acquiescence to its old and dilapidated state. In a way, it was much akin to the elderly Wandmaker himself, a relic of gloriousness long passed, yet for some foolish notion or another, was unwilling in taking his final rest.

It wasn't that he kept the store in neglect, in fact, being widely recognized as the premiere Wandmaker in the whole of Britain, and with the growing influx of students enrolling in Hogwarts each year, business couldn't have been better.

But like the old man's tired and aging body, there were some things that even Garrick Ollivander could not prevent. The old man pulled himself up onto his feet, as trembling hands grabbed onto the edge of his table for balance; Garrick Ollivander could have sworn he heard the protesting grumbles of his weary bones.

Carefully navigating his way across the dozens of display cases and hundreds of books that made up the ground level of his eternally chaotic store, he grabbed onto a dirtied rag that hung from an overfilled bookcase, pressing the tiny fabric against the seemingly unending streams of water. His makeshift dam was a valiant effort, yet ultimately proven futile, as droplets of intruding rainwater continued to fall from the cracks in the ceiling above.

Taking a small step towards his left and mentally measuring the distance, he lightly nudged onto the side of an unused cooking pot, joining the dozens of others that were already in place as it slid directly below a visible cascade of falling rainwater. Sighing softly at the state of his store, a flash of sudden lightning briefly lit up the outside cobblestone streets, and as Garrick Ollivander looked out from behind his dirtied store window, insistent memories emerged like unfaltering stars upon a darkened sky, unyielding vividness upon a canvas of black.

He remembered, a night very much like this, was when he first came upon the young muggle boy and his broken wand.

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10 years ago…

Garrick Ollivander knew that the clouds above were insentient; an inanimate course of nature that bore no ill will towards his particular establishment, yet the torrential rains and unrelenting winds that it brought forth, seemed almost unwavering in their efforts, adamant in running his business to the ground.

There was little he despised more than the monsoon season, and it wasn't just the ache in his knees that came along with the first signs of rain. Between flooded basements and boxes of dampened wand wood, he was unable to serve any visiting customers, if he even had any in such demented weather.

The old Wandmaker was hunched over a recent shipment of Unicorn hair, carefully inspecting each and every strand when a flash of lightning briefly drew his attention; a brilliant illumination of the outside streets as it coincided with a deafening roar of thunder. It caught the lone silhouette of an approaching figure; humanoid and short, resembling much of a dwarf, or a goblin.

Seconds passed before a soft knock came by, the uncertain tapping of hesitant knuckles against wood. Carefully putting aside the expensive box of materials, the old man headed towards the entrance of his store, momentarily exposing himself to the turbulent outside winds as he inched the doors open.

Looking down towards his most recent customer, it was only then he realized that it wasn't one of the usual stocky humanoid creatures. Surprisingly, it was a child, barely of age, with strikingly green eyes that peered out from underneath a headful of dampened hair.

Motioning with his hand and ushering the child into his store, Garrick Ollivander spent no time in shutting out the ghastly weather. Turning back towards the kid, he noticed a stick-like object tightly clasped in his right fist.

At an initial glance, one would have assumed that the boy was holding a broken stick, fallen from an oak tree of some sort.

The elderly Wandmaker however, certainly knew better than the average passer-by. He recognized not just the wand, but of the wand itself. Even at his age, he still clearly remembered the meticulous details of every wand he had ever sold. He remembered the wand that the boy held, but for some reason or another, the name of its owner remained in an obfuscated gloom; clouded shadows of blurred images, unseen through an overcast fog, like the remnants of a powerful mind altering spell, or perhaps, simply the effects of his aging brain, memories lost due to his withering mind; there was no denying how forgetful he had been recently.

Even so, he retained the memories of the wands he sold, each and every last one of them. The memories remained impeccable, parts of him that hopefully remained till his inevitable death. "Ten inches and three quarters." He recited softly from memory, murmuring more to himself than the boy before him. "Willy, swishy, good for…"

His eyes focused onto the young child, "You have familiar eyes."

The little boy immediately lit up at the old man's comment, seemingly forgetting all about his soakingly drenched state. "Do you know my mother?" he asked in-between chattering teeth.

"Mother?" the old man asked the shivering young boy, his eyes a gentle flutter as he allowed his mind to drift into the deeper recesses of his stored memories, yet as hard as he tried, the indistinct images remained just beyond his reach. He couldn't focus, couldn't grasp onto what he sought; they were like distorted echoes, a most interesting thought. "Perhaps," he replied. "But I do not remember."

The boy could not hide his disappointment, a pitiful slump of his tired shoulders, eyes downcast as they focused onto a spot between his shoes.

"But why are you here, child?" the unblinking elder asked. "On such a night no less. Do you wish to catch a cold? Where are your parents?"

Ignoring the old man's questions, the boy instead extended his arm, revealing the snapped wand. "My… um… stick. It broke."

"Stick?"

From the way the boy addressed the wand, Garrick Ollivander was almost certain of his ignorance as to what he actually held. An even more peculiar thought, his night was seemingly turning more interesting by the second.

"I don't know what to call it. But I've seen things like them on display by your store before," the child replied. "I was wondering, Mister… could you fix mine?"

"Let me have a closer look."

The Wandmaker reached towards the broken wand, noticing as he did so the visible ambivalence in the child's features, as though he was unwilling to part with the wand, even for just a few short minutes. The boy was clearly protective of the broken wand, but for reasons Garrick Ollivander could not decipher.

When the child eventually handled the wand over to him with much hesitancy, Garrick Ollivander quickly moved to one of his work tables by the side. He brushed away many of the unopened boxes sitting on his desk, clearing an open space before gently placing the wand in its center, next to a flickering old lamp that softly illuminated its every minute detail.

Reaching for a pair of spectacles that had lenses resembling telescopes, the old man leaned closer towards the wand, meticulously studying every detailed portion. As he did so, his bony fingers lightly grazed across its broken stem, soft caresses that soon followed each nod of his head. When he was eventually complete with his inspection, the bespectacled old man curiously asked the child, "What happened to it?"

"Dudley and his stupid friends." The boy gritted his teeth, apparent frustration and anger in his eyes. "They think that it is funny to take things that do not belong to them."

"Dudley?" the old man asked, "is he that person that…"

"Yes, Dudley Dursley." The body nodded angrily. "Just because he's the biggest boy at the orphanage, he pushes everyone else around. He took my stick when I wouldn't give him my lunch biscuits. He broke it."

"It… It belonged to my mother," the boy stammered, as though reading the most prominent question on the Wandmaker's mind. "The sisters at the orphanage told me that when they found me as a baby by their doorstep, the stick was tucked along inside of my basket."

"I see." Garrick Ollivander looked towards the child with renewed curiosity. If the boy came from an orphanage, he was more than likely to be of Muggle-born. There were no orphanages in the wizarding society; in order to prevent the accidental misuse of magical abilities due to an improper or unguided upbringing, the ministry would immediately take over upon the loss of a parent's child. And until they were of age and deemed fit for reintegration back into the magical society community, all wizarding orphans were technically adopted by and belonged to their respective ministries.

"Mister, can you fix it?" The boy asked hopefully, his question interrupting the old man's thoughts.

"I… I'm afraid not, my dear child." He spoke in a soft apologetic tone. "I have some Spello-tape in the back which I can use to tape your stick back together, but unfortunately, the core is beyond repair."

"Core?" the child curiously asked.

"Yes, the core." The old man explained, "it is what keeps your wan- I mean, stick, together."

The boy was quiet for a long while, before timidly speaking with an unsure voice, "Can you replace it?

He pointed to the box of Unicorn hair by the side of the table, "Isn't that the same material?"

"How did you know?" the old man's curiosity was instantly roused by the child's comment.

"I…" the boy paused, "I… Shouldn't. Y-you might think I'm crazy, like all of the others at the orphanage."

"No, no. Do not worry, my child." Garrick Ollivander smiled warmly as an arm softly squeezed the boy's shoulder, a reassuring touch that mirrored his pale irises. "I have seen many things in my many years, and I have a tendency to believe even the wildest of stories."

"Umm…" the boy took a deep breath, as though needing a moment to prepare or to compose himself, "sometimes, when I'm near the… stick. I… I see things."

"Blurry images, flashes of different colors." The boy tried to explain, but it wasn't something that he could easily put into words. "Like the one you have on display." He pointed towards the dusty display window, "When I concentrate really hard, I can sometimes see…"

"Flames… A lot of flames, of fire." The little boy closed his eyes, a look of concentration crossing his features, "I also see… wings… flying. A bird… on fire."

The old man slowly took off his spectacles, eyes beaming with fascination. "A phoenix."

"A phoe- what?"

"Never mind me." Garrick Ollivander urged the boy to continue, "you were saying about the core?"

"Yes." The little boy looked down towards his broken wand, "sometimes… I can see her."

"Your mother?"

"Yes, but not exactly." The young boy struggled to find the proper description, "Like… like…" He couldn't. He shook his head, trying to think of an example that best resembled his experience. "A picture, stepped on and crunched a hundred times over. I can see her smiling… but not much else."

"I see." Noticing the boy's shivering shoulders, Garrick Ollivander reached to the side of the store, finding an old dusty jacket and pulling it over the child.

Silently thanking the old man, the boy continued, "I don't just see her. I see other things too, the tree which the stick came from; tall and green, with leaves that touch all the way to the ground… It comes from somewhere… cold. I also see… a… a horse, so bright, it hurts my eyes to stare."

He paused again, afraid that the older man would not believe in his words, thinking of him as nothing but another immature child, with fantasies that gone over his head. But instead of the usual cold and dispassionate gaze of the orphanage caretakers, the boy saw warmth, and bewilderment.

It encouraged him to continue. "But… not a horse exactly. I saw something that stuck out from the top of his head… like a … horn?"

"Interesting." Garrick Ollivander whispered, his aging body seemingly renewed by the wonderment before him. A muggle-born child who knew nothing of the wizarding world, yet held such undeveloped affinity for wand-making, an ability most Wandmakers would kill for, a gift so magical, there simply wasn't any other way to describe it.

The old man, in all of his years, did not even come close to what he believed the boy could accomplish.

A Muggle-born no less, truly, a most magical thought.

The Pure-bloods would have found the child's ability most insulting, but Garrick Ollivander cared not for politics and power struggles. His only wish was to continue crafting wands for the young wizards and witches of tomorrow.

"What is your name?" he eventually asked the young child.

"Harry Sir, Harry Potter."

"Harry, I'm old and I'm freezing. How about we warm ourselves up with a steaming cup of hot cocoa by the fireplace?"

He motioned towards the living quarters at the back of his store, "I would love to hear more about the things you've experienced. They are most… enlightening."

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Present day...

There was another powerful flash of lightning, and Garrick Ollivander was abruptly ripped from his decade old memory, forcefully thrown back into the present by the following booms of thunder. A pair of shuffling feet caught his attention, as a pair of green pierced through the darkness behind.

The child from his memories, with the same unkempt hair and mysterious eyes, but older, matured; no longer a child, yet barely an adult.

"What's keeping you up?" The young man asked.

"Do you feel it?" The old man asked as he turned towards the boy, "a tensed gathering… pandemonium of magic, powerful and unbridled beyond comprehension." He touched his palm to the wall, "The forces are gathering, my child. I can feel it straining, even in walls older than I am."

Harry Ollivander chuckled lightly at his adoptive father's usual madman-ramblings, he had gotten used to them in the recent years. "I can't feel magic, father. Don't you remember?"

The old man looked towards his younger companion, his eyes blurring with slight confusion, as though momentarily forgetting who he was talking to.

He blinked, and they slowly focused.

"Ah yes, Harry, my child."

"You should be heading to bed soon," Harry gently pressed his arm against the older man's back, guiding him in the direction of his bedroom. "The Hogwarts school year is starting soon, we're bound to have plenty of customers the next few days. You need your strength, father. Who else is going to amaze all those brilliant young wizards and witches?"

That certainly convinced the old man, and as the two headed back to their sleep, another flash of lightning briefly lit the cobblestone streets, neither one of them noticing the lone figure standing outside of the store; silently observing the unfolding scene, patiently waiting... planning.

Another flash of lightning, and the figure was gone, as though he never existed at all, like the once muddied footprints outside of Ollivander's, lost forever to the heavy downpour of rain.

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A/n: As I am not using a beta, do tell me if there are any noticeable mistakes.