Harry Potter does not belong to me.

A fair warning - this story is very AU. Please do not take anything for granted. Please review!

Chapter One

"Get up, boy," a shrill voice called through the door. "I want you to get breakfast started."

Groaning, Harry rolled over in bed and looked at the small clock radio on his battered nightstand. The radio tuner no longer worked and neither did the alarm, but the clock part was alright even if the lights flickered on and off sometimes.

"It's too early," Harry grumbled, and tried to burrow back into his pillow.

There was a sharp rap on the door. "You've ten minutes, and then I expect you downstairs," the voice called again. "Your uncle has a big meeting this morning and I won't have you making him late."

Sighing, Harry sat up and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. "Yes, Aunt Petunia," he replied resignedly, "I'm coming."

He sat there until her footsteps faded away and then started to dig through his drawers. Most of his clothes were cast-offs from his cousin, and barely presentable. He managed to pick out a t-shirt that wasn't too large and was pulling it on just as his door opened and crashed against the wall with a bang.

Laughing, Dudley barreled into the room and knocked over a pile of books that were stacked on the child-size desk in the corner. "Aren't you ready yet, freak?" he bellowed. "Mum wants you to cook my bacon."

"Sod off, Dudley," Harry grumbled and pushed his way out into the hall.

Dudley shoved him back and grinned. "I'm telling Mum!"

Scowling, Harry tried to push him back, without much success. Dudley might have been bigger, but luckily, Harry was faster. "Go ahead," he retorted hotly, and darted down the hall to the stairs.

When he got to the kitchen Dudley was lumbering at his heels, so his Aunt boxed his ears for taunting his cousin and set him to looking after the sizzling pan of bacon. "You'll not be getting any today, mind you, not with behavior like that," she scolded waspishly.

Harry wasn't bothered; he knew she wasn't going to let him have any to begin with.

He finished cooking and was dishing out the eggs just as his Uncle Vernon strode through the door and sat down at the table.

"Get the mail, boy," Vernon barked as he unfurled his newspaper.

Harry grimaced, and glanced down at the plate he'd just set himself. He'd managed to serve himself two pieces of toast and a hefty portion of eggs without Aunt Petunia minding, but his cousin Dudley was sure to knick some if he left it unattended.

"Why can't Dudley get it?" he groused under his breath.

His uncle set down his paper and glared. "Don't argue with me," he warned gruffly. "Do as you're told, and be quick about it."

Scowling, Harry darted into the hall, grabbed the mail from the slot in the front door and hurried back to the kitchen. Sure enough, his plate was missing a piece of toast, and at least half of the eggs.

He glared at his cousin, who responded by sticking out his tongue, but didn't say anything. He'd only get in trouble if he brought it up, and he'd rather not spend half the morning stuck in his room.

Vernon took the mail and sorted it with a grunt. "Rubbish, all of it," he remarked idly as he flipped through. "Oh here, this is something, Pet; a letter from Marge - she's vacationing on the continent."

"Oh how lovely," Petunia simpered. "We'll have to have her over for tea when she gets back and hear all about it."

Harry grimaced around a mouthful of eggs. He dreaded the days when Aunt Marge came to visit. She wasn't really his aunt, and she certainly never let him forget it. He usually tried to make himself scare whenever she was in town, but somehow he never seemed to manage. There weren't many places a ten year old could go by himself without arousing suspicion, and suspicion and gossip were two things Aunt Petunia worked very hard to guard against. Usually he wound up stuck up the tree in the back garden, hiding from Marge's bulldog, Ripper.

Vernon finished looking through the various bills and letters and handed Harry a stack of envelopes. "Throw these in the bin, boy, they're all rubbish."

Discreetly, Harry looked through the pile as he crossed the kitchen floor. Once there had been a brochure with some colorful stamps he'd managed to hide away, and another time a sample pad of stationary from the zoo with animals dancing across the bottom. His uncle's name had been printed across the top, but he'd crossed that part out. Today, though, there was nothing worth saving.

"I want you to clear the table and do the washing up," Petunia instructed briskly as Harry sat back down to finish the rest of his breakfast. "When you're finished there's laundry to sort and-"

Before she could finish filling up his day with an endless assortment of chores and housework, a small dark blur throttled through the window over the sink, zipped twice around the ceiling and careened into the platter of toast on the table. It was an owl.

Harry stared at the bird in shocked silence as it shook out its feathers, hopped across the table, and nipped a piece of bacon off Dudley's plate.

A mouthful of eggs fell out of Dudley's open mouth, and his fork clattered against the table. "Mummy!" he bellowed and tipped back his chair, "Get it away from me!"

Petunia, always quick to action where her precious son was concerned, sprang out of her seat. Shrieking, she leapt around the table and tried to shoo the feathered fiend away with a dish towel, but the bird only screeched angrily and upended a pitcher of orange juice.

Vernon roared and rolled up his newspaper, and started swatting it through the air. The owl dipped and darted around his head, screaming and snapping its beak.

Harry watched it all with a sense of awestruck glee. His relatives were always blaming him for strange things that happened, but there was no way they could pin this on him. He'd been sitting there minding his own business just the same as the rest of them when the interloper burst into the room. They couldn't accuse him of having anything to do with it, certainly.

The bird squawked again and circled through the air. Dudley was trying to knock it down with pieces of airborne cutlery, and his father was still chasing it with his newspaper. Neither one of them were fast enough; Harry thought they looked like a pair of dancing walruses.

Suddenly, the bird veered and landed deftly on Harry's shoulder. It stuck out its leg, and for the first time, he noticed what was attached. It was a letter, and it was addressed to him.

With wide eyes, he took the missive. At first, he was sure that he'd been mistaken; he'd never received a letter before, and he couldn't fathom who in the world would want to send him one now. He didn't know anyone, except for the Dursleys and his classmates at school, but none of them liked him. Dudley made sure of that.

The envelope was made of thick, rough paper and sealed with dark red wax, and his name was scrawled across the front in shining silver calligraphy.

Harry Potter

The Smallest Bedroom

Number Four Privet Drive

Little Whinging

Surrey

"Odd way to address a letter," he remarked to himself, and made to break the wax.

"That's not for you, boy!" Vernon thundered and snatched the letter out of his hands. Before Harry could protest, he started ripping it into shreds.

"It's got my name on it!" Harry cried, and grabbed desperately at the falling pieces. "And my bedroom!"

The owl hooted scornfully and flapped its wings, then took off back out the window.

Petunia quickly gathered up the scraps and dumped them down the garbage disposal. "Go to your room, now," she whispered. Her face was pale.

"But I didn't do anything!" Harry protested. He should have known better; his relatives always blamed him for anything out of the ordinary.

"No arguing!" Vernon bellowed. He grabbed Harry roughly by the arm, and marched him into the hall and up the stairs to his bedroom. "You'll stay in there until I say so - and no funny business."

Harry scowled and threw himself onto his bed. His aunt and uncle were always lecturing him about "funny business", much to his eternal confusion. He'd never had any idea what they were referring to, but apparently it had something to do with woodland creatures usurping the postman and interrupting breakfast.

He pondered his ceiling for a while, sulking, but he was rather used to such unfair and seemingly arbitrary punishments from his guardians, and his anger evaporated quickly. Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the only two remnants of the letter than he was able to seize from his uncle before they were all destroyed. One was blank on both sides, but there was some writing on the other, in fancy script like the envelope. Near the top, it said 'return' and below that, 'ly 31.'

"Return what, or where?" he wondered aloud, quietly. "Maybe the owl will come back, if they wanted a response and they don't get one."

Hopeful, he toiled away the rest of the day locked up in his room reading old schoolbooks and daydreaming about his mysterious correspondent.

Finally, at dinner time, his aunt rapped on the door and pushed it open. She hovered in the doorway, her face pinched and pale, and handed him a plate. "You'll stay in your room the rest of the night," she clipped shortly. "If you behave yourself and don't get up to anything funny you can come out in the morning."

"I will," Harry replied agreeably, "I mean I won't - get up to anything I mean."

Petunia eyed him suspiciously, but nodded. "And leave your window closed."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia."

As soon as her footsteps had disappeared, Harry rushed over to the window, unlatched it and pushed it open. Grinning, he gazed out at the sky and sat down at his desk to eat his dinner. It wasn't the first time he'd had to eat alone in his room, nor would it be the last, he was sure, but he didn't mind. Rather, he much preferred not having to suffer his uncle's company, or watch out for Dudley's thieving fingers.

He scarfed down his ham & cheese sandwich quickly and sat back to wait. The minutes turned into hours, but still Harry waited, impatiently watching the sky as the sun sank low and the night turned darker and darker.

Eventually, his eyelids grew heavy, and finally, when he could no longer stifle his yawns, he fell asleep.

Several hours later, promptly at midnight on June 12th, a dark shape soared easily through the open window and landed on his pillow. It was the same owl that had delivered the letter that morning, and it wasn't going to stand for anymore nonsense. It hopped onto Harry's chest and nipped gently at his ear.

"Coming Aunt Petunia," Harry blurted groggily, and gave the bird a weak swat.

The bird puffed itself up and hooted at him.

Bolting upright, Harry gasped. "I knew it!" he whispered excitedly. "I knew you would come back! Do you have another letter for me?"

Haughtily, the bird stuck out its leg.

This time, Harry barely stopped to read the address on the outside of the letter. He quickly broke the wax and unfolded the envelope. There were two sheets of the rough paper included inside.

Thankfully, the moon was full and shining brightly through his window so he wouldn't have to chance turning on his light to see. He didn't want his Aunt or Uncle coming in to investigate if they happened to get up to use the loo, not after the ruckus they'd made that morning.

Breathless with anticipation, his eyes raced across the delicately scripted letter.

Hogwarts School

of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Headwizard: Albus Dumbledore, Grand Sorcerer

Harry Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been

accepted as an apprentice at Hogwarts School of

Witchcraft and Wizardry. You will find enclosed a

catalogue of available classes and a supply list.

Additional equipment may be required for elective

courses.

Some advanced classes offered in succeeding

years may have prerequisites. Please plan

accordingly.

Please send a return owl with your selections no

later than July 31. Orientation for new apprentices

will be held after the Harvest Banquet on September 1.

Minerva McGonagall

Deputy Headwitch

Harry read the letter, and then read it again. And again. He read the letter six times before he started to feel lightheaded, and realized he'd been holding his breath.

"Wicked," he exhaled. Ordinarily, he might've thought the letter was one of Dudley's jokes, but after the scene that morning, there was no way his cousin had been in on it. It seemed too elaborate anyhow; Dudley's repertoire seemed limited to leaving dead rodents under Harry's pillow, or hiding the ladder when he was on the roof clearing out the gutters.

It could have been someone else trying to take the mickey, he supposed, but he didn't really know anyone well enough to have any other suspects.

"Is this real?" he asked the owl, who appeared to be reading over his shoulder. It cocked its head, and blinked owlishly.

Harry read the letter again. "Hogwarts," he whispered softly to himself, tracing the word with his finger. He thought about all the strange things the Dursleys were always blaming him for, and wondered. Could he really be a wizard? Was magic real?

He looked at the bird again. It looked back.

Taking a deep breath, Harry flipped to the second sheet of the letter. There was a list of classes, just as promised, but he didn't recognize any of them. Apparently, they didn't teach Maths or Geography at Hogwarts.

"Choose three," he read aloud. "Charms and enchantment, trans-transfiguration, conjuration and summoning or elemental magic."

"Bloody hell," he goggled, and scanned further down the list. "Potions, Herbology, Ancient Runes-"

Harry closed his eyes. He felt lightheaded again, but this time it wasn't from lack of oxygen. There were two possibilities; either the letter was a fake and someone was having him on, or it was exactly what it claimed to be - a letter of acceptance to a school that wanted to teach him how to cast spells and brew potions. It wasn't a surprise that he was desperately rooting for the latter, because, honestly, who wouldn't want to be a wizard? He couldn't think of something more brilliant if he tried.

"Bloody brilliant," he affirmed to himself, his voice still heavy with awe and wonder.

But how was he to decide which was the truth? He certainly didn't want to end up a laughingstock, but neither did he want to miss out on an adventure straight out of his storybooks. If he didn't reply to the letter, they might think he wasn't interested and give his spot away to somebody else.

Finally, he decided to play along, and hope for the best.

He worried momentarily how he was going to afford the tuition if Hogwarts really was on the up and up. The Dursley's certainly weren't going to pay for him, and a school of witchcraft and wizardry was bound to be expensive.

"I'll just figure that out later," he commented to the owl, who had hopped up onto his shoulder. "Maybe they have some sort of financial aid program."

If he were honest with himself, he'd have admitted that he would get himself to Hogwarts if he had to beg pennies for schoolbooks and hike there on foot. Magic school just wasn't the sort of thing he was willing to give up, not now that it might be an option.

Jumping over to his desk, he grabbed a pencil from the drawer and a tore a sheet of paper out of his geography notebook. Rereading the list of classes, he tried to decide which ones he wanted to take, but the strange words and foreign ideologies left him glaring at the list in confusion.

"Just what the bloody hell is Arithmancy anyway?" he muttered as he chewed on his eraser.

He poured over the catalogue until the sun started peeking up over the horizon, but he was no closer to a decision. So far, he'd decided only on Potions and Charms & Enchantments because they seemed straightforward enough.

Aunt Petunia would be up soon, though, and he really needed to send the owl on its way before she came rapping at the door.

Deciding quickly, he scrawled out a quick note.

Dear Headwitch McGonagall,

I would love to come to Hogwarts, please, but

I don't know anything about magic, and I don't

know which classes to pick. Can you please

explain them to me?

If that is not possible, please sign me up for

Potions and Charms & Enchantments, and

whatever classes you think are the most

useful.

Also, where can I buy my supplies, and

how do I get to Hogwarts?

Thank you,

Harry Potter

It would have to do. Hopefully, the Deputy Headwitch wouldn't mind his questions and could give him some advice without his relatives catching wind. If he could keep mum on the whole witchcraft and wizardry thing until the end of the summer, things would probably go more smoothly. If they found out now, they might try to stop him, and that would certainly make his life more difficult.

"There you go, mate," Harry said to the owl as he folded up his letter. "Can you take this back to Minerva McGonagall please? I don't know the address, is that alright?"

The owl glared reproachfully and snapped the letter up in its beak. Ruffling its feathers, it took off out the window. Harry watched it swing away until it was barely a tiny spec in the sky, and then sank down on his bed with a sigh.

Too nervous and excited to go back to sleep, he lay there dreaming about magic wands, shadowy sorcerers and mystical mysteries until he heard his relatives moving around out in the hall.

His aunt let him out for breakfast, and then handed him a list of chores she wanted done.

Weeding the garden and cutting the grass were a sight better than staying cooped up in his room all day again, but the day was hot and as the hours dragged on, he started to wonder if and when he would get a reply.

He had no idea where Hogwarts was or how fast an owl could fly, but the bird had returned with his second letter only a matter of hours after the first one was destroyed. When the day came and went without any feathered friends swinging towards him through the sky, he tried not to think too much of it.

The Deputy Headwitch of a big school was probably very busy, and surely she had more important things to do than drop everything and write him a detailed explanation of everything he wanted to know. Surely she would respond as soon as she was able, and all his worrying would be for naught.

The next day passed in much the same manner. Harry repainted the garden shed and the back fence, all the while keeping one eye on the clouds, but no more letters were forthcoming.

Two and a half weeks later, Harry was cleaning the upstairs bathroom and resigning himself to the fact that someone had obviously pulled off a grand joke at his expense when the doorbell rang. He thought nothing of it; Dudley was forever having his friends over to watch the telly or play video games. It was probably just Piers Polkiss from down the street.

When the bell was quickly followed by a blood-curdling shriek and a loud thump, Harry threw down his sponge and bolted out into the hall. He raced down the stairs, ready to tackle the intruder to the ground, and stopped short.

Standing in the doorway, robed like Morgana of the Enchanted Isles herself, was a tall, straight-backed, stern looking witch. She eyed Harry as he thundered down the stairs, and then favored him with a small smile.

"Good morning, Mr. Potter," she greeted. Her voice was brisk and matter of fact, but there was a hint of Scottish lilt hidden underneath that made her seem less intimidating. "I am your Deputy Headwitch, Minerva McGonagall, though you may call me Mistress McGonagall if you prefer. I was quite surprised when I received your letter; I wasn't aware you were living with muggles."

"You mean it wasn't a joke!" Harry blurted, the words tumbling out of his mouth before he could stop them. Flushing, he amended, "the letter, I mean. I wasn't sure. I've never heard of wizards or witches before. Well, not real ones - just the ones in the stories. What's a muggle?"

"A muggle is a person without magic," she replied. "Your aunt, for example."

A choked noise sounded from the floor in the hall, and Harry noticed his Aunt crouched down and hiding behind the coat stand. She had a panicked, deer-struck look upon her face that made her look rather like a startled horse. "Go to your room, Harry."

"I won't!" he defied, scowling. "I'm going to Hogwarts and you can't stop me!"

All the color drained from her face. "How did you find out about that?" she demanded, her voice as thin as ice.

"Got another letter," he replied boldly. "Through my bedroom window."

"You're not going," Aunt Petunia shrilled, rising up off the floor. She grabbed an umbrella from the rack and pointed it, arms shaking, towards the witch in the doorway. "You can just take your freakishness and leave. This is private property and I want you out, or I'll call the police."

McGonagall's eyes flashed and her lips thinned into a grim line. "Mr. Potter will most certainly be coming to Hogwarts, one way or the other."

"I won't allow it!" Petunia squawked, and waved her umbrella.

Frowning gravely, the stately looking witch pulled a long slender stick out of her pocket and waved it decisively through the air. The umbrella popped and transformed into bouquet of lilies. Petunia shrieked and threw them on the ground, and ducked underneath Vernon's evening coat.

"Wicked!" Harry cried delightedly. "What kind of magic is that?"

"That was Transfiguration. It's quite a useful school of magic to learn," Mistress McGonagall answered. She turned to him, a spark of mirth dancing in her eyes. "The other classes have their merits as well, of course, but I do hope to see you in my class. I'll be your instructor if you decide to take it."

Harry nodded eagerly. "Sign me up!"

She smiled and put away her wand. "You don't need to make your decision yet; we'll discuss the course catalogue on our way, and any other questions you may have."

"Are we going to Hogwarts now?" Harry asked excitedly.

"Not today, I'm afraid - just a short trip to get your supplies. It's not very far, but we'll be boarding at the inn for the night, so run along and pack a bag while I discuss a few matters with your aunt."

Harry hesitated for a moment, but decided the no-nonsense woman could handle Aunt Petunia. She was only a muggle after all. He grinned to himself, delighting in his fair fortune. He was a wizard - a real wizard - and he was going shopping with a witch, and a rather formidable one at that.

Racing up the stairs and into his room, he grabbed his school pack and dumped its contents on the bed. He wouldn't need those old books anymore, not where he was going. As he rifled through his drawers he wished he had something better than Dudley's old sweats to wear. He wanted to make a good impression if he should meet any other witches or wizards, and he didn't think they would really do the trick. Maybe he could buy a robe like his teacher was wearing when they did his shopping.

Frowning, he remembered his concerns about money and pulled up the loose floorboard under his bed. Whenever he found loose change in the wash or saw a coin on the street he'd hide them away, and he'd managed to save up a few pounds. It wouldn't be nearly enough, he was sure of that, but hopefully it would get him somewhere.

Stopping by the bathroom to grab his toothbrush, he zipped up his pack and sprinted back down the stairs. The Deputy Headwitch was waiting by the door, but his aunt was no longer in the room. Hopefully she hadn't gotten herself turned into a frog.

He snickered to himself, and McGonagall arched a brow. "Something amusing, Mr. Potter?"

Sobering quickly, he replied, "No ma'am, I'm just excited is all."

The wrinkles around her eyes softened as she smiled. "I imagine so. Come along now, we've a way to go before our next stop."

Harry followed her out the door, and stopped short. He'd just assumed they'd be driving, having not considered that witches and wizards might have their own methods of travel, but he hadn't expected the sight that greeted him from the driveway.

A pair of large chestnut colored horses milled about on the gravel chomping lazily at his Aunt's daisies, but the crowning glory was the old-fashioned, medieval style carriage they pulled behind them. It was sturdy looking and simply decorated, but Harry hadn't seen anything like it before, except in pictures. He almost expected Queen Elizabeth the first to step out and give him a wave.

"Step lively, Mr. Potter, I'd like to be at the inn before dark, and we have another errand to run first."

Shaking himself out of his jaw-dropping stupor, he hurried up the carriage step and into the coach behind his escort. "Don't we need someone to drive this thing?" he asked curiously. He hadn't seen anywhere up front for anyone to sit, nor any reins to guide the horses.

"That's what magic is for," McGonagall replied bemusedly. She consulted a thick scroll of parchment from the pocket of her robe, and then tapped the wall of the coach with her wand.

"Number Six, Earlham Street, London," she intoned evenly, and the carriage lurched forward.

There was a window next to Harry, and he lifted the curtain and stuck his head out. The horses had stopped munching at his aunt's flower bed and were gamely stepping down the road at a brisk trot.

"What's at Earlham Street?" Harry wondered aloud as he watched the houses roll slowly by.

"Another student, a muggleborn," Mistress McGonagall answered. "In this case, a witch whose parents are muggles."

"Were my parents muggles?"

The woman looked at him and smiled sadly. "No, Mr. Potter. Your parents were as magical as you or I."

Harry didn't know much about his parents; his uncle had never met them, and his aunt didn't like to talk about them. As much as he'd always been desperate to learn something about them, he couldn't begrudge her too much. He supposed it must've been hard for her, knowing that her sister had been murdered.

He frowned. He'd never questioned her story before; it had always made enough sense, in a tragic sort of way. On Halloween night when Harry was only a year old, someone had broken into their home and tried to rob them. Something had gone wrong, and his parents were both killed. The robber had fled before finding Harry, and he'd been shipped off to live with his aunt and uncle.

Now, knowing that his parents knew magic, the tale seemed flimsy and full of holes. If his dad had been a wizard, why hadn't he used magic to save them from the robber?

"Was the man that killed them a wizard too?" he ventured hesitantly.

McGonagall studied him for a moment, her severe features softening slightly. "Yes, he was."

"Oh."

He looked out the window for a while, staring morosely at the houses as they rolled by, until they veered sharply off the main street. He blinked, and suddenly all the cookie-cutter houses that dotted the paved streets were gone, replaced by sunny, open countryside and a dusty dirt road. Mouth open in astonishment, he leapt off his seat and craned his upper half out the window. Looking back the way they'd come, he could see a slight shimmer in the air, like a mirror that wasn't quite clear enough. Behind it, he thought he could see the neighborhood they'd just passed through.

Ahead of them, and on all sides, there was nothing but open, grassy hills and farmlands. He gaped, amazed.

"Sit down, Mr. Potter," McGonagall bid smartly, "or shall I put the child-safe charms on the windows?"

Flushing, he climbed back in and took his seat. "What happened to all the houses? I didn't know there was this road here."

"You must not have ever been paying much attention then," she answered. "It's a special road, visible only to witches and wizards, leading into our world. We like to keep ourselves separate from the muggle world, you see."

Harry nodded; that made sense. "So how long will it take to get to London? We can't be going very fast in this thing. Do all magical folk use these carriages? How come you don't use cars; wouldn't they be faster?"

The witch eyed him over the top of her glasses. "One at a time, Potter, if you please, if you want any answers," she chided gently. "You'll find that the magical world is quite a bit different than the muggle one that you're used to. We tend to keep ourselves completely segregated, for many reasons, and most witches and wizards that you'll meet have probably never seen a muggle in person, and would have no idea what you meant if you asked them about cars."

"So where is the magical world, exactly?" Harry asked, confused.

"It is all around you," she answered, gesturing out the window, "hidden behind curtains of magic."

"So do you have your own cities and stuff, in your world?"

"In our world," McGonagall stressed with a fond smile. "You are a wizard yourself, after all."

Grinning, Harry nodded.

"To answer your question, yes we do. It might be easiest if you imagine there are two separate Englands - the muggle England that you are accustomed to, and behind it, hidden behind many hundreds of spells and enchantments, another magical England, almost exactly like the first," she lectured thoroughly. "It is the same for the entire United Kingdom, and the world, actually. Hogwarts is in the area that you might think of as Scotland."

Harry tried to picture it, but it made his head ache a bit so he looked window again. In the field beside the road there was a man tending a flock of sheep who waved as they rolled by. He had a wand similar to the Headwitch's, and when he pointed it at one of the sheep, fluffy white wool sheared itself off the animal's back and floated into a sack resting nearby.

Blinking, Harry waved back at the man and then shut the curtain. Magic certainly was amazing.

"It doesn't seem exactly like the muggle world," he mentioned. "I mean, I don't think they have all these farms and whatnot, this near to London."

McGonagall paused, before answering, "I suppose it would be more accurate to say that the two worlds were very similar many hundreds of years ago, before the muggles starting tearing down all their forests and building towers up to the sky in their places."

Harry nodded, and listened as she explained a bit more about the magic world. They didn't use cars, or electricity or computers or anything like that, but he didn't think he'd miss any of it, not when there were so many other brilliant things to discover. Even though the ride to London would have only taken about an hour in Uncle Vernon's car, instead of the several hours it would take them in the carriage, he found he liked it better. He felt like he'd stepped into the world of King Arthur, and then wondered if Merlin had been a real wizard, or if he was really just a story.

After an hour or two of peppering her with many numerous and varied questions, Harry asked about the course list at Hogwarts. He was curious and quite eager to discover what he'd be learning at his new school, but his teacher had other ideas.

"We'll look over the list once we meet your classmate, so I don't have to explain it all twice," she said. Instead, she pulled a small, leather-bound book out of her pocket and handed it across the carriage.

"Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," Harry read off the cover, "Codex for Apprentices."

"Have a read through that, and we can discuss anything you don't understand."

Harry nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Eagerly, he flipped to the first page, which was inscribed again with the name of the school in full. Underneath that it read, 'Founders Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff.'

Intrigued he read on, and learned about the four great houses of Hogwarts, which were named after the four magical folk who had started the school in an old castle over a thousand years ago.

"Which House do you think I'll be in?" he asked the elder witch.

She looked up from the pile of scrolls she was sorting through and eyed him appraisingly. "Your mother and father were both in Gryffindor," she mused thoughtfully, "but you're a curious one; it might be Ravenclaw for you."

"I'd rather have Gryffindor," Harry admitted, pleased to think he might share something with his late parents.

Across the carriage, Mistress McGonagall seemed privately pleased. "You'll find out when you get to the castle," she replied mysteriously.

He flipped through the rest of the book, which explained that the new school year officially began at the annual Harvest Banquet, which was held at the end of the summer. By the same system, the previous year officially ended the day before the Harvest Banquet, though most classes usually wrapped up midway through the summer. He was pleased to note that many students boarded at Hogwarts year-round, and confirmed with the teacher that if he so chose, he'd wouldn't ever have to return to the Dursley's after he began his schooling in September.

"You are not a muggle," Minerva McGonagall replied crossly, though her ire didn't seem directed at him, "you do not belong in their world no more than they belong in ours."

Delighted, Harry enjoyed the rest of the ride in silence, soaking in all the information from his little book. He was reading about various rules and regulations for First Year Apprentices when the carriage started to slow.

Looking out the window, he noticed they were back amongst the hustle and bustle of muggle civilization.

"Won't the muggles think it's odd, seeing this carriage driving down their streets?" he asked curiously.

"Magic, Mr. Potter," the witch reminded him. "They can't see it."

They stopped in front of a small, well-kept townhouse with a short cobblestone path leading up to the front door.

"So they don't have any idea that we're coming, or that their daughter is a witch?" Harry asked nervously as they waited for someone to answer the bell.

"No, I imagine they will be quite surprised."

"What if they don't want to send her?"

The tall witch frowned, a dark shadow passing momentarily over her face. "Don't worry yourself about that," she replied, and gathered her robe about her tightly. "I can be quite persuasive, when I need to be."

Harry nodded. "Do you have to do that a lot? I mean, are there a lot of muggleborn witches and wizards?"

Mistress McGonagall shook her head. "Very few. There are three this year, which is rather unusual. Most years there aren't any at all."

Harry was going to ask how a muggleborn witch or wizard turned out that way, but just then the door opened. A brown haired girl started to say hello, but stopped and gaped at them, and then at the horses that were grazing in the front garden.

"Hermione Granger, I presume?" McGonagall prompted politely.

The girl nodded, and then shook herself. "Yes," she replied in a very proper sort of voice. "Yes, I'm Hermione. How may I help you?"

"My name is Minerva McGonagall," the older woman greeted. "Are your parents in?"

Hermione nodded again, and held the door open wider. Harry could tell the girl was trying not to stare at McGonagall's robes, and not succeeding very well. He smiled shyly at her as he followed the teacher into the house.

Twenty minutes later, he sat in the Granger's front lounge fidgeting nervously in the shocked silence.

"A witch, you say?" Jean Granger ventured finally. She eyed her daughter, who looked just as awestruck and hopeful as Harry had when he'd received his letter.

McGonagall nodded. "Most definitely, and I've come to offer her a place at Hogwarts School so that she might receive some training."

"Oh please Mum, Dad, may I go?" Hermione pleaded eagerly, her eyes wide with excitement.

"Well now, I don't know," Daniel Granger objected slowly. "You're already down to start at the Oppenheim School for the Gifted this year."

"Let me assure you that Hogwarts is a very prestigious school - one of the best in Europe - and will provide your daughter a very thorough and varied education."

"But Dad," Hermione reasoned, her eyes firing up for battle, "I'm already a witch, no matter how you feel about it, and I have to have someone teach me how to be a proper one, or I'll just keep doing strange things by accident."

Her mother nodded, and spoke softly in her husband's ear. "You remember at the cabin last summer, with the canoe and the beehive; magic certainly would explain a lot."

Hermione flushed slightly, but soldiered on. "That's right Dad; you don't want that to keep happening to me all my life, do you?"

"Well, no sweetheart I don't," he agreed, sighing, "but I'm just not sure I want to send you to someplace we know nothing about."

McGonagall pulled another copy of the Apprentice Codex out of her pocket and handed it to Hermione's father. "That is why I am here, Mr. Granger," she said, "to answer your questions."

Reluctantly, Hermione's parents eventually agreed to send her to Hogwarts, and Mistress McGonagall moved on to convincing them to let Hermione into her care for the evening in order to purchase her school supplies. Initially, they wanted to come along, and were not well pleased when the Headwitch informed them that muggles were not allowed to enter the magical world.

"I'm afraid it would be a waste of your time," she informed them frankly. "You'd be unable to see anything. Honestly I'm not even sure you'd survive."

Mr. Granger frowned, and shared a dark look with his wife. "I don't know dear; perhaps we should reconsider this whole thing."

The elderly witch frowned gravely, and then turned to Harry. "Mr. Potter, would you kindly assist Miss Granger in packing a bag for the overnight while I speak privately with her parents?" she requested in a tight voice. "Perhaps you can share with her some of the things you've learned on our trip here; I'm sure she'd be interested."

Harry glanced uneasily between the three adults, but nodded, and Hermione pulled him excitedly up to her room.

"Can you believe it?" Hermione delighted as she flung open her bedroom door. "We're going to a magic school! Real magic!"

Harry grinned, unable to resist the girl's infectious enthusiasm. "They teach all sorts of different things there; it was all in my letter. Mistress McGonagall is going to explain it all to us when we get to the inn."

"I didn't get a letter!" a muffled voice protested from inside the closet. "What did it say?"

"Just that I'd been accepted at Hogwarts, and to please reply before July 31st," he replied, and sat down on top of the bed in the corner. "There was a list of classes to pick from, too."

Hermione burst out of the closet with a handful of clothes. "What kind of classes are there?" she asked excitedly.

Harry shrugged; he couldn't remember them all. "Stuff like Charms and Potions and Astronomy, and a bunch of other things I didn't understand. That's why I wrote to Mistress McGonagall."

"Didn't she come to visit you like she did with me?"

He shook his head. "No, she said she only does that for muggleborns - people who don't have wizards or witches for parents, I mean."

Hermione frowned. "Couldn't you have asked your parents, then, if you didn't understand the letter?"

"They died when I was a baby," he answered thickly, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. "It was my aunt and uncle who raised me, and they never told me anything about it."

It occurred to him suddenly that his aunt must have known that he was a wizard all along and just never told him. Certainly she had to have known about Harry's mum, her own sister. It bothered him, but he put it out of his mind.

"I'm sorry, Harry," Hermione replied, stopping in front of him. She bit her lip and anxiously twisted up the t-shirt she was holding. "I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

Smiling, Harry shrugged. "Don't worry about it," he answered easily. "You didn't know."

Shyly, she returned his smile, and then gestured at the pile of clothes she'd gotten out. "I don't know what to bring; I don't have anything like what Mistress McGonagall is wearing." She glanced at him sidelong. "Then again, I suppose you don't either."

She pulled out small duffel and started packing it up.

"We're only staying overnight," Harry pointed out as he looked at the pile of clothes she was trying to fit inside the little bag. "And we'll probably buy new things when we get there."

"Well I just want to be prepared," the girl responded archly, and added a pair of tennis shoes to the lot. She hurried into the bathroom and picked out a few more things. "There I think that's done. Do you think it's safe to go back downstairs?"

"She managed to convince my aunt to let me go pretty quick, and she was dead set against it, so I suspect so."

When they arrived back down in the lounge, the three adults were sitting in tense silence. The Deputy Headwitch stood as they entered. "We should be off, if you're packed," she said.

Hermione eyed her parents. "Alright Dad?" she asked.

Daniel Granger nodded stiffly. "Behave yourself sweetheart; and be careful," he cautioned, and reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet. Turning back to the Headwitch, he added, "How much do you think she'll need to buy all of her supplies?"

McGonagall looked taken aback for a moment, but gathered herself together quickly. "Dear me, I almost forgot," she exclaimed. "Muggle money won't be of any value where we'll be going, so there's no need to give her any."

"I don't understand," Mrs. Granger interrupted. "How are we to purchase her things?"

"The school provides small loans for muggleborns or any other student who requests it. It will be enough to cover the tuition and her supplies, and leave her with a little extra for pocket money throughout the year."

"A loan?" Mr. Granger clarified with a frown, "How is she to pay it back?"

"Most students take up the odd job here or there, at the weekend or on afternoons when they haven't any classes. It needn't be entirely repaid until after she finishes her schooling, though I do encourage getting a good head start."

A wave of relief flooded through Harry, and he relaxed a bit. He'd been worried, still, that the school would turn him away when they discovered he hadn't any money. "Excuse me, Mistress," he spoke up, "Can any student apply for one of the loans? I haven't any money either, you see."

Again, McGonagall looked surprised. "Certainly, Mr. Potter, if you need it. I'd have offered, but I'd assumed you wouldn't."

"I'd appreciate it if it's possible," Harry replied quickly. "I don't mind finding a job at the weekend."

"I don't either," Hermione piped up hastily. "I don't mind at all, Dad, it's alright, honestly."

The Grangers did not look happy as they stood in the doorway and waved their daughter farewell, but they didn't brook any more protests. Whatever the Headwitch had said to them must have been very convincing.

"Mind your step there, Miss Granger," Mistress McGonagall warned as Hermione clambered up into the carriage.

"Isn't this fascinating, Harry?" the girl chattered as she stowed her bag under the seat and sat down. "I've never imagined I'd ever have an opportunity like this - I'm just thrilled, aren't you?"

Harry nodded and grabbed hold as the horses trotted forward. "It's brilliant, I think," he answered, and then glanced across the car at their escort. "Are we going to decide which classes to take now?"

"Oh, yes please," Hermione gushed. "I'm sure there's ever so much to learn! How many classes are we allowed to take? I don't know how I'll ever decide on just a few."

The corner of the Headwitch's lips turned up in amusement. "There'll be plenty of time to learn everything you wish to know, Miss Granger," she chuckled indulgently, and pulled a scroll out of her pocket. "Now then, there are two mandatory classes - Fundamentals of Sorcery, which is taught by the Headwizard, Master Dumbledore, and History and Lore, which is taught by Master Binns."

"Splendid, I was hoping there would be a history class; I'm dying to know everything about the magical world already," the girl remarked seriously as she pulled a pen and paper out of her bag. Dutifully, she copied down the names of the two classes, and their teachers. "And learning from the Headwizard - what a remarkable opportunity."

Alarmed, Harry wondered if he should be taking notes as well. "I didn't bring anything to write with," he sputtered nervously.

"Quite all right, Potter," McGonagall assured, "you may follow along from your letter if you wish."

"You can use my notes if you want, Harry."

"Thanks, Hermione; that would be great."

"History and Lore is a mandatory class for your first four years of study; after that you may choose whether or not you wish to continue with it," McGonagall lectured. "Fundamentals of Sorcery is an introductory class for first year apprentices; you'll move on to a Spell Theory class in your second year."

Hermione's pen moved across her paper at a frantic pace. "What sort of curriculum will we follow in the Fundamentals class?"

They discussed the class briefly - probably more briefly than Hermione would have liked, Harry thought - before McGonagall steered them forward into what she designated the Schools of Magic subset of classes. Though there were apparently more Schools of Magic than Hogwarts had time to teach, they were only offered a choice between four types during their first year of study: Transfiguration, which their teacher not-so-subtly encouraged, Charms & Enchantments, Elemental Magic, and Conjuration & Summoning.

"I think I'll take Transfiguration, Charms, and Conjuration," Hermione hemmed indecisively as she read through her notes on each subject. "Although, Elemental Magic does sound quite interesting - are you certain we can't take all four?"

"Only three, Miss Granger," McGonagall answered bemusedly. "You can add another class in later years, if you desire."

"I'm going to take Elemental Magic, so you can read my notes after class if you want," Harry joked with a grin.

"That would be lovely, Harry, thank you," Hermione beamed. "That makes it ever so much easier to decide."

The girl had an even harder time selecting four elective classes, of which there were eight to choose from. Harry too, was having trouble deciding between The Bestial Bestiary - A Compendium of Magical and Non-Magical Beasts, and Herbology, which had to do with growing and cultivating magical plants. The Bestiary class sounded loads more exciting, but Herbology was a requirement for some of the advanced classes he thought he might want to take in later years.

"You don't have to decide now," their teacher said. "You might sleep on it and see what appeals to you in the morning."

"Yes I think I'll have to," Hermione agreed regretfully. "I can't possibly make a decision right now; they all sound so intriguing."

"Good, that's settled then," McGonagall announced, and packed away her scrolls. "In the nick of time too; I suspect we're nearly there."

Sure enough, the carriage rolled to a stop not ten minutes later, and they all climbed out.

"This can't be the same magic world we were driving through earlier, can it?" Harry asked as he looked up and down the street in confusion. They were standing on a narrow, deserted street in a dark, run-down neighborhood. Muggle buildings dotted the road, though they appeared to be in quite the state of disrepair.

The building directly in front of them was especially seedy looking. It was built of non-descript grey slab stone, and had a small wooden door in the center and two boarded up windows on either side. A dark alley ran alongside it, disappearing into inky darkness.

Mistress McGonagall seemed undeterred, and walked up to the door. "The entrance is through here," she said and ushered them forward.

"What about the horses?" Hermione glanced around uneasily and scurried after their guardian.

"I'll have the innkeeper look after them, not to worry. Inside now; don't dawdle."

"This is an inn?" Harry asked incredulously as he stepped up to the door.

Hermione crashed into him as he stopped in the doorway. "Ow, Harry!"

"Sorry," he grinned sheepishly, and moved to the side.

Disgruntled, she glared at him. "Oh, never mind just watch where you're going next time," she scolded half-heartedly, and then stopped as she took her first look at the room inside.

Unlike the muggle facade outside, the interior of the building was clean and welcoming, and about five hundred years out of date. A blazing fire in the great hearth along one stone wall filled the room with cheery warmth, and the spits turning over the crackling flames sent tendrils of delicious aroma wafting through the room.

"Have a seat here while I speak with the innkeeper," McGonagall ordered, and ushered them to a round table in the corner by a set of wooden stairs leading upwards.

Several other tables around them were filled with the most fantastic looking people Harry had ever seen - men and women in robes and long dresses the like he'd never seen before, expect in stories and pictures. Wizards and witches, every one of them, Harry thought to himself with a thrill. His heart began to race as his eyes darted around wildly. Even Hermione was speechless as the two students gawped at their surroundings.

"I feel a bit out of place in my sweats," Harry whispered finally to his companion.

Hermione nodded, and murmured, "None of the women are wearing pants, did you notice?"

"Well not a lot of the men are either," he pointed out with a sly grin.

"I'm sure they must be wearing trousers under those robes," Hermione huffed, "And look there, that man has on some sort of - well I suppose you'd call it a tunic, and pants."

Harry took a closer look at the other denizens of the room. Most of the men did indeed have on robes of varying degrees of quality, but the man at the next table over was wearing a long linen shift that was belted at the waste with a leather cord, and a pair of tight leather trousers. The women either had on robes like Mistress McGonagall, or long corseted dresses that dusted the creaky floorboards with their hems.

"I'm going to have to buy a dress, first thing, so I don't stick out. I hope the loan Mistress McGonagall was talking about will cover it."

"I'm sure it will," Harry replied. "She said that we'd have some extra, and anyway they probably don't want us going to Hogwarts looking like muggles. You could always get a robe, instead."

"I'd like to get both, if I have enough. Obviously our school supplies will have to come first," she said seriously. "I'll have to ask which is more culturally appropriate, the dress or the robe, if I can only afford one."

A young serving girl in one of the aforementioned dresses came around with two steaming tankards of frothy dark liquid and set them down at their table. "There ya go, dearies," she announced with a cheerful smile, "some pumpkin juice to get yourselves started, and I'll be back with your dinner in a jig. It's roast buck tonight, or I've a hearty rabbit stew if you'd rather?"

The two students shared a quick look.

"The buck's fine for me, thanks," Harry replied politely. It certainly smelled nice, from where he was sitting.

"For me as well, thank you," Hermione agreed.

The girl bustled away just as Mistress McGonagall came back to join them, carrying her own goblet of plum colored liquid.

"We'll have some dinner and then it's to bed for you both," she declared. "It'll be a long day tomorrow if we're to get you both home before dark."

Harry and Hermione chatted quietly for a few moments while their teacher busied herself in some paperwork, until the serving girl came back carrying three heavily laden platters of fragrant meat. There were also some potatoes and carrots in gravy, which Harry thought was quite good. They ate leisurely, enjoying the buzz and good cheer of the room, until Mistress McGonagall declared it was time to be abed.

Their rooms were on the second floor of the inn, tucked back in a corner well away from the noise and ruckus of the dining room. Their escort had reserved two - one for herself and Hermione, and one for Harry.

"Goodnight, Harry," Hermione called as she followed their teacher into their room. "Sleep well."

"Goodnight, Hermione," Harry smiled, and shut his door.

The room was comfortably appointed with a fair sized bed and a small wooden bureau to hang up clothes. There was a washstand in one corner, and a pot that was labeled 'toilette'. He was a bit disbelieving at first until he tipped some of the water from the wash basin into the bowl and watched it immediately disappear.

"Wicked," he muttered, and then jumped up onto the bed. He lay amongst the pillows and closed his eyes. For a moment, he pretended he'd imagined it all, and that he was back in his bedroom at the Dursley's on his lumpy, uncomfortable mattress. Grinning, he threw his eyes open and gazed around at all the evidence to the contrary.

"I'm a wizard," he crowed quietly to himself before yawning and burrowing under the warm wool blankets, "a real wizard!"

He fell asleep quickly, happier than he could remember being in quite a long time.

In the morning, McGonagall gave them scarcely enough time to dress and eat breakfast before she herded them off out the door. The sight outside the tavern door was jaw-dropping, and Harry and Hermione probably could have stood there gaping for quite some time excepting that their guide had no time for dawdling. Instead, they craned their necks and eyes and tried to take in every single last detail of the place as they scurried along after her.

The city appeared to be built on several tiers. Just outside the inn - which Harry discovered was called The Leaky Cauldron - the street was paved with wide cobblestones and wound its way between massive slate walls that towered up towards the sky. Atop the walls above them buttresses heaved out into large carved archways that served as bridges and roadways for the higher level. They passed underneath such a structure and Harry pointed out the long purple pennant that was hanging down from its peak, rippling gently in the breeze.

"That flag has to be at least five times as tall as I am, and it doesn't even reach halfway down to the ground," he marveled.

"How long has this city been here?" Hermione queried, wide-eyed. "I can't believe I never noticed it before, something of this size."

"Lionsgate has been here for thousands of years," McGonagall instructed, "and you wouldn't have noticed it unless you came through one of the gateways. It's quite well hidden from the muggle world."

The streets were not at all uniform - they looped around corners and rose and fell gently in small hills. Alleys branched off here and there, and courtyards and terraces sprung up whenever two roads intersected. They were also quite beautiful, especially compared to the stark, sterile design of muggle cities that Harry was used to.

The buildings that lined the streets were each unique; most were built of wood or stone with thatched or shingled roofs, but not two were quite the same size or shape. Towering trees grew up out of their gardens and shaded the courtyards, and bright summer flowers sprung up out of decorative pots and planters along their sides.

Eventually, they passed underneath another massive portico and climbed up a grand staircase carved into its side. The second tier of the city offered them a breathtaking view of the labyrinth they'd just ventured through. The giant walls were laid out like a great wheel, separating the city into several different districts. At their center was a massive castle with towers that soared upwards until their turrets were blanketed by the clouds.

"What is that?" Harry breathed in amazement.

"Lionsgate Castle," McGonagall proclaimed proudly. She allowed them to stop and stare at its majesty for a moment before continuing on at a brisk pace.

"Does someone live there?" Hermione wondered, glancing back over her shoulder. "Can we go inside?"

"Not today Miss Granger; we haven't the time," McGonagall answered firmly as they turned another corner. "And many people do live there - the king, primarily, and his family, and for several years now the regent. Many nobles come to stay at the court, as well."

"There's a king?" cried Harry and Hermione both.

"Well of course there's a king," their teacher repeated, momentarily taken aback. "Heavens, sometimes I forget how much different the muggle world is. They've a queen now, don't they? Well, yes, we have a king, King Francis, but right now there's a regent ruling everything."

"Why is there a regent?" Harry asked. "What happened to the king?"

"Is he primarily just a figurehead, like the muggle queen," Hermione wondered at the same time, "or does he actually run the government?"

McGonagall eyed them sternly. "We haven't the time for a history lesson just now; I'm sure Master Binns would be happy to oblige you when you get to the school. Come along now, we're running behind."

Harry didn't see how they could possibly be late considering it couldn't have been much later than seven-thirty. He wasn't entirely sure of the time; his bedroom hadn't had any clock that he could see, and his wristwatch didn't seem to be working anymore.

They stopped finally in front of Madame Malkin's Tailors & Seamstress, a small wooden building on the corner of a colorfully decorated street, and went inside.

"First order of business is to get some proper attire for you two," McGonagall sniffed as they stood in the doorway. "We can't have you two running along like that any longer - it's unseemly."

"This is one of my best skirts," Hermione whispered into Harry's ear. She sounded a bit miffed.

Harry shrugged. He was looking forward to getting rid of Dudley's old things, so he wasn't all that bothered.

"You'll need these," the Headwitch said as she pulled two small leather pouches out of her pocket. "100 galleons each, but I've already deducted your tuition for the year, so you've 70 left for your supplies and whatever else you need. As I said before you don't need to repay it all until you leave Hogwarts, but I advise you not to put it off. You may find that you need another loan for your second year, and you don't want to find yourself too far into debt when you're about to finish your apprenticeship."

Harry eyed the gold coins inside the bag with awe. He'd never had so much money in his life. Gleefully, he wondered what Uncle Vernon would say if he could see him now.

Hermione took a coin out of her pouch, a troubled look upon her face. "Do you know how much a galleon is worth in pounds? I'd like to have some idea how much I'm spending."

"Muggle money has no value here, remember. They only money you'll need now are Galleons, Sickles and Knuts. There are 17 Sickles in a Galleon, and 29 Knuts in a Sickle."

"Is there some sort of bank somewhere?" Hermione pressed hopefully.

McGonagall shook her head. "It's your responsibility to look after your own fortune, Miss Granger. If you lose it or spend it all you may apply for another loan, but you'll be accountable for the entire amount. I advise you to take proper caution."

Harry gripped his pouch tightly. "Is there some sort of spell we can use, to make sure we don't lose the pouches?"

The Scottish witch rewarded him with a proud smile. "Yes, Mr. Potter, it so happens I know just the one. Hold them out, both of you, and I'll charm them for you."

"What can I do for you dears?" Madame Malkin asked cheerfully as they approached the counter, glancing askance at their muggle clothing. "Some new robes, perhaps?"

"Yes please," Harry answered politely. "We're going to Hogwarts this year, so whatever's appropriate for an apprentice."

"Two muggleborns this year, Minerva?" the proprietress wondered aloud as she rang a bell on the counter. "Isn't that more than usual?"

"There are three, actually," the Headwitch corrected, "but Mr. Potter here isn't one of them; I'm just assisting him with his shopping."

"That many?" the seamstress raised an eyebrow. "How extraordinary!"

A young, red-haired witch stepped out through a curtain hiding the back room of the shop from view. "Did you need me to assist you, Madame?"

"Yes, Helda, take Miss - I'm sorry lass, what was your name?"

"Hermione, Hermione Granger."

"That's a lovely name, my dear," the woman continued with an affectionate smile. "Very appropriate I think. Now then, go along to the back with Helda so she can fit you up while I do Mr. Potter."

An hour later, they left the store with their money pouches a bit lighter. Harry's fitting hadn't taken very long at all, and he'd placed his order for three sets of plain brown robes, two everyday cotton tunics, and two pairs of fitted trousers. He'd liked the feel of the robes; he seemed a proper wizard when he inspected himself in the looking glass, but he wasn't quite sure about the pants. They seemed a bit more like stockings, in his opinion.

After taking Harry's measurements and half the payment for his order, Madame Malkin had disappeared into the back to assist Helda, who was taking much longer with her fitting. When the women finally emerged from behind the curtain, Hermione looked a bit ruffled and red-cheeked.

As they were leaving, Harry asked her what had taken so long.

"Had a spot of trouble with the undergarments," the girl flushed. "They're a bit more complicated than I'm used to."

Blushing hotly, Harry let the matter drop.

Madame Malkin had promised to owl their orders by the end of the week, but had offered them each an untailored robe for eight sickles a piece so they wouldn't have to traverse the rest of the city so inappropriately clothed.

They stopped next at a large, open-air market that was set up in a large plaza nearby. A huge oak tree grew up out of its center, and vendors had set their carts and stalls up in the shade of the broad, leafy giant. They called out hawking their wares as potential customers walked by.

"We should be able to find most of your supplies here, at Diagon Market," McGonagall remarked as they passed a man who appeared to be selling a variety of shriveled snakeskins and small animal pelts, and another with baskets full of dried herbs and powdery spices. She handed over their supply lists and gave them leave to browse about at their leisure. "You've an hour and half to get the rest of your things, excepting your wands, luggage and familiars," she instructed firmly. "You'll meet me here by the fountain not a minute later, understood?"

The students nodded and scampered off down the causeway, stopping to shop whenever something caught their eye. They each dutifully bought several reams of parchment paper, an elaborate set of twelve ostrich quills to split between them instead of the less expensive black raven variety, two inkpots a piece and cauldrons, scales, phials, and other various implements for the Potions class they'd both decided to take.

Hermione regretfully doled out seven whole galleons for a brass telescope for Astronomy, but Harry bravely managed to haggle a portly old tanner down from six galleons each for the dragonhide gloves and boots he needed for Herbology to ten galleons for the pair. Hermione bought a lesser expensive pair of stag leather gloves for a few sickles, and then stopped at table that was sagging under the weight of piles of leather-bound books and rolled up scrolls.

"Do you think it's odd we don't need to buy any textbooks?" she asked as she browsed through a thick volume entitled Buhlwick's Librium of Hermetic Thaumaturgy.

"McGonagall said Hogwarts has a pretty large library," Harry answered. "I think we're to go there if we need to research anything for our classes."

"That will be nice, having all those books at our disposal, I suppose," the girl answered wistfully as she sampled another text from the table. "I'd like to have a bit of light reading for the rest of the summer, though. I'm afraid we'll be dreadfully behind all our classmates as it is."

"I don't think that one really qualifies, Hermione," Harry replied and nodded towards the dictionary size book she was hugging to her chest. The Emrys Scrolls - Historie of the Magik Isles didn't really look like any summer reading he wanted to do, no matter how excited he was about being a wizard.

"I only want to be prepared," Hermione scoffed, and gamely stepped forward to barter for her prize.

The lanky, sun-browned merchant grinned at her. "Only sixteen sickles for the pretty witch."

"I'll give you ten," Hermione countered with a spark in her eye.

"Oh come now, it's worth fifteen, surely!" he smiled toothily. "Look at the binding, not a stitch out of place."

"The leather's a bit worn on the back cover. I wouldn't possibly pay more than twelve for it."

"But it's so old, this one, a little wearing is to be expected, and it can be easily reinforced with a little charm here and there. Surely you agree fourteen would be a fair price?"

"Thirteen and you have a deal, sir."

The man chortled happily. "Ah you are a fiery one, little witch. Okay, thirteen sickles and it's yours."

Hermione beamed as they walked away. "You're right Harry - that was exhilarating!"

"I should take you back to the dragonhide seller, maybe you can knock another galleon off my boots," Harry joked cheerfully as they made their way back to the fountain.

Mistress McGonagall was pleased to see them back promptly and swept them out of the market for their next errand. "We'll be Ollivander's for your wands," she explained as she led the way down the next wide alley. "He should be able to finish them by the time we've purchased your luggage and stopped by the Menagerie, but we can nip in for a bit of lunch if he hasn't."

Ollivander's Wands and Staves - Since 382 BC was a dimly lit shop nestled between two shingled wooden cottages. The bell tinkled merrily as they walked through the door, and an extremely short, white haired old man with silver eyes leapt up from the workbench in the corner to greet them.

"Welcome, welcome," he effused warmly. "Come right in, yes, very good. Ah, Minerva McGonagall; is it that time of year again already?"

Mistress McGonagall pinched her lips. She did not appear to be very fond of the strange little man. "Yes, two today if you please, Mr. Ollivander."

"Always in such a hurry," the man admonished jovially. "That elmwood still suiting you well, I take it? A very efficient shaft, that one is."

The witch nodded stiffly and ushered Harry forward. "Mr. Potter first, and then Miss Granger. We'd like to pick them up around lunchtime if you can manage it."

"Certainly, good woman, certainly. Mr. Potter, if you'll just step up to the worktable here... yes just there, that's the ticket," the man instructed energetically as he rooted around through a trunk on the floor. He pulled several long tree branches out of the box and set them up on the table, and then produced a few more from underneath the counter. There were over two dozen different types in all from thick & heavy gnarled ones to thin and polished thin ones.

Eagerly, Hermione leaned forward to watch him work.

"Every wand needs to be custom made; no two people have exactly the same magic, nor should they have exactly the same wand," the man explained. "I'll need you to choose one now, young wizard."

"Choose one?" Harry panicked. "How do I know which one to pick?"

Try them out, of course!" the little man prompted enthusiastically. "Let your magic guide you; go on, give them a bit of a feel."

Doubtfully, Harry picked up the first bit of wood and hefted it lightly. He didn't feel anything except a bit silly, so he put it down. The fifth branch was light and warm in his arm. He considered it for a moment and started to put it down, but stopped.

"I like this one," he decided, and waved it at the shopkeeper.

"Excellent, excellent! Holly is a wonderful choice for a wand, very supple," he chattered, his eyes wide with excitement. He pulled out his own wand and waved it quickly over Harry's brow.

Alarmed, Harry stepped back. "What was that for?"

"Just some tests, dear boy, nothing to worry about. Miss Granger, why don't you have a go, now?"

Her jaw set firmly, Hermione stepped up and studied the lengths of wood. Pacing back and forth before the bar, she considered them all with a steely, determined look in her eye, and finally picked up a very thin, curly piece of vine.

"This one," she announced confidently.

"Ah, the Lindel vine," Ollivander remarked sagely as he performed a spell over her forehead, "how interesting."

"How is it interesting?" Hermione asked quickly. "Do the different woods have different properties?"

"But of course, or else I might as well carve them all out of the common oak!" The man exclaimed avidly. "Vinewoods are extremely attracted to personalities of great depth; they often find themselves in the hands of those who will serve a great purpose in life, or answer to some higher calling. I think we can expect marvelous things from you, young lady."

Hermione glowed, pink-cheeked. "What does Harry's mean?"

"Holly is a wood for our more, shall we say, passionate wizards."

Harry flushed, and the old man chuckled.

"There are many kinds of passion, young man," the man grinned with a twinkle in his eye. "The passion of emotions is what you possess, I'd wager, be they both fair and foul. You may find the holly wand a tempering hand during the very depths or heights of your fervor."

Harry considered his choice again, running his hand over the smooth surface of the wood. He didn't feel very passionate about anything; he was excited about being a wizard, and leaving the Dursley's, but he wasn't sure that was what Mr. Ollivander was talking about.

"Holly is also a match for great warriors, and those who fight fiercely in battle."

"Perhaps you'll be a Gryffindor, after all, Mr. Potter," McGonagall contributed with a wry smile.

"Brilliant," Harry grinned, and gave the branch a wave.

Smiling indulgently, the old wandmaker plucked it out of his hand. "It needs a bit of care first, lad."

"What comes next?" Hermione asked eagerly as she handed over her length of vine.

"Now we will choose the cores," the man replied. "If you'll excuse me for just a moment..."

They waited in the front room while the odd man disappeared up the stairs. He returned presently with an armful of different things - feathers, scales, plant fronds, leathery looking sinews that Harry didn't know what to make of, horns of many different sizes, and a selection of colored gems and stones. He set them all out on the workbench, and then produced several vials of dark liquid from his pocket.

"Right then, have at it, young wizard," he urged when the ingredients were all displayed properly on the table.

"How many do I pick?" Harry asked. The eclectic assortment of items and trinkets seemed a bit more intimidating than the tree branches.

"As many as you like. Go ahead now, don't be shy."

Harry considered the hoard. He steered clear of the bottled liquids; he wasn't sure what they were, but they made him feel a bit creepy. A bright scarlet feather fluttered atop the pile, and he picked it up. It was warm, as though it was still attached to the bird that had given it up.

"What kind of bird did this come from?" he asked as he fingered the soft plume.

"That's a phoenix tail feather; they're very rare."

Confident he'd found what he was looking for, he started to turn away from the heap when a small flash of white caught his eye. Looking closer, he noticed a small, thin tooth resting underneath a peacock feather.

Impulsively, he grabbed that also and handed both items out to the wandmaker.

"That's quite an intriguing combination, Mr. Potter," the man remarked cryptically. "Are you sure?"

For a moment, Harry hesitated. Had he chosen poorly? Would they send him away because he couldn't put together a proper wand? He almost put the tooth back, but as he reached towards the table something made grip the small fang tightly in his palm.

"I'm sure," he replied brassily, and stared confidently into bright silver eyes.

The man grinned eerily. "Very well," he acceded. "Phoenix tail feather and fang of the African red viper - I'll have them set in the casing by midday."

Hermione took her turn at the table of treasures and chose the heartstring of a Chinese Fireball and a small, pearl-size carnelian, which the old man said he would grind into a powder.

The young witch was enraptured by the wandmaking process, and was so determined to learn about all the common combinations and the symbolism behind them that Harry had to forcefully march her out of the shop after Mistress McGonagall.

"We've just our trunks left, and the familiars?" Harry questioned as he hurried after their brisk-paced instructor. "What is a familiar anyway?"

"It's like a pet, Harry," Hermione piped up, "though I suppose witches and wizards might keep something a bit more out of the ordinary than the average housecat."

"I recommend an owl if you plan to carry on much correspondence," McGonagall suggested as they entered a multi-storied stone building that was built right onto the face of one of the massive city ramparts. "I'm quite partial to felines, myself."

They wandered about the shop, marveling at all the different species on offer. There were some cats after all, both of the common and uncommon variety, and also snakes, lizards, rats, toads, and of course, owls. Harry immediately bonded with a majestic snowy white bird and bartered with the shopkeeper until he had secured a plain but sturdy looking owl stand and cage for his new friend. Hermione bought a regal looking slate grey owl with long feathery tufts over its eyes.

"He looks like a bit like a professor, doesn't he?" she commented proudly as she showed him off.

"More like an old wizard, I'd say," Harry countered with a grin.

Hermione smiled brightly. "You're right, of course. I think I'll name him after a wizard; I'll have to consult my book. What are you going to name yours?"

"Maybe I'll look through your book too," Harry shrugged.

They wrapped up the rest of their shopping quickly and before he knew it, they were back in the carriage on their way to Hermione's house. The journey back was decidedly more melancholy than the trip there had been; the muggle world seemed too dull after the wonders of Lionsgate.

"I'll send Oslo with a letter tonight," Hermione promised as she hesitated at her front door.

Harry grinned. "I'll send Hedwig back as soon as I get it."

Smiling brightly, Hermione turned the doorknob. "I'll see you soon, Harry!"

"I can't wait," Harry replied honestly. The next time he saw Hermione, they'd be on their way to Hogwarts, and he was quite glad he would already have a friend to share it with. His fair mood lasted well through the afternoon, and even managed to hold together when Mistress McGonagall bid him farewell at the Dursley's doorstep.

"I'll see you in at the banquet, Mr. Potter," the witch bid as the horses pulled the carriage across the front garden.

He nodded, grinning, and waved until the cart disappeared at the end of the street. She would see him, sooner than he knew it, provided he could survive the rest of the summer with his relatives.

Sighing, he trudged up the door, and went inside.