Chapter Text
There will be a few out there who won’t be affected by your aura at all. Why this is remains a mystery to me and shall most likely remain a mystery for years to come. They can be great friends and great enemies. Be prepared. Never rely solely on your aura to keep others away and protect you, learn all you can and do not make enemies before you know you are more powerful than them. We die just like any other with a slit throat or by the pyre. Magic is a great equalizer in life for those who have it, but like Necromancy there will be some whose powers burn like stars next to a spark. They are more than a match for the best of us. Be wary. Be watchful. Be prepared. Death comes to us all, but when makes all the difference.
***
The being’s knocking was loud enough that even Dudley, who could sleep through the screaming thunderstorm outside, was shaken from his sleep.
Harry prepared to call upon his magic, prepared to call fire to his hands. Necromancy would be useless here, he had nothing to raise.
Dudley sat up and Uncle Vernon came running into the room, shouting at top of his lungs. “Whoever’s there I’m warning you! I’m armed!”
And he was, he had a rifle, long and silver, in his hands pointing at the door.
Uncle Vernon had finally lost it. He was going to kill something. Would he kill Harry after he did so?
Another resounding boom, silence, and then a third. Seemingly unconcerned of Uncle Vernon’s threats.
The door shook and fell from its place, and there was a… man or what seemed to be a man.
A man, taller and broader than he had ever seen before, his face hidden almost completely by shaggy hair and a wild beard, stood at the door for a moment before shuffling himself into the hut, head ducked as not to hit the ceiling when he stood.
With a single hand he refitted the door in its place and turned to look at them.
Who was he? What was he? Why was he here?
Before Harry could think of an answer to any of these questions, the man strode over to the couch saying meaningless words, before he turned to Harry with a smiling face and said “An’ here’s Harry!”
The man knew him.
***
Now, Rubeus Hagrid, would never say he was the smartest when it came to books or anything of the like, but he did know creatures.
And little Harry certainly reminded him of a threstral foal born out of season in midwinter. He was all skin and bones with a mane of untamable black hair, wide-eyed and skittish.
And Hagrid- Hagrid knew that the ones born in midwinter needed a little extra love and care to make sure they survived to become some of the biggest and best in the herd, and that skittish creatures just needed a careful hand and patience.
Hagrid looked down at Harry and remembered the threstral foal he nursed back to health the winter after that horrid night he pulled the little toddler from his crib. Harry had fit into one of his hands that evening, silent with a wound on his forehead, and while that foal was now leader of the herd, Harry here was still so small with that scar still marring his head.
"Las' time I saw yeh, yeh was only a baby," Hagrid said.
***
Harry startled, this man had known him when he was a baby? Did he know his parents?
But before he could ask, Uncle Vernon interjected, waving his rifle around like it was nothing but a toy, “I demand you leave at once!”
Like Uncle Vernon could demand anything of this man. He was obviously magical and, for the first time Harry had ever seen, even larger than his uncle. But a gun wasn’t something Harry wanted to test against magic, not when he was in the crossfire.
But the man simply reached for the gun, bent it in half, and threw it in the corner like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just bent steal like it was paper and ignored that Uncle Vernon turned purple then pale. How could the man do that? Did magic really make it possible for someone to bend steal with their hands?
“Anyway,” the large man said, eyes still on Harry, “A very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here. I mighta sat on it at some point, but it'll taste all right.”
Then the man pulled out a brown box, slightly dented but still intact, and handed it to him. Now Harry stared at the box with wide eyes, he hadn’t been given much in his life from another, he had been given his name after it was stolen, given left over clothing and the cupboard under the stairs, what had the man gotten him? Why did he get Harry something?
Harry could see that his hands were shaking as he slowly opened the cardboard lid and peered inside. Within it sat a large, sticky chocolate cake with Happy Birthday Harry written on it in green icing.
This- this man had gotten a cake for him. A cake with his name on it. A cake wishing him Happy Birthday. Harry had never had one before. There was a strange feeling in his chest and he was forced to blink away tears gathering in his eyes.
Somehow this man was showing him more kindness in these few moments than the rest of his family had in years.
Harry looked up and with a shaky smiled said, “Thank you! But I don’t know who you are?” Who was this person? Who did he have to thank?
The giant looked a little embarrassed and said, proudly with a glimmer in his eyes, “Sorry about that. I’m Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”
Hogwarts. This was the moment! Ask about Hogwarts!
“I’m sorry, what’s Hogwarts?” Harry hoped his false confusion sounded convincing enough that his family won’t think he knew about the magical world beforehand and the man won’t think he knew either. So much rested on this moment.
The man jolted from where he was fiddling with the fireplace, “Yeh don’ know about Hogwarts!” As if it was travesty that Harry didn’t know, Hagrid quickly turned to where Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia stood, shouting, “How did yeh not tell him where his parents learned it all?”
Harry knew that Hagrid was referring to magic, and it was too good of an opportunity to pass up seeing his relatives get yelled at. Obviously Hagrid took exception to the fact Harry didn’t know of Hogwarts, what would he do if Harry didn’t know about magic?
Hiding his smile, Harry asked, “All what?”
“All what?” Hagrid nearly roared, voice sounding like thunder from the storm. “Did they not tell yeh anythin’!” Hagrid seemed to be trying to restrain himself from marching over to the Dursleys and doing something he would regret.
But this noise seemed to wake Uncle Vernon from his stupor, “Now, listen here! We refuse to have anything to do with that nonsense. We cared for the boy, but I refuse to allow him to go and learn about that- that freakishness!” Panting and near purple from rage, his uncle suddenly looked rabid.
That was probably the worst thing his uncle could have done.
“Yeh didn’ tell him about his parents, about his world! How could yeh! What about the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there an’ saw him leave it! An' you've kept it from him all these years?”
Dumbledore left him a letter? Wait, Dumbledore was the one who left him at his relatives? Why? What for?
Hagrid was near trembling in rage where he stood, he took a large breath, ignoring Uncle Vernon’s spluttering, and turned back to Harry.
“Harry, yer a wizard,” Hagrid said.
“I’m a what?” Harry asked, trying to make his eyes larger and to seem bewildered. If he failed here, everything failed.
“Yer a wizard. An’ yer gonna be a good ‘un, I can tell. I reckon it's abou' time yeh read yer letter.”
Finally, his Hogwarts letter.
He had been waiting so long for it. This was what held his hopes to leave number 4.
Harry reached out a trembling hand to take the parchment for Hagrid.
He briefly glanced at his name and location written across the front, before he turned his gaze at the wax seal that kept the letter closed. He broke it with shaking hands, and pulled out the letter.
He read it with his heart pounding with excitement. He couldn’t believe it was actually happening. He had waited and hoped for so long. Yet here in his hands was his letter, his Hogwarts letter.
But all he said was, “I don’t have an owl.”
Hagrid suddenly swore under his breath and started to rummage through his coat’s pockets, until he pulled out a quill, parchment and an owl. Brown and small, it was a real, live, breathing owl.
He couldn’t exactly say anything about keeping an owl in his pocket considering Harry carried around Styx, but he still wondered what other living creatures Hagrid kept in his pockets if there was an owl in there.
Hagrid scribbled a letter, gave it to the owl, and then threw the owl out into the raging storm like it was completely normal. Harry felt like he would need to get used to a lot of things, and fast.
What followed was a brief argument between Hagrid and his uncle about whether or not Harry would go to Hogwarts (he would), a brief rundown of the previous wizarding war (in which Harry found that people called Voldemort ‘you-know-who,’ arguably the stupidest thing Harry had heard. Why fear a name?), Dudley was given a pig’s tail by Hagrid (which automatically made Hagrid a favourite in Harry’s eyes), a brief sleep that night, and suddenly Harry was standing in front of the Leaky Cauldron with Hagrid.
Harry, even knowing about the wizarding world, was feeling very much overwhelmed with the sudden and rapid pace things progressed. Harry didn’t even want to think about how confusing and overwhelming this would have been if he didn’t know about it.
Thankfully the Leaky Cauldron looked as run down as the first time he saw it, but definitely more crowded this time around with a man behind the counter instead of the woman who manned it last time.
Before they fully wandered in, as Harry was bracing himself to get mobbed by people once his identify was out, Hagrid gave a quick look at Harry, thought for a minute and remembered how skittish the new threstral foals were.
Hagrid rummaged around in his pocket for a moment before pulling out a faded brown hat and pushed it on Harry’s head, covering his scar and a large portion of his hair as it slipped down his head.
“Best keep yer scar covered,” Hagrid said.
Then he ushered Harry close to him, hiding Harry with his large frame, and walk through the building quickly, not even stopping to say something to Tom the bartender.
Harry still watched the bricks unveil with wide eyes, like pulling back a curtain, suddenly Harry could feel the magic again. The hum beneath his feet and the same static tingle in the air from lightning. Its ebb and flow, its rise and fall.
Magic once more existed beneath his feet.
Harry could have stood there for the entire day, just soaking in the feeling of magic, but they had things to do and places to be.
Gringotts was still an intimidating sight, the ride down still baffling, then they were at the Potter Trust Vault.
Small and filled with only coins, it would fit for his needs for the day.
After gathering some coins, Griphook, the goblin, took them to Vault 713 to pick up something Hagrid had proclaimed was for Professor Dumbledore.
Whatever it was, it was small enough to fit in Hagrid’s pocket.
But more importantly it was something that caused his Necromancy to sit up and take notice. Like a hawk finding a mouse, it was suddenly paying attention and directing all of its focus on the item in Hagrid’s pocket.
Whatever it was, it was linked with death.
His powers kept notice of the item the entire time he was near Hagrid, a constant buzz, a tug on his senses, a reminder it was there.
“Might as well get yer uniform, while I pick up yer books an’ potions supplies,” said Hagrid, nodding towards Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Right. Robes. Those were a thing.
With a small smile Harry saw him off as he entered the shop alone. He glanced around quickly, where did he buy Hogwarts’ robes at?
His musing was interrupted by a squat witch with needles and pins on all parts of her clothing, asking “Hogwarts, dear? Got the lot here. Another young man being fitted up just now, in fact.” Directing him to where a boy, just a tad less pale than him with pointed features and snow white hair, stood on a footstool getting his black robes pinned by a second witch.
Malfoy. Pureblood. Rich. WardholdersofWiltshire. Hewasadeatheater. Oneofthefirst.
Harry pushed the voices away, he couldn’t be distracted, as the witch stood him on a stool next to the boy the voices proclaimed Malfoy.
As Harry was starting to get fitted for his robes, Malfoy spoke “Hello, Hogwarts, too?”
He couldn’t make enemies, not even if the boy was related to a Death Eater. Not yet, not now. Best be polite.
“Yes,” said Harry. Short and to the point. The tone of someone who didn’t want to talk.
But the boy didn’t get the memo as Malfoy prattled on, so much so that Harry zoned out as Malfoy drawled on and on, the boy almost like to speak as much as Dudley. Harry only started listening again when he heard the boy ask if he had a broom, those death traps?
“No,” Harry replied.
“Play Quidditch at all?”
“No,” Harry said again, would Malfoy get the hint that he didn’t want to talk and leave him alone?
More bragging, another two question which the answer to was ‘no’ and silence.
Then, Malfoy said something that automatically put him in the ‘dislike’ category of Harry’s life.
Hagrid had wandered into view of the front window hands carrying Harry’s supplies and two ice creams, when Malfoy said, voice mocking and belittling, “Look at that man!”
“That’s Hagrid. He works at Hogwarts,” Harry’s voice was cold, he hadn’t liked how Malfoy had spoke about Hagrid.
“Oh,” said Malfoy, “I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?”
Some sort of servant? Like that would make him any less, but still, Hagrid had sounded very proud of his job.
“He's the gamekeeper,” said Harry, curt, short, polite. He couldn’t lose his temper. Not here.
“Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage. Lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed.”
Harry felt the Doorway roar. How dare he? Hagrid had been kind to him. He had gotten him a cake for his birthday, be angry on Harry’s behalf, cover his scar so he wouldn’t get mobbed, picked up his supplies, and even gotten him an ice cream.
And this- this Malfoy has the audacity to say that about Hagrid. Harry took a deep breath to calm his temper. It wouldn’t do to set someone on fire on his second visit to Diagon Alley.
“I think he's brilliant," Harry said, trying to channel the biting ice and freezing blizzard from the Doorway into his voice. He wanted this boy to understand how displeased he was. How much Harry wanted to make him regret saying that.
The boy sneered, “Do you? Why is he with you? Where are your parents?”
“Dead.” If this boy didn’t shut up soon not even Styx and the threat to his safety would stop him from doing something to Malfoy.
At least that seemed to give the boy a slight pause, perhaps because he was so brisk in the delivery of that information.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, not that he actually was. “But they were our kind, weren't they?”
Something was cracking in Harry. Was this boy alluding to blood? Alluding to the same stupid reason that the last war was fought over? Harry said nothing, trying vainly to keep the Doorway and his magic under control. But the boy kept speaking.
“I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?”
Crack. His aura he was trying so hard to hide flowed out of him. It blanketed the room like ashes from a volcano. Smothering. Consuming. Deadly.
Malfoy turned three shades paler than he was before, his eyes grew wide. In fact, everyone in the store did.
The room seemed frozen, as if their hearts has stopped beating for a moment, before the witch working on him, stuttered and said “Th- that's- that’s you done.”
Hoping that no one noticed that he was the source of the feeling, Harry stepped off the stool as he reburied his aura under layer after layer of his magic.
Malfoy still hadn’t regained his bearings when Harry left, still standing there pale and shaking, like he deserved.
Harry spent the time eating his ice cream both berating himself for losing control and trying to get it back under control.
Finally, once they were done Hagrid looked at his supplies list.
“Just yer wand left. An' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present,” he said. “If yeh don’ mind I’ll go an’ get yeh a present while yeh get yer wand.”
Hagrid’s tone had a wistful type of sorrow when speaking about a wand, and Harry suddenly remembered that Hagrid wasn’t supposed to be using magic. Harry thought that was creative form of torture, to make a man not use his magic while surrounded by it. He didn’t think he would be able to survive it like Hagrid had.
Be able to have it at his fingertips, have it thrumming under his skin, and just leaving it there.
And another gift? Hadn’t his cake been a gift enough?
“That sounds fine Hagrid. But you don’t have to-“
“Nonsense. Its yer birthday.”
It was his birthday, but no one had ever celebrated it before. Much less actually got him a cake and a gift.
To Harry, Hagrid was- he was the kindest person Harry had met in a long, long time.
They parted ways once more, outside of a shop proclaimed Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Obviously a family business.
Harry could feel the pulsing of magic from this building. Young and old. Wild and tamed. Seeking. Searching. It reached out towards the occupants of the alley, flowing amongst and around people like the wind.
Harry paused at the entrance, this was it. He would finally get his own wand.
He wondered briefly if his would share any similarities with his parents, if his wand would be another thing that could connect him to them.
He softly stroked Styx from where she sat hidden in his hair and under Hagrid’s hat, before taking a deep breath and entering the narrow building.
A bell broke the silence of the shop as he entered. Small and thin boxes lined the walls, rising like mountains from the ground. The hairs on the back of his neck rose, and he had a sudden feeling that reminded him of unbound nature, wild winters, burning summers, the new growth in spring, and the decay in fall.
“It has been a very long time since one like you stepped foot into this shop,” said a soft voice. “I thought my ancestors had seen the last of your kind.”
Harry jumped and swivelled to the voice. A man stood there, old with wide, pale eyes shining like clouds after a storm, like the full moon on a winter’s night.
“Worry not-“ the man waved his hand about carelessly, “-we have cared little about the ministry’s view on magic and men.”
The man knew about his Necromancy, that Harry was a Necromancer, without Harry even having to say anything. How? Why? Could anyone tell?
“How?” Harry’s question came out shakier and quieter than he would have liked, but the man heard him all the same.
“Your ancestors were not the only ones to have the blood of lost people in them. Mine just happened to sense rifts between two realms easier than most.”
What?
What is this man?
Even though the man had said he didn’t care, Harry kept a close watch on the man, tense and prepared to bolt encase anything went wrong. It was unnerving to have someone know about him being a Necromancer. Even with the understanding that they were both remnants of a history long past.
“I am just surprised to see that it awakens in you. But perhaps, I am not. When your mother walked into this shop she left with a wand of ten-and-a-quarter inches long, swishy, and made of willow. A nice wand for charm work. Your father, though, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration.” The man, who could only be Mr. Ollivander, walked closer to Harry, a sorrowful look on his face but unblinking.
How could Mr. Ollivander remember what wands his parents had? Did he remember every wand?
“I wonder what wand will choose you,” Mr. Ollivander’s eyes darted to his forehead, “I sold the wand that did that, and I’m sorry to say it. Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. A powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands, well-“ the man’s hand rose as if he was about to reach for Harry before it fell, “-we all have seen what has happened.”
“Now, Mr. Potter shall we see which wand chooses you?” a long tape measure was pulled from Mr. Ollivander’s pocket. “Which is your wand arm?”
“I write with my right-hand,” Harry answered as he lifted it.
And suddenly, the tape measure sprung to life measuring him in various places for various things that Harry had no idea about.
“Normally, I sell wands with three cores. Unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. Each unique,” Mr. Ollivander said while pulling down box after box. And finally, the tape measure stopped and fell.
“Right. I know you will be a tricky customer, so let’s get started, shall we? Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give it a wave.”
Harry took the wand and felt his magic become repulsed by it, and Mr. Ollivander obviously knew that too as the wand was snatched from his hand quickly.
With narrowed eyes, Mr. Ollivander gave him wand after wand to try, yet nothing happened.
Until finally, Mr. Ollivander pulled out a single wand.
“This was an unusual combination of mine. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”
Yet as Harry took it in his hands, he felt his magic jump towards it just to stop just short of entering it. As if it was assessing the wands worth. Then just as fast as a hummingbird’s heart, the wood of the wand withered and decayed as his Necromancy flared. Leaving a rotten husk of a stick behind and gaps in which Harry could use to glimpse the bright feather within.
Harry jumped as Mr. Ollivander clapped his hands once, “Just as I thought. Right core but the wrong container for it. Follow me Mr. Potter, you will need something different to hold that core and be able to withstand your powers.”
The feather at the core of the rotted wood gave off a feeling like the item in Hagrid’s pocket but much less potent. It was something linked with the Doorway, linked with death. And surrounded by rotting wood it sat burning, red like blood and fire, as it called to his magic.
Harry wondered what it said about him that even his magic was called to something like this.
He studied it as he followed Mr. Ollivander deeper and deeper into the store, halls twisting and turning, this way and that, until they came to a workshop filled with materials. Here Mr. Ollivander pulled a section of the wall back, revealing a small hidden shelf. Where he pulled out several boxes and walked back.
“Place the core and former wood on the counter please.”
Harry did as he was told and waited as he watched Mr. Ollivander pull out various materials from the boxes he had retrieved.
“Wizards and witches of today in Britain use wood in their wands because their magic is from the earth and as such connect to it far better than any other material and partially it is because the wood itself remains alive in the wand,” said Mr. Ollivander as he finished laying various materials on the counter. “That makes it all the easier for its users to embrace it and use it to channel their magic, it runs through the earth and the plants and the living things.” Mr. Ollivander eyes rose to meet Harry’s as he continued, “In other cases, various rocks and gems were used in place of wood. Those individuals’ magic binds tighter with the magic that is far older than the magic we use today. Others will never be able to use a wand nor any instrument and must rely solely on themselves to harness magic.”
Mr. Ollivander’s gaze drilled into Harry, like a fire burning away everything that Harry used to hide everything that made him himself.
“Run your hand over each object, we will know when one chooses you.”
Harry stepped forward, watching Mr. Ollivander from the corner of his eyes until he turned to examine the items.
Upon the table, there were a variety of objects. Things that resembled bones of every shape and size, gemstones of every colour and make glittering in the light, and pieces of wood in reds, whites, golds, and every other combination.
He slowly moved his hand over top each object. For some his Necromancy reached for but his magic jumped away, others saw his magic reluctantly move towards them, and for a few nothing happened.
He was getting worried that he would never find his match when both his magic and Necromancy poured out of him, reaching into and drawing upwards the material beneath it.
Dark amber and opal blue, the piece of wood was heavier in his hands than he had expected it to be. But it sat nicely in his hand with his magic dancing over and through the material as the Doorway connected a very small spiderweb sliver of power between him and it.
The wood softened just barely, and he knew that this was it. This would be part of his wand.
But before Harry could say anything, Mr. Ollivander plucked it from his hands, muttering, “Just what I thought. Just what I thought.”
Mr. Ollivander turned to a separate work bench, and said, over his shoulder, “Please return to the front Mr. Potter. I’ll be out in just a few moments with your wand.”
Did it really only take that long to make a wand?
But Harry didn’t ask, instead he turned to the door and started to walk back the way he had come. Though a straight path stood where it once was a maze. It was still surrounded by towering boxes full of wands, and Harry suddenly wondered if every one of them would find their owner in his lifetime or if some of these wands had been around since this shop had been founded, still waiting patiently for their owners.
And, Harry thought, concerning Mr. Ollivander’s comment about his ancestors, if they had been around far longer than the sign actually says.
It took him just a few minutes of waiting in the front of the shop, with anticipation and nerves building within him, for Mr. Ollivander to emerge from the back, a dark box in his hands.
He pulled from the box, a wand. It was the colour of polished dark amber, no sign of the opal blue it once had. Thin at the tip, it twirled and flared near the bottom, until there was just enough of a protrusion that to Harry’s eyes it looked almost like the end of a bone.
He suddenly knew that he would be able to find his wand no matter where it was. It called to him, and even though it felt just slightly off, slightly different, than the other wands surrounding it in the shop.
But to Harry it felt beckoning and welcoming, and overwhelmingly that it was his.
To Harry it was perfect.
“Give it a wave, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Ollivander’s eyes seemed larger than earlier as Harry reached out and took the wand.
The feeling of a freezing day in winter, a burning day in summer, fire bending to his will, raising the dead in his hands, of eternity and timelessness, all filled him at once. His magic and the sliver of power from the Doorway twined and became one reaching for the wand.
He waved it in a circle and where there was once only polished dark amber became cracked with lines of opal blue the closer to the tip it was. It shined and glowed, and out came sparks.
Like the wisps he created in his room, these filled the darkened shop casting light to the shadows, filling the space with a universe of stars shining in an endless cycle of colours, dancing and falling, wishes fulfilled.
“Oh, bravo! A perfect match indeed! Both curious and not… both curious and not…” Mr. Ollivander said, voice growing fainter as he repackaged the wand Harry was reluctant to part with in the box.
“How so?” asked Harry, giddy from the feeling of his wand.
“This wand will serve you well. As well as its brother, who shared the same phoenix’s tail feather with yours, served its master. Your wand’s brother was thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. And happened to give you that scar,” Mr. Ollivander froze and locked eyes with Harry, as if examining his very soul and being.
“I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter,” Harry swallowed thickly, as Mr. Ollivander continued. “After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things- terrible, yes, but great. And a wand like yours. Phoenix tail feather and petrified wood. Why it will never settle for anything less but to transcend the boundaries of what is possible.”
Harry squared his jaw and tried to shrug off the sudden bout of foreboding that settled over him. Just because he shared something with another, wouldn’t mean he would follow their footsteps.
“Petrified wood will never work for any but you, or another Necromancer of course. It is your power within you that makes it more than stone, that reawakens it from its slumber. Your power is old but your magic new, this wood is the compromise between the two.”
“And what do I tell them when someone looks at it?” asked Harry, he wouldn’t be able to use it if everyone could tell it wasn’t normal.
“To all who look at it but you and a wandmaker, it will appear to be whatever wood it was before it died and became immortalized. Worry not, your secret shall be kept.”
Harry stared at Mr. Ollivander and nodded once as he paid the nine gold Galleons for his wand.
Harry felt a silent understanding shared between them. They were some of the last of dying races, people out of place in the world around them, but he wondered where Mr. Ollivander belonged.
When Harry exited the wand shop, Hagrid was waiting for him. A smile on his face and a cage in his hands.
Within the cage sat a beautiful, white owl with eyes the colour of autumn leaves. She stared at him as Harry walked towards them, with eyes as intelligent as Styx’s she seemed to be assessing Harry’s worth.
Hagrid smiled turned to a beam when he saw Harry and said, “Happy Birthday, Harry! Isn’ she a beauty!”
“Yes, yes she is,” Harry said, watching the owl turn its head away from him. He was suddenly very thankful that he had been able to cover his aura at least enough that the bird wasn’t terrified, he would have felt terrible if Hagrid felt as if his gift was good.
As Hagrid and Harry shared one last meal before Harry was sent on his way back to number 4 on the train, Hagrid had one last gift for Harry.
“This is yer ticket fer Hogwarts,” Hagrid said handing Harry a small ticket. “For the first o' September. King's Cross, all yeh need to know is on yer ticket.”
Hagrid looked around for a second before saying, “If yeh have any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find me.”
Harry had to fight a smile at that. Hagrid was the first person who had actually had the forethought of thinking about what the Dursleys might do, who actually saw what they were like. How could Hagrid see it but no one else?
How was Hagrid the only one that seemed to care?
And in the dying light of day, they parted from each other, and once more Harry was left alone with only Styx and an owl to keep him company.