Hogwarts Reimagined

After that, the trip upwards sped past and soon Harry was following Hagrid through the bronze doors out into the bustle and clamour of Diagon Alley, blinking in the sudden brightness after their time underground. “Right-o. First on the list’s uniform, right?” Hagrid asked distractedly, peering around for the right sign. Harry nodded affirmatively, expecting to follow Hagrid’s lead. “Listen, I need a pick-me-up after that... Gringotts carts an’ I, don’t do so well. Madam Malkin’s who you want, just down the street. Red sign, spirally writing, can’t miss it.” he explained, gesturing in the direction he meant. Harry bit her lip, the thought of facing the street without Hagrid’s reassuring presence was suddenly very intimidating. She took another quick look at Hagrid, and that made her decision for her; he was looking pretty green about the edges and more than a little shaky. They wandered down the street together before parting ways, leaving Harry staring up at the ornate front of an old-fashioned tailor’s shop.

Madam Malkin, as it turned out, was a short, gregarious witch with flyaway greying blonde hair and a ready smile, robed entirely in shimmering mauve. “Hogwarts, dear?” she asked, already taking Harry’s measurements as she stammered a response. “Got the lot in here – a young man being fitted up right now, in fact,” she carried on, whisking Harry deeper into the shop to where a boy of around Harry’s own age with fair skin, slick silver-blonde hair and thin features set in a scowl stood on a footstool with one arm extended as he was measured. His glare and his pose lent him the air of a boy king making petty proclamations, and Harry felt an immediate surge of dislike. Madam Malkin set Harry up on a stool next to him and set about measuring her too, muttering softly to herself about young girls being so skinny these days, wasn’t anyone looking after her? The chatter was a little irritating but it did at least confirm to Harry that she wouldn’t be getting a boy’s uniform, a fact for which she allowed herself a small measure of relief.

The narrow-faced youth appraised Harry with a cursory glance, his expression suggesting that he’d taken in all he could see and somehow found her lacking. “You for Hogwarts too?” he drawled, and Harry nodded mutely. “My father’s next door buying my books, and my mother’s up the street looking at wands.” His clipped, decisively upper-class accent that held the faintest trace of an Irish brogue was marred and flattened by a bored, arrogant tone as he spoke. “Then I’m going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. Don’t see why first years can’t have their own. I think I’ll bully Father into getting me one, and smuggle it in somehow. Have you got your own broom?”

Harry shook her head and was reminded strongly of Dudley, and as Madam Malkin darted about, wand raised and a mouth full of pins, she wished fervently that the mauve-cloaked witch could speed things along.

“You play Quidditch?” the boy asked her. Harry had no idea what Quidditch might be but felt that to show it would cause her to lose what little respect this boy had for her. “I do,” he continued – he must really like the sound of his own voice, Harry reflected, given that he seemed to be managing this conversation with next to no input from her at all. “Father says it’d be a crime if I wasn’t picked to play for my house, and I must say I agree. You have any idea what house you’ll be in yet?”
“No,” Harry responded, feeling more and more left-behind by the moment.
“Well, nobody really knows until they get there, I suppose, but I’ll probably be in Slytherin. My whole family has been, you know – imagine being in Hufflepuff, I’d just leave wouldn’t you?” the silver-haired boy remarked with an unpleasant snigger.

Perhaps half an hour later, Harry was glad to be freed from the increasingly-tiring conversation and stuffy shop. Madam Malkin’s matronly concern, while sweet, was a little overwhelming; and so when Harry left the shop she did so with an air of relief about her. This relief soon became delight as Hagrid greeted her holding two enormous icecreams – raspberry swirl, with chopped hazelnuts.

They stopped to buy parchment, quills and other supplies Harry hadn’t thought of; and Hagrid managed to work his way through to Harry’s anxieties in his usual, gentle way.
“Well, I can sure see how that’d be a lot. Some people just like to talk, sounds like that kid was one of ‘em.” he said. “Hogwarts is a big place, and lots of kids are comin’ in from Muggle families. Not everyone’s gonna be like that. You’re not starting from behind, snots like that jus’ want you to think you are and be intimidated by them. S’alright. You just muddle along your own way, there’s a lot more places in the wizarding world than whatever him and his lot are aimin’ for.”
Harry couldn’t help but be reassured by his honest manner and glanced up at him, flashing a brief, hesitant smile as she tried to let go some of her anxieties. Some remained, as they always did, but it was good to know she wasn’t really starting on a back foot in the way she thought.

The next stop was books, and Hagrid had to drag Harry away from the towering shelf of curse-books. “I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley,” she protested, to be met with sympathetic humour. “Look, I’m not sayin’ it’s not temptin’ but you’re not to use magic outside o’ school except in ‘extenuatin’ circumstances,’” Hagrid cautioned her. “An’ anyways, you couldn’t work half that stuff yet. Study up... and besides, I reckon he’s a touch busy with the tail of a problem anyways.” he added, a sly grin creasing his broad face and crinkling up his dark eyes in amusement.

After the bookshop it was on to the apothecary. This time Hagrid let her wander and marvel at the contents of the shop. Harry had always loved science classes in school but this was something else, and she was fascinated by the many magical ingredients arrayed throughout the cluttered shop. Hagrid was all too happy to chatter about their sources – unicorns, dragons and other creatures out of myth were featured but so too were stranger things – helicopter-like insectoids called billywigs, exotic birds whose song could kill or madden, rhinoceros-like beasts who held liquid fire. Magical creatures were so clearly a special interest of Hagrid’s, but Harry was perfectly content to listen and occasionally question as their names and features blurred together in a vast tapestry.

Hagrid’s pockets now filled with potion ingredients of all kinds, they made their way into a dim shop with a peculiar air of stillness most unlike the street outside. Harry read the sign as they entered, peeling gilt paint spelling out Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.
A tinkling bell heralded their entry somewhere from the depths of the shop. There was a single dilapidated chair in the entryway in which they stood; Hagrid eyed it warily and instead seated himself on the floor to wait. “Good afternoon,” a soft voice sounded, clear in the still atmosphere of the shop. Harry jumped, Hagrid remained immersed in a book he’d purchased.

Harry was faced by a small-statured, thin man; his silver eyes, luminous in the dusty gloom, had the peculiar quality that made it appear as if the man in question peered into Harry’s soul instead of merely inspecting her physical form. “I’ve been expecting you,” he continued on, oblivious to Harry’s discomfort.
“I had been wondering about you for some time. I’d expected you to look like your father, James. He favoured a mahogany wand – eleven inches, excellent for transfiguration. Of course, I say he favoured it but really it’s the wand that does the choosing. You have his name, so everyone expects you to be a brash carbon copy of James Potter, don’t they? But no... it’s in your eyes and your face, and the red in your hair. You’re Lily’s girl. I remember her too, not quite eleven years old and ever so shy in trying her first wand. As if she thought nothing would choose her. Anyone questioning her magic would be a damn fool, it didn’t take much to see she had a right talent for charms.”

“Wands, Miss Potter, are far more intuitive than their owners give them credit for;” he carried on, and Harry decided this could only be the Mr Ollivander of the shop. “Many a witch or wizard takes their wand for granted and forgets how inherent wand use is to wizarding power. There’s a reason wizards don’t let anyone else use wands, you know – ah, Master Rubeus!” Mr Ollivander exclaimed, a smile breaking across his weathered face as he finally noticed Hagrid; settled on the floor in the corner as he was it would be surprisingly easy to miss the bearded man.

With a flick of it’s owner’s wand, a tape measure unfurled itself from Mr Ollivander’s pocket and began measuring Harry all over. Harry stood stiff, wide-eyed and a little alarmed at the instrument’s very insistent prodding. As it brushed her thick fringe aside, she heard a sharp intake of breath and wilted under Mr Ollivander’s sudden, very intense stare. Self-consciously, she rearranged her fringe again to hide the knotted, branching scar. Mr Ollivander’s gaze was almost pitying as he took her in a second time, and she had the uncomfortable feeling the old wandmaker knew more about her life than she did herself.

“Ah, yes... the mark of the Girl who Lived.” Mr Ollivander murmured, his eyes tracing the hidden shape again, reaching out a hand as if to touch it – he missed, as Harry flinched away and backed into a shelf. “I’m sorry to say I sold the wand that did it. Thirteen and a half inches, yew with a phoenix feather core. As unyielding as the wizard who bore it. Powerful, too – that was important to him. There are many kinds of power, you know – I’ve always thought it a weakness of his that he could only see the one kind... Still, if I had known what that young boy with the hungry eyes would go out into the world to do...”
His voice trailed off into papery murmurs and he turned away, inspecting boxes on the shelves behind him.

“Here, try this. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Unusual wands, beech – favoured by the old pureblood families for power, but they perform very poorly for the narrow of mind.” Mr Ollivander and Hagrid shared a darkly humorous laugh between them, and Harry reached for the wand. It felt alive in her hands as she turned it over, running one chewed nail across the engraved handle. Feeling foolish, she waved it about and Mr Ollivander seized it almost at once. “No, no, that’s not right... beechwood is cold, knowledge and change. Here -” and Harry, confused, was handed a second wand; this one longer and heavier, warmer and almost knowing in her hands.

“Holly with a phoenix feather core, eleven inches. Unusual combination that... I don’t often make holly wands. This one is old, not many need the protection of holly nowadays. They were very popular in His time.” Mr Ollivander explained, his expression turning inward on itself, darkly contemplative as the horrors of the last Dark Wizard’s war played in his mind.

This time, Harry had only to raise the wand for it to emit a shower of violet sparks, spinning and hissing when they touched the ground. Hastily she placed it on a nearby table, the fireworks ceasing as soon as it left her hand. Harry eyed it warily: the wand had felt like a live-wire in her grasp, volatile, its power had hit her like a glacial torrent.
Mr Ollivander chuckled dryly, replacing the wand in its’ box and considering Harry again. “No, that’s the wrong sort of protection entirely. Altogether too much anger and impulse. I wonder... hmm, yes. Willow, again with a phoenix feather core, twelve inches. Not a wand for the arrogant, they tend to grow with their owner and so again that makes them unusual now.”

Harry took the third wand, cautious given her experience with the sparks. This one had a comfortable weight in her hand, and it’s power felt not so much like an electrified deluge as a deep river. The second wand was all raw energy while this one’s power was subtler, hidden. It felt safe.
A pale green glow caught Harry’s attention, and she hesitantly looked down at it. The pale wand’s tip was surrounded by a soft jade nimbus, and she smiled at this display of magic that was hers.

A slow, wondering smile spread across Mr Ollivander’s tired face, and he nodded decisively. “Like I said – it is the wand that chooses the witch, young Miss Potter. The resemblance is now even more striking – yours is longer, but your mother carried a willow wand also. Although... well, that is most unusual...”
Harry wanted to ask what the concern was, but a lifetime of repressing her questions was hard to work past.
Mr Ollivander though, was too perceptive to miss even a query unasked. “Don’t worry, Miss Potter, I see your question. This wand... well, it was its’ match that left you that scar.”

With those words, it felt as if a bone-deep chill descended upon the rickety shop; and Harry looked down on the pale, bone-like instrument with new trepidation. “I.. I’m sorry, I don’t understand. How does that work?” she asked, her soft voice trembling in the clinging air.
Mr Ollivander regarded her with a crooked expression, half pity and half weary irony. “Each of my wands, Miss Harry, is hand-made, with an ingredient of a magical creature forming its’ core. Unicorn hair, dragon heartstring and phoenix feathers are what I most often work with, though there are others. The phoenix whose feather makes the heart of your wand gave me only ever one other; and it was that feather I used to make the wand the Dark Lord carried.”

Wandlore was a complex subject that Harry didn’t yet begin to comprehend; but that very tangible connection was a chilling irony. She touched her shaking fingers to the knotted scar again, feeling again the familiar twists and tangled tail ends. Her wand’s presence in her hand was warm, its comforting thrum belying the connection to this dark wizard she had so little knowledge of, but whose name everybody skirted around as if merely saying it might resurrect its owner.

“That will be seven Galleons – the gold ones, please, Miss Potter,” Mr Ollivander said, gently rousing Harry from her worries. She fished in her pocket for the purse she’d withdrawn from Gringotts, and carefully counted out seven heavy gold coins. Hagrid had explained the wizarding monetary system earlier, but the reminder of which coins were which was helpful as the names were all starting to spin in her mind.

They left the shop, and Harry was startled by how low the sun had fallen in the sky. In the whirlwind excitement of Diagon Alley she’d lost track of the day and now had to be mid-afternoon. Her eye was caught by the stranger, noisier shops as they passed, and she bumped into Hagrid as he stopped suddenly; his attention taken up my the rustling clamour inside what appeared to be the most unusual pet-shop Harry had ever seen.
Its’ windows were dim and crowded with cages of all sizes containing animals Harry doubted she would be able to imagine; motley plumage and dazzlingly bright furs and scales all bound together by a muted cacophony of sound emanating from within.

“Was thinkin’, Harry... Might be a bit lonely startin’ a new school, an’ it says you can bring a pet. So uh... happy birthday an’ all, if you want.” Hagrid said gruffly, gesturing at the shop’s sign – Magical Menagerie, lettered in flourishing gilt on a burgundy field. Harry blinked, stunned, taking in the window pets again. She thought back to the letter - Students may also bring an owl, cat, toad or similar smaller pet. Only one pet is permitted per student. A pet of her own? The Dursleys wouldn’t stand for it... but for now it seemed she was free of them. She didn’t want that freedom to end, even as a knowing voice whispered in her mind that it always would.
“You’d do that?” Harry asked, forgetting herself for a moment. Hagrid smiled his gentle smile, and stepped forward to hold the door open. “’Course I would. Now, come on, let’s come find yer new friend.”

Harry ducked under Hagrid’s arm and stepped into the dimly-lit shop. She was met with a strong odour of manure, and the pungent air was laden with a babel of animal sounds – squeaks and shrieks, snarls and growls, soft hoots and hissing, and other sounds far stranger that Harry could not identify. Flitting past rows of reptile crates and a wall devoted entirely to owls of all kinds, Harry was drawn towards the back of the shop where dwelt creatures far more feline and familiar. Some were sleek and fine-built, others craggy with battered ears and tired eyes, still more couldn’t have been long separated from their mothers.

Harry’s face was painted with a rapt grin as she bounced from crate to crate, meeting each new cat with growing joy. An owl, cat, toad or similar smaller pet... “I could have a cat?” she murmured wonderingly, imagining how a cat might make its’ home in this new future that had opened itself so suddenly to her.

A plaintive ‘mraaow?’ reached her, and curiously the young girl peered into a lower cage. Her own green eyes were met by a feline pair that matched in shade, and a freckled paw reached through the bars to grasp pitifully at Harry. Her heart melted at the sight of the tiny scruffy tortoiseshell, and she knew she’d found the right one.

Hagrid smiled mistily at the two, and waved over the shopkeeper. “We’d like to take that cat, if you don’t mind.” he said, fishing in one of his myriad pockets for money. The store clerk looked more than a little concerned. “For a Hogwarts student, one of the street kittens? You’d be better with an adult, surely, one who’d be of help to spellwork.”

The Hogwarts groundskeeper looked over at Harry again, taking in her wonder at the kitten’s antics. “No, this one for certain. Two Galleons if you toss in a travel crate and some basics too.” At this, the store clerk puffed up indignantly. “Two Galleons? We’re not a charity, Rubeus Hagrid! Four for a cat, at minimum!” he snapped, drawing Harry’s attention for a moment before she was once again taken by the cat. Hagrid raised one bushy eyebrow at the clerk. “You jus’ said she was a street kitten. Yer adults and purebreds might be worth more, but you aren’t goin’ to swindle an eleven-year-old out of more money than that for a tortoiseshell moggy.”

The shopkeeper withered under Hagrid’s questioning glare, and bustled into a side room from wherein he fetched a wicker crate, two metal bowls, a shallow metal tray and a bag of paper pellets, and a small leather harness and leash, worn with much use. Hagrid stowed the bowls and leash in one of his numerous pockets and took the tray and bag in one enormous hand, while the shopkeeper bustled over to the kitten’s cage and transferred the complaining critter into the crate. Without any particular fanfare he then passed the crate to Harry, though as he turned away to the counter a private smile spilt across his craggy features at the tousle-haired girl’s quiet wonder.

Harry fished in her pockets for the pouch from Gringotts, but Hagrid put out a hand and shook his head. “Birthday present, remember? ‘Least I can do is pay for yer cat.” he reminded her, and passed two heavy gold coins over to the shopkeeper.

___________________________________________________________________

The sun was low over the shop facades as Harry and Hagrid left the pet-shop, the former burdened with the inelegant wicker box. Hagrid checked the time on a battered pocket-watch that he produced from a pocket on his cuff, and frowned. “It’s getting late. From that display, I’m not sendin’ you back to the Dursleys. Which means we gotta figure out some kind of fix. I’ll get you a room at the Cauldron for the night, and I’ll be back in the morning with somewhere else to go, right?”

Harry nodded mutely, anxiety already rising like a sickening flood in her stomach. On one hand, there was the giddy prospect of even one more Dursley-less night but on the other, there was almost nothing in this world she knew.

A plaintive meow diverted her attention, and she turned the crate awkwardly to peer inside. One freckled paw reached out to pat her nose and she blinked, then laughed. Of course, she wouldn’t be alone. Harry grinned up at Hagrid, clutching the crate against her chest. “We’ll be good for one night. So long as the Cauldron doesn’t mind cats. “