Something goes

B U M P

in the night.

UM.

Harriet startles and withdraws into a corner, looking around for the source of the BUMP.

BUMP

BUMP

BUMP

goes the, uh, front door.  Is that someone knocking on it?

She does not want to be responsible for letting whatever that is in! She is going to Hide.

Stock phrases aside it's really more of a BOOM, if the narration is honest.  BOOM, BOOM, BOOM - CRASH.

 - the hut no longer has a door.

She claps her hands over her mouth to muffle her squeak. 

Dudley startles awake, too - and Vernon pounds down the stairs, shotgun ready, and shouts, "Who's there?" as Petunia peeks out from behind him.

The person at the door is enormous - not just a large man, but giant, so big he has to stoop and sidle sideways through the door.  He's holding a flowery pink umbrella in one hand, and a knapsack in the other, both of which are perfectly respectable sizes for the objects they respectively are but look comically tiny in his hands.

His eyes rove across the hut, and he spots the gun in Vernon's hand -

"Oi!"

he shouts, and lunges for him - and tears the gun out of his hands and - folds the barrel in half.

!!!!!!!!!!!! (Excuse Harriet she is going to be TINY and NOT HERE).

Vernon shouts in surprise and anger, face rapidly purpling. "How dare you!"

"Won't have you pulling Muggle weapons on me, Dursley," the giant growls, pointing the butt of the shotgun at him reprovingly.  "I'm here because little Harriet hasn't been replying to her letters.  'Spect you lot have something to do with that."

What. Is she in trouble for that. Why is she always in trouble.

"I won't have her associated with that freakishness!" Petunia snaps, stepping forward. "And how dare you come around here, after your lot got her mother killed - "

"My lot?" the giant roars.  "I oughtta skewer you with this!"  He waves his umbrella.  "It were my lot trying to protect her from the Death Eaters!  Now you tell me where you're keeping little Harriet!"

She shouldn't reveal herself. She doesn't know what's going on and the man is scary and the Dursleys will get mad - (She whimpers a bit.)

Petunia just insults the giant.

He snorts at her derisively and turns away, shoving Vernon's ruined gun into a giant pocket of his giant-sized overcoat.

"Harriet?" he calls.  "Come on out, you're not in any trouble.  Not gonna let this lot do anything to you."

Harriet shakes her head, quietly.

Some things around the shack start rattling. A bulb breaks in a shower of glass.

"Harriet?" the man says - warily, but sort of... bracingly.  "If you can hear me... I'm sorry if I scared yeh.  It's your aunt and uncle I'm mad at, not you."

Maybe if she comes out he won't be mad???

Harriet slowly slinks out of the corner.

"Are you Harriet?" the man says.  "Merlin, you're a tiny little thing.  What've they been feeding yeh?"

"...Food."

"I certainly hope so," he chuckles.  "Speakin' of food - "

He stows his umbrella under one arm, and stuffs his newly free hand into his knapsack, deeper than it looks like it should fit; and pulls out a flimsy-looking white cardboard box, tied with a bright blue bow, surprisingly unbattered for having been stuffed in a knapsack.  He holds it out to her.

"Baked this myself," he says proudly.  "It's your birthday today, innit?  Happy birthday, Harriet."

...

She starts crying, quietly.

Oh Dear.

He sets Harriet's cake down on the floor beside her, and puts a hand on her back, and pats her shoulder.  (He is so large, and she so small, that this is best accomplished with the thumb of the same hand.  Were the discrepancy in their sizes any less, he'd try going in for a hug.)

"There there," he says quietly.  "It'll be all right."

She tries really hard to stop crying. This is not very effective.

(She is scared and confused, mostly, and also having a weird sort of emotional rollercoaster). 

"...did you even get to read your letter?" the man asks. "Did they tell you anything about...?"

"...No?"

He shoots the Dursleys a very dark look.

"S'pose I ought to try explaining what's going on, then," he says quietly.  "How much do you know about your parents?"

The Dursleys are very mad at the both of them and Harriet's very scared; she shoots them a nervous look.

The man shoots them a - less nervous - look.

"Not gonna let them do anything to yeh," he says.  "Couldn't if they tried.  Throw 'em out in the rain, if you like."

"...They're my guardians."

He sighs sadly through his nose.  "If I have anything to say about it - "

He stops.

"They shouldn't be, 's my opinion," he says gruffly.  "Wager we could find you some better ones, if you like."

"...Kids don't pick parents."

"Your aunt and uncle have been mistreatin' yeh," he says.  "Keeping secrets from you, keeping you locked in a cupboard.  This letter - "

He draws a letter, identical to the ones she's been receiving en masse for weeks, from one of his pockets.  (He's so big he has to hold it between thumb and forefinger.)

" - is your acceptance letter to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  I came here to make sure you got to read it, and to take you shopping for school supplies if you want to come, and to make sure you don't have to spend another day in this house if you're not safe here."

This is kind of overwhelming.

How is she supposed to evaluate what she wants.

He looks between her and the Dursleys, and sighs again.

”Why don’t you come outside with me,” he says, gentle but firm, and stands up.  “We can talk properly away from this lot.”

She nods, slowly, even as the Dursleys object.

He waves off their objections effortlessly; and once they’re out in the rain, he raps his umbrella sharply on the door he bashed down, which springs off the ground and snaps back into place.  The miserable rainy spit of rock that the hut sits on is mostly as she remembers it, except there's an extra rowboat docked in the miserable little pier.

“Shouldn’t let you hold this, strictly speaking,” he says, gesturing with the umbrella.  “It’s got - er - well.”

He trails off.  Fiddles with it for a moment; it pops open, and he stoops a bit and holds it out for her.

”Just stand under here,” he says.  “Go ahead.”

She steps under the umbrella.

"What does the letter say?" she asks, hesitantly.

He does - something - to the letter, like flipping a coin with his thumb, and the envelope pops right open, the letter coming to hover in front of her face.  There's important-looking letterhead, which reads:

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY

Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)

and has a faded sort of coat-of-arms framing it, a four-part shield with icons of a lion, serpent, badger, and eagle around an ornate letter H.

The letter itself says:

Dear Ms. Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.

Yours sincerely,

Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall

"Potter was your dad's name," the man said.  "James Potter."

"But my name's Evans."

"That's from yer mum," he says.  "Fine old wizard, Lily Evans.  We'll get that put right when we get to Hogwarts."

"Okay..."

"What's Hogwarts?"

"Best school of magic in the world," the man says.  "It's a place where young wizards like you go to learn to cast spells - and fly on brooms and brew potions and so on.  You live there during the school year, like in a Muggle boarding school."

"What about in the summer?"

"Folk without anyone to look after 'em can spend summers at Hogwarts too," he says.  "And if I have anything to say about it, you'll be one of 'em."

Small, and quietly: "...Okay."

He smiles gently.

"If there's anything in the house you need to get before we go," he says, "I can let you back in, or get it for you myself.  Otherwise... I say we head off now."

"I don't have anything..."

"Oh - the cake?"

" - forgot the ruddy cake!" he exclaims, and leaps to his feet.

He's in and out in a flash, the cake-box held delicately between two fingers in his free hand.  He holds it out for her.

She takes it, gingerly.

"It's for me?"

"'Course it's for you," he says warmly.  "It's your birthday, isn't it?"

Shy smile.

She opens the box.

Cake!  Chocolate frosted cake with "Happy Birthday Harriet!" written on it in blue icing.

And clearly the adult wants her to eat it...

She doesn't have utensils and forgets briefly that she needs them. She swipes her finger through some of the frosting, tasting it.

The giant chuckles fondly at her.  "Sure I got a fork here somewhere," he says, "but don't let that stop you on my account."  (He does start patting his pockets vaguely, just in case she lets it stop her anyway.)

She hesitates. (An adult saying it's okay to break the rules is always kinda stressful...)

He produces a knife and fork from one of his many pockets and frowns at them speculatively.

"Need to take this back for a mo'," he says, and snaps his umbrella closed.  He taps it gingerly against them once or twice, and they get a bit shinier.  He re-umbrellas her and hands over the silverware.

She... Sits down to eat?

"Could sit in the boat, if you like," he says.  "Should be heading out soon anyway."

"Uh. Okay." She gets up, awkwardly, and walks over to the boat. (It looks kinda unsteady...)

He climbs in after her; the boat creaks and wobbles a little.

"Oi," he says, and raps his knuckles against the side of the boat.  "Steady on."

The boat stops rocking.  It's quite steady now, in fact.

He taps his umbrella against the seat she took, and it dries off and warms a little; and he re-umbrellas her again.

"...Is the boat magic?"

He pats it fondly.  "Sails all on her own.  Belongs to Hogwarts."

"How's it work?"

"Powerful wizards can enchant objects to work on their own and do as they're told," the man says.  "Don't understand it much better than that, if I'm honest."

"Does Hogwarts teach about that?"

"The basics," the man says.  "But nothing really fancy until you're N.E.W.T. level - that's after fifth year.  And to make something like this you'd have to study on your own after Hogwarts, or find a tutor."

"Are there magic universities?"

"Some jobs have people that'll train you up for 'em after you graduate Hogwarts," he says.  "But mostly wizards who want to keep learning after N.E.W.T.s have to find people looking for apprentices."

"...Oh..."

"What's wrong?" he asks.

"Don't think people'll want me as an apprentice..."

"I don't believe it," the man says.  "If your mum and dad are anything to go on, you'll be a fine old wizard when you grow up.  Just 'cuz those Dursleys have it in for you don't mean anyone else is gonna be like that."

"...But I'm not my parents..."

"Maybe not," the man says.  "But you're not what your aunt and uncle think you are either.  People're gonna see that in the wizarding world.  Just you wait."

"I guess."

"You mark my words," the man says.  "We oughtta get going."

He raps his knuckles twice on the side of the boat.  The knot tied to the pier..... pops open, somehow... and the rope sort of slurps itself up into a coil behind Harriet, and the boat sets off toward shore.

This is kinda really cool!

"Where're we going?"

"Tonight, we're gonna head to shore and I'll put up a tent for us on the beach.  Not a titchy Muggle tent, a proper three-room one.  Spend the night there.  Then... well, I'll have to talk to you a bit, to know exactly where we're going first.  But that can wait.  Been a big night for you already, after all."

"Wouldn't a three room tent be really big to carry around?"

"Lotta wizard things can hold more than they look like," the man says.

"Cool!"

He chuckles.  "Right useful, too."

She makes a curious noise.

"Well, the more you can fit in a little bag like this," he says, and shakes his knapsack indicatively, "the more you can have with you any time you need it."

"Okay. Like books?"

"Books, supplies, tools.  Tents," he adds wryly.

"Neat. So you can hide magic stuff, too?"

"Lotta magic stuff hides itself, don't it," he says.  "But there's enchantments wizards can put on things to make 'em harder to find."

"Really?"

He nods.  " - Looks like we're here," he says, and indeed the boat's coming up on the shore.

She nods, and waits for it to arrive before clambering out on her own.

Once they're both out of the boat, the man reaches into his knapsack and pulls out a bundle of canvas and tent poles, and tosses it a few feet away from them onto the sand.

"Well, come on then!" he says to it.

It unfolds itself, climbs to its feet, and settles into a tent-shape.  It looks - not any bigger than an ordinary nonmagical tent, actually.

She squints at it, then ducks inside.

It's bigger on the inside!  The outer walls are all sort of hanging canvas curtains but there's two solid inner walls, at a right angle, one across from the entrance and one to the left, that have wooden doors in them; and there's a couch and a couple of comfy chairs as well.

"Woah!"

He grins.  "Why don't you pick out your room."

She goes to explore.

Each door leads to a bedroom.  Left-hand one's a bit smaller.

She picks the smaller one, of course.

"You sure?  I don't mind."

"...I'm sure."

"All right.  I oughta write Dumbledore, let him know I got you.  You best turn in."  He sticks out a hand.  "Pleasure meeting you, Harriet."

Handshake. "Pleasure meeting you. Goodnight..."

Oh she doesn't know his name.

" - blimey, did I never introduce myself?  Name's Rubeus Hagrid.  Keeper of keys and grounds at Hogwarts."

Small smile. "Night, Hagrid."

Big crinkly grin.  "Night, Harriet."

And she heads back to her new room to sleep.

The next morning Hagrid makes a fire on the beach and roasts some sausages for breakfast, and talks with Harriet a bit about her school supplies list, and asks her a few somber questions about the Dursleys.

"...They're fine," she says at first, though he's able to wiggle details out of her even without her directly willing to talk poorly of them - mostly that she isn't fed enough, and that her cousin's mean to her, and they sometimes 'get mad.'

He nods, somberly and patiently, to her explanation.

"Well," he says, "reckon we ought to get you to St. Mungo's, first thing, if you've not been getting enough to eat."

"...Where's that?"

"It's hidden in London," Hagrid says.  "Which is where we're goin' anyway.  We're gonna head to the Leaky Cauldron and get to St. Mungo's by Floo.  Folk don't usually come in through Muggle London, it'd attract too much attention."

"What's floo?"

"One of the ways magic folk travel.  Fireplace-to-fireplace.  It can be a mite uncomfortable, but it's safer than it looks."

Nod. "What's a muggle?"

“’S a wizarding term for non-magic folk.”

She nods a bit.

"Finished with your breakfast?" he asks.  "Best be off."

"Yeah, I am."

"Right then."  He stands up and claps his hand twice, and the tent folds itself back up.  He puts it and - with some difficulty - the rowboat into his knapsack.

"We'll take the Muggle way to the Leaky Cauldron," Hagrid said.  "Town just up the road has a train station, we can get to London from there.  Follow me."

She does, mostly quiet.

Hagrid draws a bit of attention for his size alone, and has a bit of trouble getting through the turnstile, but seems reasonably adept at passing for a muggle.  He passes the time on the Underground working on a knitting project, though he'll answer any questions she comes up with.

In London he leads her through bustling streets, clearing a path through the crowd, and eventually down a little side street.  He stops between a shabby bookstore and a dingy record shop - and oh, there's a little pub between them, it hadn't looked like there was anything there a moment ago -

"It looks small."

"Bigger than it looks," Hagrid says.  "Lotta wizarding buildings are.  Come on."

He leads her inside, through the creaky door.  The inside is pretty cramped - and dark and shabby - but it does indeed look a bit too big to fit inside the building she saw from outside.  There's a stairway, too, and it didn't look like any of the buildings on this street were more than one story.  There's a few people at the bar, a few clustered around little circular tables.  Everyone, including the barman, seems to be dressed either like flamboyant stage magicians or differently-colored Gandalfs.

WOAH.

She spins around, staring, eyes wide, forgetting briefly that Staring Is Rude.

No one seems to mind!  A few people who notice look endeared.

"Hagrid!" the barman calls merrily.  "Can I get you your usual?"

"Can't today, Tom," Hagrid says.  "Need to use your fireplace."

"Hogwarts business?" apparently-Tom asks, and Hagrid nods.  He ushers them both into a back room.

She can be disrupted from staring long enough to be ushered!

Hagrid hands Tom a few little brown coins and murmurs, "It's her first time, use the nice stuff."

Tom nods, and takes out a wand, and jabs it toward the fireplace, and a fire blazes up; he tosses in a pinch of some fine white powder from a jar, and the fire turns bright green and blooms yet higher.

Hagrid stoops into the fireplace, standing comfortably inside the emerald flames.  "Come on in next to me," he says.  "'S perfectly safe, don't worry."

That makes her a bit worried, paradoxically, but she tries to squash it as she scootches in next to Hagrid, leery of the flames at first.

She may be reassured as she approaches that no matter how close she gets to the flames it never feels more than comfortably warm.

"Right, hold on tight," he says, offering his hand.  "Might feel like you're flying or falling, that's what's supposed to happen."

She takes his hand and crowds in, gripping tight.

"Right then."  He clears his throat and says, enunciating distinctly, "Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries!"

The fire flares and swirls around them, and the Leaky Cauldron shoots away into darkness - they're rocketing through green flames and hot wind and occasional streaks of light -

She gasps, clinging even tighter.

Gradually the wind and the streaks of light change direction, until they're racing toward something instead of away from something - and then the something is a point of fireplace-shaped light, growing larger -

She squeezes her eyes shut, instinctively bracing for impact.

There's a rush of sound and light and - no detectable lurch, but all of a sudden she's not moving.  As though every part of her body stopped moving at once, so she had no way to feel the change.

She cracks her eyelids open.

They, she and Hagrid, are standing in one of a row of fireplaces along one wall of a wide, airy hospital waiting room.  There's a short line at a desk on the opposite side of the room, and rows of seats between it and them, full of people.  Most of them don't look visibly ill, but here and there there's someone with an odd injury or symptom.  A man in gray has sprouted white feathers where a beard should be; a worried-looking woman has a little boy with bright-green skin in her lap.  A stern-looking man with crimson robes and a silvery right hand is discussing something with a red-haired woman in forest green, both of them examining one of the fireplaces; the silver-handed man murmurs something about wards.

"All right, Harriet?" Hagrid says.

"Yeah, I think so."

"Bit frightening the first time," Hagrid says.  He takes her to the line, and talks with the receptionist, and the pair are directed to Ward 12 on the first floor.  It's actually not that different from a muggle hospital room, except the bed looks more ordinary and the light is more incandescent and it's less aggressively modern.

She shifts around, nervous and quiet.

In a few minutes, a wizard with forest-green robes, a matching pointed hat, and a piece of parchment that seems to be held rigid by magic lets himself in.  "Hi there!  I'm Healer Pendleton.  Are you Harriet?"

"Yeah. Harriet Evans. Are you the doctor?"

"More or less!" Healer Pendleton says.  "We're called Healers in the magical world, but our job is similar.  Now, I understand you're coming here from the muggle world, and you spent most of your childhood with no contact with wizardry or magic?"

"Yeah. Except weird stuff happening around me, I guess."

He nods.  "Almost all wizard children experience some accidental magic before they begin their formal education, often when they're scared or upset.  Usually we like to keep an eye on muggleborn children even before they go off to school, but I understand there was some unusualness in your case...?"

"Normally Hogwarts can find muggleborn children anywhere in the United Kingdom," Hagrid explains, "but the castle didn't know you existed until a few weeks ago.  We're still not sure why," he adds to the Healer.

"Is that bad?"

"Don't think it's something yer in danger from," Hagrid says seriously.  "More likely it - "

He glances between her and the Healer.

"Well, maybe I oughta tell you the story in private."

"...Okay."

From the Healer: "I think our most pressing concern is getting you something for malnutrition - I understand your muggle parents weren't feeding you adequately? - and getting you your first dose of Elixir.  Getting your Elixir is a bit like muggle kids getting their vaccines, except it's a potion.  It strengthens your immune system, it can cure little ailments that other healing charms can miss, stave off certain magical diseases... important general-health supplement."

"Does it have side effects?"

"Nothing serious," says Healer Pendleton.  "Elixir can sometimes make people feel giddy or unusually energetic for a few minutes after they take it, but that passes.  The Benourishing Potion we're going to give you can sometimes cause mild allergic reactions, but most people don't experience anything like that."

"I don't think I have any allergies..."

"That's good to know!" says Healer Pendleton, making a note on his parchment.  "Though there are some magical ingredients you wouldn't have been exposed to before today, so it's good to be prepared for the possibility."

She nods, seriously.

“All right,” says Healer Pendleton.  “First I’m going to cast some diagnostic charms on you, just in case there’s something Mr. Hagrid missed.  All right?”

"...All right."

Diagnostic charms mostly consist of Healer Pendleton waving his wand around like a metal detector while murmuring weird fake-Greek incantations, though for a couple things he unlocks one of the cupboards and takes out a wand-like non-wand instrument and waves that around like a metal detector while murmuring in fake Greek instead.

"Well, you're fairly healthy," Healer Pendleton says at the end of it.  "A bit slight for your age, but the Benourishing Potion and your Elixir will help with that.  Your eyes seem a bit sensitive to light as well... has she gotten her Hogwarts robes yet?" he asks Hagrid.

Hagrid shakes his head.  "Came straight here."

"Smart," Healer Pendleton says, and turns back to Harriet.  "All right, I'm going to go get your potions.  I'm also going to give you a hat with an enchantment that should help with your light sensitivity, and a letter to give your tailor when you meet with them - they'll send your school hats my way so I can have them enchanted for you too."

"Huh. Okay."

"...Thank you."

She's always known her eyes hurt when it's bright out, but that'd just seemed - normal.

"You're welcome," he says warmly.  "I'll be a few minutes getting the potions."  And he turns and goes.

Hagrid heaves a sigh and sits down on the floor.  (Even when he's sitting cross-legged on the floor and Harriet's standing up, he's so large that they're still about eye to eye.)

"Oughta tell you about your parents," he says.  "If you think you're ready to hear it.  'S not a happy story."

Slow nod. "Okay. I'm - ready."

"Is there anything you already know?"

"Mom's name was Lily Evans, but she's dead. She had red hair and was Aunt Petunia's big sister. Aunt Petunia said she didn't know who my father was."

"Yer dad's name was James Potter," Hagrid says.  "They went to Hogwarts together.  Met there.  Finer pair of wizards - "

He stops, sniffs, clears his throat.

"'Scuse me.  I knew 'em, is all.  Friends of mine.  Finer pair of wizards I don't think I ever knew."

"First thing is, Harriet, not all wizards are good people.  Some of 'em go bad.  And one of the worst there was..."

He shudders a bit.

"Folk still don't like saying her name.  Voldemort."

"Who was she?"

"No one knows," Hagrid says.  "Not even today.  Lotta folk didn't even know she existed, but Dumbledore did.  She was gathering followers all over the world, taking control of wizarding gangs and criminals.  Her people called themselves Death Eaters."

"Even now we don't know what she was up to, or all the people who were loyal to her, or who still is," he goes on.  "But she was gathering power, and she was killing anyone who stood in the way of it.  And ten years ago..."

He pauses, somberly.

"Ten years ago, she came after your family.  Your mum and dad.  They were Dumbledore's people, your mum and dad were.  Trying to figure out what she was up to, trying to protect people from her.  It was dangerous to try to get the word out about her - you didn't know who you could trust.  But they were doing what they could.  Voldemort wanted them out of the way, so she tracked them down."

"Except something happened that night.  We still don't know exactly what.  Your house was destroyed.  James was dead, Lily was dead.  But Voldemort's body was there too, and you were nowhere to be found.  Everyone thought you'd been killed, until just a few weeks ago.  Hogwarts can find wizarding kids, and a few weeks ago it found you.  It should've found you sooner.  If we'd known what was goin' on in that house - "

He stops.

"We don't know exactly how it happened," Hagrid says.  "Not even Dumbledore knows.  But I think your mum must've had something to do with it.  She was a great wizard, powerful, and - and good."

"...Oh."

He puts an enormous hand on her shoulder.  "It's all right to - not be all right."

She curls up a bit.

"Okay."

That doesn't really feel true.

"You can say whatever you're thinking, I won't be upset.  And it might help."

She curls up tighter and squints at him. 

Then, slowly: "I don't want to not be okay."

"Don't reckon anyone does," says Hagrid gently.  "But sometimes trying too hard to be okay makes it worse."

"...Dunno."

"Well, I won't tell you how to feel about it," he says.  "But if you ever want to talk, you can send me an owl."

"...An owl?"

" - blimey, I'm sorry - it's how wizards send letters to each other, magical owls.  Most everyone has one by the time they graduate, and Hogwarts has a flock you can borrow from."

"Do they carry the letters?"

"They do!  Tie 'em right to their legs.  Right smart birds, owls are, 'specially magical ones."

"Huh. I've never met an owl."

"You'll get plenty of chances at Hogwarts.  First years are allowed their own, too, if you want."

"That seems like - a lot..."

"They can take care of themselves all right," Hagrid says.  "But you don't need one either.  Hogwarts has a flock, and even out of Hogwarts, there's rental owls."

She nods, thoughtful.

Healer Pendleton returns, and Hagrid lets him back in after checking there's nothing else Harriet wants to talk about in private.

"This," he says, and hands Harriet a pointy, wide-brimmed black wizard hat, "is for your light sensitivity.  It'll cast a shadow over your eyes that adjusts for how bright it is around you.  You should be sure to put it on any time you go out in the sun or any time your eyes hurt.  Nothing wrong with wearing it around all the time, in fact, but you can take it off if it's not too bright."

She takes it, turning it over in her hands and then plopping it on her head.

"Thank you, Healer Pendleton!"

He grins.  "You're welcome, Harriet.  I also have a couple of potions for you."

He produces from his pocket one small vial, big enough for perhaps one swallow, of some silvery liquid, like mercury with a concave meniscus.  "This is your first dose of Elixir.  Now, you're a bit behind on your dosage, since it took so long for Hogwarts to find you, so you'll need to come back every three months for the next year to catch up.  You should drink this one now."

She takes it and drinks it, obedient. "How will I get here?"

It tastes like quicksilver seems like it should taste like before you learn it probably just tastes like metallic poison.  "Hogwarts is connected to the Floo network.  They'll be able to make arrangements for you."

She nods. "Okay. Thank you."

"You're welcome."  He produces a second bottle of potion, this one larger, stoppered with a cork; and a little metal spoon.  "This is your Benourishing Potion.  You should take one spoonful of it with dinner every day until you run out.  If you take it on an empty stomach it can make you feel more full than you actually are, so it's probably a better idea to take it after you've eaten."

"That makes sense..."

He smiles again as she takes the second potion.  "And these," he finishes, producing a trio of little vials like the first, each half-full of something sky blue, "are something you can take just in case you do have a bad reaction to something in the Benourishing Potion.  It's not very likely that you will, and even if you do it's not very likely that you'll need these, and even if you do need them if you take one and get Mr. Hagrid or somebody to Floo you to St. Mungo's you'll be fine.  But it's best to have them on hand just in case."

Slow nod. "I just drink them?"

"Just one of them," he says.  "Best to have a couple spares, just in case."

Nod. "I'll be careful."

"Good habit to get into," says Healer Pendleton warmly.  "All right - either of you have any questions for me?"

"I don't..."

Hagrid shakes his head.

"All right!  Chocolate frog?"  He proffers a little pentagonal package.  "They're not really frogs, they just jump.  They come with famous wizard cards, some wizard kids like to collect them."

Cool!

She goes ahead and eats it, pocketing the card.

"Thank you!"

Hagrid and Healer Pendleton both smile fondly at her excitement.

With their business at St. Mungo's concluded, Hagrid takes her back through the Floo to the Leaky Cauldron - then, out the back door of the Leaky Cauldron, which leads to a sad little brick-walled courtyard.

Hagrid squints at the bricks in the wall, the one opposite the backdoor.  He takes out his flowery pink umbrella and taps sharply on five bricks in sequence, that look to Harriet's eyes exactly like all the other bricks in the wall.

A change comes over the wall, somehow - and then the bricks start moving, rotating and sliding and slotting around each other, reconfiguring the blank solid wall into an archway that leads to -

Well, Diagon Alley, presumably.

St. Mungo's had been strange enough; Diagon Alley is something else.  The place is abustle with palpable wizards, in swishing robes or multicolored tuxedos, pointed wizard caps or glossy top hats, pinstripe suits that turn into cloaks below the waist; with luggage that floats on strings above them like helium balloons, or suitcases that levitate behind them or scuttle on nine legs, or knapsacks that flop along the ground like beached octopuses.  The road itself is only wide as a narrow muggle road, but with no cars to speak of it feels quite a lot wider, clusters of people flowing around each other easily each way.  Occasionally someone will float by lazily on a broomstick, feather-light trunk bobbing in the breeze behind them.

Hagrid leads her through the bustle, occasionally nodding or waving politely to somebody as they pass.  The storefronts are eye-catchingly strange.  Not just for what they advertise, though that would certainly be enough - owls and broomsticks and wizard's robes, chocolate frogs and improbably tall ice cream sundaes, mandrake hearts and dragon livers, and the first books she's ever seen that live up to words like "tome" and "grimoire". But the signs advertising those things were themselves clearly magical.  Some of them glow!  Some of them flash different colors.  Some of them have little people painted on them, cheerfully ushering dancing letters around to form slogans and advertisements.  Some of the windows look in on interiors clearly too large for the buildings that contain them, producing an odd visual effect as she walks by.

Finally, they reach a tall, grand white building, towering over the courtyard in front of it and the stores huddled beside it, that Hagrid identifies to her as Gringott's Wizarding Bank.

This is all so amazing!!! Harriet's mostly speechless, staring at each and every thing, though when they get to Gringott's she asks, "How does a magic bank work?"

"Gringott's is run by goblins," Hagrid says.  "Goblins have magic that lets them work metal in ways that wizards can't, so they mint wizarding money that wizard criminals can't counterfeit.  Folk mine alchemical-quality metal, or buy it from muggles, and bring it to Gringott's to be minted into alchemical gold, and then spend it as money.  And Gringott's has vaults, miles underground, where they let you keep your gold that you're not carrying around, or anything else you want to keep safe."

"Cool!!! What're goblins?"

"Goblins're a type of magical person.  You'll see plenty of 'em inside.  Don't always like wizards much.  Wizards... haven't done right by 'em."

"Huh. Why not?"

Hagrid sighs sadly.  "Some wizards think they're better than people who aren't wizards.  Some... act like it even if they don't think it, or don't do anything about the ones who do."

"Oh."

"They shouldn't do that..."

"Lotta things folk do that they shouldn't," Hagrid says solemnly.

Slow nod.

Into Gringott's.  Through a towering pair of bronze double doors, and then another set of silver, and they're in a vast warmly-lit room flanked on either side by long counters, behind which are seated, presumably, goblins.  None more than three feet tall, with wrinkled faces and solidly black eyes and long pointed ears, talking gruffly to wizard patrons or examining gold and jewels.

Hagrid proceeds to a free teller.

She tries really hard not to stare too rudely.

"Mornin'," Hagrid says briskly.  "This is Harriet Evans, heir to the Evans-Potter vault.  We only just found her - "

"We received Albus Dumbledore's owl on the subject," the goblin says.  He hands over a small golden key.  "Have her test this."

He nods, and turns to Harriet.  "This is yer vault key," he says.  "Hold it up where he can see it - it'll light right up, and that'll show you're James and Lily's daughter."

She bites her lip and takes it, holding it up.

Little curling patterns of white light spread up the body of the key from where she touches it.  The goblin watches, and nods smartly.

"Miss - Evans?" he says, and leans forward.  "What are your guardianship arrangements?"

"I was staying with my aunt and uncle but Mister Hagrid says I won't be anymore."

The goblin nods.  "If your muggle guardians are inadequate you will be made a ward of Hogwarts.  Your guardian will be responsible for your vault key until you attain your majority, at which point ownership will officially pass to you."

"Okay. What does being responsible for my vault key mean?"

"You will need to keep it safe and produce it if you wish to enter your vault.  If you need to replace it you will need to alert the bank and be responsible for the fee."

She nods, seriously. "Can anyone steal it from me?"

"The object can be stolen but it would require nontrivial magic for someone to use it to open your vault if you or your guardian did not authorize it."

"Okay. I'll keep it safe anyways, though."

The goblin nods smartly and leans back in his chair.  "If that's all, I'll have someone take you down to your vault."

"Yeah, it is. Thank you, sir."

Teller-goblin calls over another goblin, who takes her and Hagrid through one of the doors opposite the entrance, down a hall, to what looks like a miniature underground train station.  They all three pile into a minecart and it rockets off.  Out of the minecart-station and into the mine, dark dank tunnels burrowed out of rock, cart track winding and swerving and coiling, zipping through fork after fork after fork in the way.  The goblin at the front of the cart, who seems to be controlling it, looks perfectly at ease; Hagrid looks a bit queasy.

Woah! (Harriet is hunkered down. She really doesn't like roller coasters! Let alone this! There's no seat belt!)

This at least does not go as wildly up and down as roller coasters, but it's still a fast and swervy ride.

Eventually though they come to another little minecart-station, set into the hewn rock walls of the mine, with an enormous, ornate circular metal door opposite the track.  There is, she can see, a little hatch in the center.

"Vault 687," the goblin says, "Potter-Evans."

She climbs shakily out of the cart and walks up to the hatch, squinting at it then inserting her key.

There's a sequence of thunks and kachunks as heavy complicated internal locks unlock themselves.  The door splits open down the middle, the halves slowly easing left and right into the stone.

Torches come to life inside the vault, a room the size of the Dursleys' living room.

There's gold.  There's gold coins in heaps on the shelves and gold bars stacked in pyramids on the ground.  There's artfully arranged stacks of silver coins, a few topped with finely cut gems.  Little bronze-colored coins in shallow bowls on the shelves next to the heaps of gold.  Pouches, that she can see must be stuffed with more coins.

!!! Woah! That's so much gold. (Harriet is struck a bit speechless.)

"Looks like enough to get you through seven years, don't it?" says Hagrid wryly.

"It's a lot..." Kinda feels like too much actually...

"We'll just take enough to buy your school supplies for today.  The rest'll be safe down here."

"Okay. How much is enough?"

Hagrid counts out some gold into a pouch for her.

She tries to keep track of how much gold he's counting out. "How much is that worth?"

"Hundred some-odd galleons is five-hundred-some British pounds - five pounds the galleon.  'S more than you need just for school supplies, but you'll need a wardrobe too, we left all yer clothes at the Dursleys.  And you should have some to spend on yourself."  He grins.

"That's a lot though..."

"Less than it sounds like," he says.  "Supplies get expensive, 'specially your first year.  Worried about losing it?  I can keep it safe for you, if you like."

"If you don't mind?"

"'Course not!"  He grins his crinkly grin.  "'S what I'm here for, to help you out."

She smiles a little. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."  He sighs dramatically.  "Best get back in this ruddy minecart."

The goblin, to Harriet: "Snap or clap your hands twice to the vault door in order to close it."

She can't snap, so she claps twice once they're all out.

The doors slide shut just as dramatically, and seal themselves just as thunkingly and kachunkingly, as they opened.

Up again through wild winding minecart-tracks, and out into Diagon Alley.

"Right," Hagrid says, once they're out of Gringott's and back in the bustle of Diagon Alley.  "Oughta get you some wizard clothes.  We can pop into Madam Malkin's - "

He gestures toward a little shop, plain and unassuming by wizarding standards, signposted as Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

"Okay. Do they also sell normal clothes?"

"Muggle clothes, you mean?" he says a bit wryly.  "Not Madam Malkin's, but there's places you can get them in Diagon Alley if yeh want some."

"I think I do..."

"I'll save yeh some gold for them, then.  But you need at least a few robes for wearing around Hogwarts."

"Okay." She heads toward the shop.

Madam Malkin's is unassuming on the inside too, though it does look like there's at least a bit more space on the inside than the outside should be able to contain.

"Listen, Harriet," Hagrid says, "I've gotta talk with Madam Malkin a bit about your order, gettin' you spare clothes and prescription hats and so on.  Her tape measures can take your measurements on your own - you okay if I leave you to it?"

She nods.

"All right.  We'll be nearby, just give a shout if you need anything."

"Okay, I will."

He leads her to the back of the shop, where a footstool wiggles for her to step up onto it, a couple tape measures stand ready to begin their work, and another young wizard girl is apparently getting her own measurements taken; and steps away to talk with, presumably, Madam Malkin.

The other girl had been facing away, and she turns toward Harriet at the sound of the footstool. She has blonde curls, bouncing around her face, and she regards Harriet with a severe expression.

Harriet bites her lip and steps up onto the footstool, nodding shyly at the other girl and then staring at the tape measures as they float around her.

"Are you heading to Hogwarts, too?" the girl asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Ah - yeah - " She raises an arm when a tape measure nudges her. "Mister Hagrid says I am..."

She glances over at the half-giant.

"Are you Muggleborn, then?"

"Uh - Muggles are the ones without magic, right?"

She suppresses an eye roll. "Yes. As opposed to wizards like us."

"My aunt and uncle are Muggles. But my parents were wizards..."

"Oh?"

"What's your name? I'm Serpens Malfoy."

"Harriet Evans..."

"Like Lily Evans?"

"Yeah! She's my mom. Or was... Mister Hagrid said she was really cool."

"She's certainly famous. I didn't know she had any kids..."

"Mister Hagrid said Hogwarts couldn't find me until recently, so no one knew I was alive. Except the Muggles, I guess."

"Huh. Maybe your mother hid you."

She picks at a loose thread on her shirt, then stops when a tape measure chides her. "Maybe..."

"Hogwarts is going to be more interesting than I thought."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes."

"You know, your mother's the reason my father's in Azkaban. That's a wizard prison, the worst of the worst."

" - Oh! I'm sorry. That must be terrible..."

She stares at Harriet like the other girl just sprouted a second head. Or perhaps turned into a very interesting puzzle.

Harriet fidgets, feeling much more awkward than she did earlier.

"You're weird," she says.

"...Prison's bad..."

She snorts. "It's fine as long as he doesn't get out. He'll be raving mad, then, and probably out for blood," she says, cheerfully.

"...How is that fine..."

She grins and says, "I think we'll get along swimmingly," before jumping down from the stool as her own tape measures finish their work, waving to a woman who's just entering.

"Mama!" she calls, brightly.

"Hello dear," she says, before turning to catch Madame Malkin's attention (and, incidentally, Hagrid's).

There's a much shorter blonde girl peeking out from behind her robes, mostly staring at Hagrid.

Hagrid returns to Harriet's side, perhaps a step closer to Narcissa than Harriet is.  "Mrs. Malfoy," he says, evenly, nodding to her in curt greeting.

"Mister Hagrid," she says, barely nodding back, voice also curt.

"Got what you need, Madam Malkin?" Hagrid says.  "Going to be staying at a room in the Leaky Cauldron, I'll owl you which.  Can have the robes sent there."

(Madam Malkin - nods.)

Narcissa turns toward Serpens. "Everything alright here?" she asks.

"Yeah! I made a friend!" she announces rather loudly and gestures towards Harriet.

This is news to Harriet!

Hagrid glances at her.

"Well, we've got lots still to buy, so Harriet and I oughta get going."

"Don't let me stop you."

"Bye Harriet! See you at Hogwarts!"

A bit shyly: "See you later, Serpens..."

And onward?

Onward.

As they walk down Diagon Alley, Hagrid glances at Harriet again and says, "Did she, er, tell yeh who she was?"

"She said her name was Serpens Malfoy. And that my mom got her dad sent to prison..."

"Her dad was named Lucius Malfoy.  After your mum got rid of Voldemort, a lot of the Death Eaters in Britain got found out, and he was one of 'em.  Narcissa, that's Lucius's wife, she says she never knew anything about it."

"Oh."

"Serpens said it'd only be a problem if he got out..."

Hagrid does not look like this makes him feel better.  “What did she say to you, exactly?”

"Uh. That he'd be mad and out for blood, and then she said she thinks we'll get along great..."

Hagrid thinks about this.

“Well,” he says, finally, “just ‘cause she says you’re friends don’t mean you have to hang around her if she makes you - uncomfortable.”

"She was weird? I dunno she made me uncomfortable though..." She shrugs.

“Well, all right,” he says.  “But there’s always plenty of people to meet at Hogwarts, don’t forget.”

She nods, slowly.

"Right, then, what's next?"

Potions supplies is next, a pewter cauldron of "standard size two" and a miscellany of tools for preparing and measuring potion ingredients, phials and tablespoons and a special sort of knife called an athame.

She seems interested when it comes time for buying books, looking around the shop with wide eyes, staring at colorful moving displays and books.

Wizarding books are just as strange as wizarding clothes!  Great and heavy and dusty, or tiny and delicate, titled in runes or syllables, bound ornately in metal, padlocked...

Her textbooks are relatively ordinary, as far as they go, but still decidedly eye-catching by muggle textbook standards.

"You like books, Harriet?"

"Yeah..." she says, voice a bit soft.

"Well, I got enough gold out from your vault for you to get a couple things for yourself, if you'd like.  Though some of these books've got spells it'd be dangerous for you to try, least for a while yet..."

"I can avoid any unsafe books."

"You're a smart kid.  Anything with advanced spells - you'll want to stick to starter stuff at first, 'specially your very first year.  An' potions can go badly wrong if you try 'em outside the classroom.  But you'll learn all about that at Hogwarts.  Let's take a look around, shall we?"

"Okay!"

She doesn't actually gravitate to anything with spells in it - she wants the magical bestiaries, and the history books, and the books on other countries...

Hagrid's grin gets especially crinkly when he watches her fawning over magical bestiaries.  He pays.

"Right," he says, "next is your wand.  And you should have your own luggage, too."

She's grinning at the books.

"Okay!"

Hagrid leads her down Diagon Alley to a narrow, shabby, dusty shop, with no gaudy dancing advertisements out front - just a sign in gold lettering saying "Ollivander's."

"Garrick Ollivander," Hagrid says, nodding toward the shop.  "One of the best in Britain."  He glances at her conspiratorially.  "Fair warning, though, he can be a bit, er..."

He trails off.

"A bit what?"

"Odd, I suppose."

"That's okay." Everything here's odd.

In they go.

It's shady and silent inside.  Thin shelves stacked high with narrow boxes.  A wooden counter with several wands on stands, all different lengths and colors.  Dust swirls in the shafts of daylight through the windows.  Quiet enough to hear their own breathing.

An old man emerges from around a corner that hadn't looked like it led anywhere.  He catches Harriet's eye, fixes her with a penetrating gaze.  Silent, for a moment.

"Verditer," he says, "or incarnadine?"

" - What?"

His hand whips up to beside his face, and he's holding a swatch of color - a light, sort of minty green.  "Verditer?"

His fingers sort of snap around the piece of paper, and it flips almost too fast to see.  The other side is a deep, almost bloody red.  "Or incarnadine?"

"...Verditer?"

"That's your answer?"

"Ah, yes sir."

The swatch of color disappears in a flutter of fingers, and he moves his hand as though to pocket it.  "Garrick Ollivander."

"I'm Harriet Evans. It's nice to meet you, Mister Ollivander."

"Evans," he muses, distantly.

He walks - stalks - toward his counter, leans forward across it and steeples his fingers.  "Miss Evans, suppose you have been cursed to transform irrevocably into an animal, and suppose furthermore that you may choose which animal before the curse takes effect.  What animal do you choose, and why?"

"Uh. A dog? They're nice... Like. A golden retriever, maybe?"

"Would you rather own a perfect broomstick, or a perfect invisibility cloak?"

"What do those do?"

"One flies on a broomstick," Ollivander says, "and one wears an invisibility cloak to become invisible, naturally."

"An invisibility cloak, then."

This goes on for some minutes.  Would you rather be an animagus or a metamorphmagus?  Suppose you have invented a spell; what does that spell do?  If you could give one wish to anyone in the world, but could not suggest what they wish for, how would you decide who to give it to?  And so on.

Her answers mostly reveal a hesitancy to leap to conclusions about what this or that magical term means. She's mostly shy, but she thinks deeply about the more complicated questions, stuttering through the bigger ones like who she would give a wish to. Still, she answers all of his questions without showing any signs of impatience or annoyance.

"Right then, Miss Evans," he says, and leans back.  "These wands," gesturing to the five on display stands on his counter, "are not for sale, but I would like you to try them."

She does so; the laurel wand with a unicorn hair core reacts the best to her, of them, though none fit her exceptionally well.

"Hmm," he says, and spins with a swish of his robes to examine the shelves of wand-boxes.  "Hmmmmm..."

"Laurel and unicorn hair," he murmurs to himself.  "I have a laurel and unicorn hair for sale, in fact, let me..."

He retrieves a box, and returns, slides it across the counter to her.

It doesn't react any better; it seems to be sliding off her a bit, somehow. Like a key that fits in a lock but won't turn it fully.

"Hmm, hmm, no matter," he says, and plucks the wand back out of her hand.  "What about... perhaps a hazel instead?"

She tries whatever wands he offers her, though none of them click.

"You don't strike me as a dragon heartstring, but perhaps against the right wood..."

"You could do well with a cedar, one day, I think, but maybe not for your first..."

"...English oak?" he says to himself.  "Here, this one, with a unicorn hair."

She waves it, still with the same careful focus as ever.

It - almost fits. She could certainly do magic with this wand, and do it well.

But it's not perfect. The wand's waiting for another wielder; she's waiting for another wand. Even if these two could get along.

"In another life, perhaps."

He takes the wand back, and examines it closely.

"I have... but no, surely..."

Another swishy spin toward the shelves of wands.  He slides another box from the shelf, narrows his eyes at it.

"Well," he murmurs, "it can't hurt to try, surely."

"Try what, Mister Ollivander?"

"Another English oak," he says, turning to her.  "But this one... well."

He hands her the wand.

She waves it, as she has every other one.

It releases a shower of golden sparks.

“Well,” he murmurs.  “How curious.  Something has a sense of humor, it seems.”

"What do you mean, Mister Ollivander?"

“That wand,” Ollivander says, “contains the tail feather of a certain phoenix.   I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Miss Evans, and the creature that gave of itself to make it.  The phoenix responsible for your wand only ever donated one other feather.”

"Was that other wand important?"

“Indeed it was,” Ollivander says, somberly. “It was discovered at the site of your parents’ murder, Miss Evans.  It belonged to the woman who killed them.”

"...Oh."

"That, I think," he says, nodding toward the wand in her hand, "is a - portentous - device."

"What does portentous mean?"

"A thing is portentous if it is foreboding; if it is a sign of great and significant things in the future.  I think these things shall be enacted by you, Miss Evans."

She seems really skeptical of that.

"If you say so..."

He smiles an almost-smile and chuckles an almost-chuckle.  His eyes move from Harriet to Hagrid.  "That will be seven galleons, and our business is concluded."

Hagrid pays, and they depart.

"You've got your wand now, Harriet," Hagrid says proudly.  "How's it feel?"