…and as most of our readers will be aware, tomorrow is young Mr. Potter’s birthday. As he reaches that magic mark of eleven years of age, we here at the Daily Prophet wish Harry a very happy birthday, and best of luck as he begins his first of many happy years at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry…

Harry scowled at the article, shoving the paper away even as his image waved back with a cheeky smile, the minister occasionally ruffling his hair. With a final glare, Harry returned to his breakfast, hoping the rest of the day would be comparably better than this morning was shaping up. He was not opposed to his publicity – in fact, he rather enjoyed attending ministry functions with his father, looking to all the world like the favorite darling. No, what angered him was the way they went about publicizing him. Father had explained it a dozen times – they’d pass some law that did nothing but pander to the muggle lovers, and then put his name in the paper to keep the public busy fawning over him and ignoring the destruction of their society.

Still, it was his birthday tomorrow – and Father had arranged a day out to Diagon Alley to finally, finally pick up his wand. Really, didn’t adults know that having to wait for such a treat was worse than being locked in a room with a Horntail? Or a mudblood.

“Bellatrix!” Harry yelled, filling the small parlor with noise. Moments later, an elf appeared – its posture a perfect portrait of submission.

“Yes young master?” the elf squeaked, eager to fulfill whatever whim Harry may have.

“Has father returned home? He said he might not return till late this morning.” The elf squealed in response, “Master Rookwood says to Trix that he will not be home before tea, and that Master Harry is to remember his Latin and French lessons, Trix is to make sure teacher is let inside.” Harry rolled his eyes, it was years ago that he had left his tutor out for an hour in the English cold, and even then it was just once. Father had made sure that would never happen again though…

“I’ll remember, but I have an hour. My broom, Bellatrix.”

With a final curtsy, Bellatrix disappeared, and Harry ate the remains of his breakfast, eager to go outside whilst he still had the opportunity.

Grabbing his broom from the threshold, Harry raced outside, enjoying the slight breeze that gave a just a hint of a chill to the summer air. For as long as Harry could remember, he and Father had lived out here in the moors, a vast area around the house unplottable to anyone not keyed into wards. It was in every sense ideal – Father could work from anywhere, wizarding transport being superior to those awful muggle contraptions – and they could enjoy privacy and freedom to do as they chose, just as Father said it should be.

Laughing, Harry mounted his broom, a gift from the Holyhead Harpies sponsors, and took off into the morning sky. Taking advantage of his father’s absence, Harry continued upwards in a lazy corkscrew, before leveling off and taking a moment to appreciate the magnificent height of his vantage point. Perhaps this was how a dragon feels? Pretending to be the beast in question, Harry let out a roar, a whooping laugh as he suddenly dived downwards, his voice lost in the wind that rushed past his ears. With a final shriek, he pulled upward, before flying at random, a set of dizzying circles and figure eights. True, the safety charms made an actual crash impossible, but the joy and exhilaration was not dulled in the slightest. Father didn’t like flying, said it was a highly impractical way to get from A to B – but Harry wasn’t sure a finer feeling existed.

All good things come to an end, and Harry was soon forced to wander back inside, not daring to be late for his lessons. After that escapade, Father had told his tutors point blank that they could discipline him as they liked, and Harry had no intention of wallowing through pages of Neptune or Cicero on his birthday, thank you very much.

Alas, as he approached the manor, he caught a glimpse of his tutor entering the front door. Hopefully she was simply early. “Bonjour, Madame Lescher, J’espère que vous n’avez pas attendu trop longtemps?”

Madame Lescher frowned stonily at the boy, but here eyes betrayed her jest. Even so, Harry suppressed the urge to gulp – recalling his first misadventure when the formidable matron had taught him proper pureblood etiquette no so long ago. “Chaque seconde que vous me faites patienter en est une de trop. Commençons donc.”

And so it went on, an hour and a half of forced French as he struggled to remember tenses English was sensible enough to ignore, Madame Lescher scolding everything from accent to word choice, most of which she attributed to his “Englishness”, with occasional references to innate stupidity and determined obtuseness for good measure. Mercifully, he was allowed to speak his native tongue when studying Latin, which in Harry’s opinion, was a very minuscule consolation.

“Au revoir, Madame,” Harry responded as his tutor disapparated at the border of inner wards. Heaving a sigh of relief, Harry returned inside, eager to see his father, perhaps even have a conversation in a civilized language...

As expected, father was in the living room, resting from what must have been an undoubtedly busy night at the ministry.

“Morning father.” Harry greeted with the aristocratic aloofness that was second nature to any pureblood child worth his magic. Then his expression changed, a grin stretching across his face as he rushed the older man and fell onto the sofa next to him.

“Morning Harry, busy day? Easier than mine I imagine.” Augustus responded with a gruff and weary chuckle, though indulging his son’s obvious excitement despite his own fatigue.

Harry mock scowled. “I don’t mind French.. not much anyway. But dad, Latin. There’s a reason no one speaks it if you ask me.”

Augustus sneered, reciting his role in the oft played argument. “If you want to quit, go right ahead. Though don’t come crying to me when  you haven’t got a clue on magical theory, and the other students confuse you for a muggle whose somehow managed to stumble into the classroom.”

Harry’s previous expression turned serious. “Did you see the paper this morning? They were praising Dumbledore, more muggleborns in next year’s class than ever before – and then they threw my name out there. Honestly father, people very well might associate me with them.”

Augustus avoided an outright scowl, the years of freedom from Voldemort’s hissyfits mellowing his more reckless outbursts – at least when in the proximity of his son. “Course they won’t – people may be sheep, but they aren’t completely blind. You are a Potter, and you are a Rookwood. and you know your family history, inside and out. When most of the common throng were struggling to put food on the family table, your ancestors had been fine tuning the most subtle of magics for generations. Don’t you forget it.

Harry nodded, the anger in the room dissipating, and Augustus stood up, stretching his arms and with a yawn finishing. “Finish whatever assignments you’ve been given – don’t want those hanging over your head, and I’ve not raised you to procrastinate.” With as close to a smile as he ever came, he added, “after all, we’ve got a full day of doing nothing important tomorrow.”

Harry scoffed. “To you maybe, but I’m getting my wand! My wand!”

Torn between happiness and irritation at his son’s increasingly foolish antics, Augustus shuffled towards his chambers, eager for a long sleep before the activity tomorrow would inherently bring. “I’ll join you for supper Harry, let Bellatrix know I want to be woken – Ministry grub these days...”

He could hardly contain his excitement. He’d been to Diagon Alley dozens of times, and while he and father normally did their shopping in the more peaceful and less…muggle infested magical district in Bradford, London’s wizarding center was nothing he hadn’t seen before. No, the true magic was just ahead, the battered sign that currently filled Harry’s every thought. Ollivander’s – Makers of Fine Wands since 352 B.C.

“Dragon heart probably.” Harry pondered aloud happily. “I could be a dragon…or Griffin feather – yours is beech and dragon isn’t it father – yes I think mine will be too.”

Augustus for his part was expending all energy keeping the pest in place, though found himself swelling with pride– his son, getting his first wand. He had been shattered when Elizabeth had died, with her the loss of a close companionship the two had shared, but just as importantly the death of his own name and future. For ten years now, the fates had brought back a part of what had been taken away, and ever since that first day years ago was he as thankful as at this moment.

That did not mean the lad could simply act like a spoiled muggle. “Slow down boy, you know perfectly well the wand chooses you and not the other way round. The two seconds we will lose by not running like idiots is a small price to pay to maintain our dignity.”

Harry did soften his own excitement slightly, but took the mild rebuke in stride, lost in a myriad of different wands, wondering which would be his.

Opening the door, Harry jumped, visibly startled when an undoubtedly very old man appeared out of nowhere suddenly inches away from his face. “Ah Mr. Potter, Mr. Rookwood – I thought you’d be around today. Yes, Mr. Rookwood, 11 inches, beech and a heartstring from a rather violent Russian Brownbelly. Firm – good for delicate charms and transfiguration. Not a bad dueling wand either. Sadly, what it has in spade for subtle wandwork, it was hardly one for grand displays, wouldn’t  you say?”

Augustus nodded, knowing the seriousness with which Ollivander took his knowledge of all things wands.

“But you knew that, obviously. But you Mr. Potter, whatever shall we get for you.” A light chuckle. “Of course, we shall do very little – it’s whatever wand takes to you isn’t it? Come along, we’ll find the right one soon enough.”

And so it began, a seemingly endless cycle of wand, until the initial joy gave way to exasperation and finally, a terrifying fear that he would have no match, that his accidental magic was perhaps something else…Harry Potter – the boy who squibbed?

He looked to his father for reassurance, grateful when he looked completely unconcerned with the entire process. His thoughts were broken by another mumbling from Ollivander. “I wander…yes perhaps we’ll give it a try.”

He brought an old box out from a nearby drawer, handing it to Harry with a calculating look. “Try it lad, humor an old man.” Harry ripped the top off, gripping the wand and immediately his whole arm tingled with a most pleasant warmth, his hand flicking upward as if the motion had been preordained, a white light leaving traces in the air.

“Oh well done!” The increasingly eccentric Ollivander hissed. “Don’t know why we didn’t try it earlier. Very unusual thing about that wand there Mr. Potter – the phoenix which donated the core of that wand only gave one other, and that wand belonged to You-Know-Who. It’s safe to say we can expect great things from you Mr. Potter – after all, You-Know-Who was as great as he was terrible.”

With those haunting words, Harry retreated towards the shop exit, hearing a muffled request for the forty galleons for the wand and the curt thanks his father gave to the wand maker. As such, he missed the pensive look that crossed Augustus’ face, and as eleven year old boys are prone to do, simply decided to push such ominous thoughts to the back of his mind, and once again lose himself in the excitement of the prize he had just captured.

Wand purchased, the remaining stops were rather anticlimactic – books, potion ingredients, a new wardrobe of robes, all were tasks that needed completion though hardly lent themselves to entertainment, and Harry went through the required motions, smiling politely at those who stopped to wish him a happy birthday, and keeping his expression civil when pointed out by mudbloods to their muggle parents. It’s no wonder we avoid this place. Still, the novelty of the day still held a great appeal, and at last the duo arrived at Fortesque’s Ice Cream Parlor.

“In you go Harry, I’ll meet you at the tables. The Nott’s should be coming any moment.”

“Theo’s coming?” Harry clamored excitedly, before remembering his original mission and turning back to the dozens of flavors at ice cream for sale. Choosing quickly, he ran back outside, eager to meet his friend.

“Hey Theo! I’ve got my wand!” Harry shouted, before pausing abruptly and with an abashed expression, regaining a more formal posture. “Mr. and Mrs. Nott, it’s a pleasure to see you once again.” Augustus bit back a retort, the boy had managed to correct his manners despite the day’s excitement after all. The Nott’s nodded, offering Harry a happy day before turning back to their conversation with Augustus.

Formalities completed, Harry once again turned to his friend, full of excitement. “Holly and Phoenix Feather. Honestly, I thought I’d have dragon, but nothing wrong with a Phoenix is there?” Theodore was more often than not a quiet boy, and even now merely responded with a shrug. Harry, used to such treatment, merely rolled his eyes. “S’alright for you, had a wand for two months now…”

The two fell into comfortable silence, concentrating on the ice cream. Finally, roused from his silence, Theodore asked, “Your dad taught you any spells?”

Harry huffed, “Says he will, now that I’ve got my wand. You know what he’s like, “Focusing your magic through a foreign wand stunts a wizard’s full magical growth” Harry mimicked sarcastically. “Course, I’ve got a good jump on magical theory but”, Harry lowered his voice into a hushed whisper, “would be nice wouldn’t it, to be able to put the muggle lovers in their place from day one.”

Theodore nodded, “Father’s taught me a wicked stinging hex, says when it works properly you can hardly sit for hours. We’ll have to trade notes once school starts.”

The two continued in a similar vein for the next hour, discussing everything from the wild adventures they were bound to have to all sorts of nasty jinxes they could come up with to play on their unsuspecting peers. Just as Harry was concocting a rather outrageous scheme that included a dragon, a vampire, and a banshee, the adults bumped into the conversation, effectively ending the daring proposals. Good byes were exchanged, and Harry and Augustus returned home, newly acquired possessions in tow.

In an instant, the revelry shifted into a much more serious mood. “Harry, go to the living room, I’ll be there in a minute.” Harry paused, wondering if to ask what the sharp request was about. Deciding against it, Harry scurried out, apprehensive with a just a twinge of nervous excitement.

Augustus entered a minute later, sitting across from Harry and looking the boy straight in the eye. “First lad, did you tell your friend about your wands connection to the Dark Lord.” Harry’s eyes widened a mixture of shock and a smattering of righteous indignation. “Of course not! I know when matters are best kept tucked away – I like Theo but I’m not a bloody Hufflepuff!” Augustus nodded solemnly, relieved and pleased – he had certainly not raised a fool. However… “I’m not so foolish to ask. Don’t think I did not catch your comments towards the muggles.”

Harry scowled, looking downwards. “I’m not sure I know what you are referring to, father,” Harry responded with the formality reserved for such uneasy situations. “You can’t worm your way out of this boy. I’ll assume you were caught in the excitement of the day, but you know what is at stake here. You know the trickery and counter trickery that went on at the ministry in the attempts to have you removed from my care. You are aware of the accusations. Do not disappoint me by giving Dumbledore an excuse to further his agenda at yours and my expense.”

Harry looked down, clearly embarrassed. Then, begrudgingly, he nodded. “I shan't do anything that would bring dishonor to our name. I won’t run my mouth or attack the muggles if they leave me alone.” He paused, waiting for his father’s nod, however short. “But I won’t go around simpering about just how wonderful everything is, and can’t the muggles come round for tea during the holidays.”

Augustus nodded. “See to it that you keep yourself clear of trouble, and whatever else you choose to do with your time is your own privilege. I expect nothing but the best from one of your breeding and upbringing.”

Harry nodded, relieved that the more sober turn of events was at an end.

Augustus too, seemed to believe that it was time break the somber mood. “Now then, it’s been a busy day. I’ll go get Bellatrix to prepare tea. Why don’t you go out and have a fly?”

Harry leaped up, surprised yet clearly thrilled. A second later, he jumped out, and with an enormous smile on his face bolted out the door, ready to once again take to the sky. “And afterwards, I look forward to hearing your piano.” Harry’s muffled “Yes sir” came to him, eliciting a small smile from Augustus. It didn’t do, after all, to spoil the child. And with a full year at Hogwarts, under the supervision of a man who frowned upon signs of pureblood superiority, it was inevitable that Harry’s lessons would slip. Best to do as much as possible before then.

Augustus lay back, allowing himself a moment of relaxation. He had raised the boy well, all things considered. He had a good friend in the Nott boy, and got on well enough with the other ministry brats. He was strong, handsome enough for a lad his age, and was proud of who he was and where he came from. Everything would be fine.

-----------------------------------------------------

“Hello to all. As we prepare for this coming year, no doubt you are all aware of the fact that Mr. Harry Potter will be joining us at Hogwarts…”

Snape hissed, interrupting the headmaster with a sullen glare. “I’m sure we’re all aware headmaster – it’s gotten to the point I can’t enjoy my morning toast without the little brat grinning at me from the headlines.”

“Severus, is that really necessary,” Minerva responded with a tight lipped frown. “I’ll admit it can at times be a bit much but it’s hardly the boy’s fault.”

Dumbledore let out a chuckle, light enough to be taken innocently, but there was nonetheless a patronizing tone, as if he were a father laughing at the antics of his children. It was an effective way to end an argument between his more temperamental Heads of House.

“I am not so much concerned about young Harry’s fame – though it is certainly not what I would have wanted for the boy – but how he will interact with his soon to be peers, given his association with Augustus Rookwood.”

Another disgruntled grumbling from Snape. “If I have looked once, I’ve looked a thousand times. Nothing in my experience under the Dark Lord’s services so much as hint as Rookwood’s involvement.”

Albus Dumbledore sighed, face laced with the accustomed weariness that had never disappeared since he had lost his link to Harry, ten years ago. “Severus, I am well aware of his…acclaimed innocence.  However, you know as well as I that Voldemort must have had a mole in the Unspeakables, and Rookwood at the very best was a staunch advocate for pureblood superiority, even if only when in the company of his most trusted confidantes. I daresay we can expect prejudices – even if cleverly hidden – to be rife within Mr. Potter’s head. And if his chosen company is any sign, then there are more than a few just as innocent Death Eaters in Harry’s immediate circle.”

“What can we do Albus, Filius and Pomona cannot be told about the more…sensitive inquiries you have made towards Harry’s upbringing. So on a practical matter, what can we do, whilst Mr. Potter is in our care, to undo the years of damage that may be inflicted upon the poor boy.”

“The poor boy, Minerva. You must be going soft in the head – he’s the little cherub of our entire world. There is nothing the boy will need, headmaster, than discipline and humility knocked into his inflated head.”

“And I’m sure that within the potions dungeons, Harry will be treated just as any other student,” Dumbledore interrupted in a placating but firm tone. “I merely wanted to ask the two of you to keep a close eye on the lad – perhaps make an effort to see that, at least within your respective classes, he interacts with the muggle-borns. As you say Severus, as well known as he is in a small circle, it cannot hurt for the boy to broaden his horizons.”

Snape did not look the least bit pleased, though contented himself to respond with a curt nod. McGonagall, tight lipped as always, allowed a thin smile to cross her face. “I have yet high hopes for the boy, that he may show the qualities endowed in his true parents.”

Ignoring the murderous look that crossed Severus’ face at the oblique reference to James, Dumbledore cleared his throat, suddenly tired of the increasing tension. “I’ll allow the two of you to take your leave – no doubt you find yourselves as busy as I am – just another month until these empty halls are filled with the cacophony of children.”

As the two professors took their leave, Albus Dumbledore looked sadly towards Fawkes, who sat peacefully on his perch. “Old friend, it is times like this that I wonder who truly emerged the victor of the last war.” Fawkes let out a soft trill, soothing the aged headmaster ever so slightly. “There is only so much one man can do, but I fear that even so I did less than I ought.”

On that less than comforting note, Albus Dumbledore reached into one of a myriad of pockets that dotted his robes, pulling out a grubby package. Unwrapping it, he pulled out a small stone, unremarkable except for its luster, a brilliant blood red hue that seemed to reflect a crimson light across the room.

For months, Dumbledore had fought an internal battle, the thought of protecting the stone within his school, dropping oblique hints to Harry along the way – just enough to tempt the boy into discovering what was being hidden. A sort of irresistible mystery that might force the boy to seek the headmaster’s assistance. Strange things were happening abroad – it would be comforting to know just where young Mr. Potter stood.

As time ran out, not four weeks from today Mr. Potter would enter Hogwarts, rational logic overpowered any idealistic hope. Harry Potter was simply too much of an enigma – it would do no good to tempt him with such an valuable prize.

Taking a deep breath, Dumbledore closed his eyes, and then with renewed determination, stuck the tip of his wand into a groove that ran along the top of the stone, and whispered, “Vitexire.” In an orange flash and a faint crackle, the stone seemed to implode, cracks spreading through its interior before it crumbled into a fine dust.

In one fell swoop, Albus Dumbledore had destroyed the greatest achievement ever recorded in this history of Alchemy. Still, Nicholas and his wife had enough elixir to get their affairs in order, and really – what was death but the next great adventure?