Cosa Nostra

04. The First Steps

Blackness.

What is it? The absence of light, a world devoid of all color. They say the night can be black, but I've seen it for myself. The night is never black, life is never stagnant. Someone's always awake, someone's always whispering to themselves right before they die.

Sometimes I see faces and screams, my subconscious berating me for the life I live. Sometimes they're morphed, with me as the victim and the shooter as my former target. It never ends well, it's those dreams I like to stir myself out of.  

I would say that the screams make me want to reform myself, to become a better person. Like quitting smoking really, people think that quitting makes them a better person.

But I don't. I enjoy every goddamn moment of it.

Tonight however, I found the blackness. Complete and utter peace, a time devoid of all dreams and thoughts. The lucidity of my dream was refreshing, albeit painful. The dark smoke that clouded my thoughts gave way to something else, something far more vile. Tonight, I saw something, something that was so real.

A black throne, layered in dark rubies and gold engravings. The tall back of the throne was decorated in serpents -- long, winding snakes that seemed to move of their own volition. I could hear them speaking, chants of sibilant noises that echoed in the dimly lit room. Their language was foreign, with a lisp that I couldn't quite place.

Torches flickered to life around the room, faint light that now punctured the darkness. I could see a dark, cloaked figure standing in front of me. I felt as if I had taken the throne, assumed the role of power itself. The serpents whispered to me, chanting to me in their own fashion. The man before me trembled, his thin frame quivering with fright.

I felt disgust at the sight, a man so weak that he trembled. He was not fit to exist in this world, not fit to stand where he was. Not fit to be a member of my army.

My army?

I wondered at the thought; it seemed so foreign, so strange. As if it wasn't my own at all, but of another.

I turned my attention back to the sniveling man in front of me, I could make out wisps of  pale, blonde hair from beneath the cowl of his robe. A white, skeletal mask covered his face, cloaking any features that could discern him from any other.

“You have failed me, Lucius” I said, my mouth and tongue moving of its own accord. It was an odd sensation, as if I was a detached partisan of my own body. I could observe, but my actions were not my own.

“My Lord! I beg your mercy! His forces appeared before we could complete the task!” pleaded the blonde-haired man.

I blinked in my state of semi-consciousness and felt the air around me go cold. A looming chill that resembled a cool wind coming through the barest slits of a window. A short exchange of words occurred between members and “myself,” yet the sounds seemed faded and blurred.

“You will not fail this next task, my servant. It would be…ill advised to lose my favor once more.”

“I live only to serve, Master” murmured the blonde-haired figure, bowing low to kiss the hem of my robes.

“Should you fail, even death will not prove to be your sanctuary.”  

The light, burning sensation that I had felt in my scar grew stronger, heavier. It felt as if someone had impaled it, as if blood was being drawn and collected with meticulous detail. Piercing fire coursed through my body -- my breath caught in my throat. I was slowly suffocating, my lungs were on fire; burning with tremendous fury --

And then it stopped.

I took in a sharp breath and raised myself by arms, chest heaving heavily as drops of sweat cascaded from my forehead into the opening of my mouth. I snapped myself out of unconsciousness and looked at the bedroom around me.

The peeling paint was just where it had been the night before, the two twin beds only a few feet away from each other. The red-headed boy -- Ronald had it been? -- still slept as if nothing had affected him in the least. The wooden floor was still covered in a thin layer of dust, cobwebs clinging in corners where the ebony floor met dull white walls.

I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and let out a heavy breath

“What the hell was that,” I muttered to myself.

“Spider,” mumbled Ron. “No spiders…please.”

I cocked my head towards the young boy. He was still fast asleep, auburn hair covering the majority of his face as his head sank into the pillow. He had been asleep when I entered, and the realm of dreams still swept through his mind.

Dreams.

What had that been? A nightmare? I never saw those figures or that room before in my life, they were completely foreign to me. Yet some part of it was so alive -- so real. An out of body experience, maybe?

Yeah. That sounded right.

I lifted myself up and swept up my gun from underneath my pillow -- my own personal James Bond effect. Once the gun was tucked in my waistband, I lazily swept down the hallways of the house, my footsteps on the floor echoing in the silence. I moved down flights of stairs, the ancient oak wood creaking in response. Some strange portrait was covered on one of the walls, maybe these people didn't always want the portraits looking back?

I meandered through the hallways of this “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place,” noting the variety of magical behaviors that went on throughout the house. I found rooms with rows of some type of shrunken heads, vaguely reminiscent of a gnome or some-type of disproportioned elf. They were of a deep gray color, marked with large ears and protruding snouts. Large rounded eyes stared blankly in front of them, brimming with loyalty.

I passed a room with an involved family tree spreading throughout the room, several members of which were burned off of the tapestry. The winding tapestry ran the length of the room, connecting to different surnames and often crossing with the original lines again.

Inbreeding. How kinky.

My feet soon found themselves in the middle of what looked like a kitchen. A variety of chestnut brown cabinets lined the walls of the room, an unlit stove existed in one corner where two long rows met. An icebox adorned one of the far walls, just next to a window that was opaque enough to block all incoming light.

I opened the icebox and removed what I hoped was something edible -- a bowl of some wizard representation of cereal. I was about to sit down when I heard rapid, terse footfalls coming down the stairs with practiced efficiency.

Sitting down on a chair whose back faced an empty wall, I began to pour myself some of the food, mixing it graciously with milk as I did so. The footfalls led to the entrance of the same girl I had seen earlier -- the brown-haired child from the previous night.

She was garbed in average sleepwear; a loose shirt that concealed two round, average sized breasts and cotton pants. One lightly tanned hand rubbed a light brown eye as her other hand ran through her curled, and somewhat ruffled, hair. She froze upon entering the room, physically trying to calm every movement while she attempted to nonchalantly take a bowl and sit down across from me.

I leaned back, amused, and watched her shaking hand raise her spoon from the bowl to her mouth with consistency.

“Sorry” I began kindly, “I didn't mean to startle you last night.”

She froze, spoon halfway to her mouth and arched one eyebrow. Her posture relaxed slightly, elbow resting against the table and bent at a minor angle.

“It's alright” she said with a hint of wariness. “You're Harry Potter aren't you? The Boy-Who- Lived?”

I inclined my head in response, “That's what I'm told. May I ask your name, Miss…?”

“Hermione. Hermione Granger” she said, offering her hand over the top of the table. I smiled courteously and took hers in my own, gripping it lightly. She relaxed after the motion, as if the great mystery that was myself had dissipated into the wind.

“Do you go to a different Wizarding school?” she asked carefully. “I've never seen you at Hogwarts.”

I raised an eyebrow. “I've lived in the normal world for my whole life” I said simply. Her eyes widened, a flicker of disbelief going through her features.

“You've never learned about magic then?” she asked with keen interest.

“Correct,” I said, a slight undertone of ice in my voice. If she caught it, it was immediately disregarded as she leaned forward in her chair, eyes sparkling with interest.

“I didn't know about magic for a long time either, I'm a muggle-born.” Here she paused to see whether or not I was familiar with the word. “It's really interesting, there's so much to learn about.”

“Such as?” I asked, a note of wry amusement in my tone.

“Well,” she began slowly, “magic has been around for hundreds of years, since the time of Merlin himself. It was even used in the Feudal ages -- back when magical and nonmagical people still interacted together. Wizards frequently aided Muggles, some of them even performed rituals to secure the loyalty between vassals and lords.” I didn't miss the obvious excitement in her tone.

“And when did the magical world decide to go into hiding?” I asked. My curiosity was genuinely piqued, and this young girl was all too willing to give information.

“1692, with the passing of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy. Everything went into secrecy after that, in order to avoid war with the Muggle people and the government” she provided accurately.

I blinked. I don't consider myself to be a champion of history long past, but I knew the literature worth reading. The Salem Witch Trials actually hunted true witches. Interesting.

I opened my mouth to ask whether or not there were regular individuals who knew about the Wizarding world but was cut off as a variety of figures entered into the kitchen.

Ron entered, led by a plump, maternal looking figure with short, red hair. The older woman had rather puffy cheeks, a frilled nightgown on, and weight that came with large family dinners and deserts -- she immediately set off to bustling around the kitchen. Following the young red-haired boy, was a small, petit girl entered with the similar ginger hair of the family. Her gaze fell on me and she flushed a light rouge shade.

The troupe froze when they finally saw me, the mother with her spatula half raised, Ronald in mid-yawn, the girl creeping back slightly.

I simply ate my cereal.

Ron moved forward, messy auburn hair askew. “You're Harry Potter,” he said, awed, “You killed You-Know-Who.” Contrary to the Hermione's tone, he sounded emphatically involved in greeting me.

I tilted my head to one side, “Quite, though you may need to clarify,” I remarked dryly.  The redheaded boy seemed perplexed for a moment before he opened his mouth once more.

“But that's what everyone says” Ron exclaimed in a hushed voice. “That's why you have the scar! It's because you were the one that killed You-Know-Who.”

I cast him a doubtful expression but otherwise returned to consuming the food in front of me. I raised the silver spoon halfway to my mouth before I was interrupted yet again by the young wizard who had taken to sitting across from me, a few seats down from Hermione.

“Can I see it?” he asked, a note of excitement in his voice. He raised his pointer finger to my head, said long finger quivering slightly. His eyes were wide with anticipation.

“See what?” I queried.

“The Scar” Ron whispered, revering the pale marking upon my forehead as if it was a holy grail. I chuckled mirthlessly and leveled my gaze with his. A flash of fear flickered through his eyes, yet his excitement overtook any rationality that he possessed.

My lips settled in a predatory smirk. “This isn't a museum, kid. Save yourself the embarrassment and me the time” I said coolly. His face fell, fists balling underneath the table.

“I'm not a kid” he retorted loudly. “I'm as old as you are!”

I inclined my head in partial agreement. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

He frowned and tried for a more friendly approach, standing up in his chair and offering out a hand. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Name's Ronald Weasley” he offered.

I stared at the hand deftly, a nagging thought at the back of my mind.

“Only shake the hand that you want to keep close to you. Enemy or friend, make sure you want them to know a little bit about you.”

One of Vanzetti's earliest lessons. I stared at the boy in front of me with a contemplative gaze for a few seconds, considering my options. With Hermione it had been a simple matter of reconciliation and polite behavior; this boy was different. He was asking for an alliance, a friendship to form between us.

I didn't see the usefulness of the kid.

I stared at his proffered hand flatly for a moment before reaching for my spoon that had lay dipped into the cold milk of the bowl. He slowly retracted his hand, body tensed, and returned to his seat at the table.

A vague silence overtook the table, only broken by the successive cracking of eggs into a large frying pan and than the subsequent sizzling of eggs and bacon, the toasting of bread, and the pouring of an orange-colored juice into several goblets. The clattering of utensils shortly followed, a cadence of metal on ceramics.

I rose from my chair, pushing it in as I swept away. Maybe I should've taken a risk to stay with the Vanzetti family. It would've been much more comfortable and meaningful than sitting around for a “family” breakfast in the morning.

I shivered at the thought.

- - -

A few short hours later found me leaning against a wall in one of the smaller studies, a roaring fireplace lit with heat emanating from the hearth. A large crowd gathered in front of it, numerous amounts of the children that I had seen earlier combined with several of the adults. I noted the pink-haired Tonks, now utilizing a light green shade of hair, a slightly shorter nose, and clover-green eyes.

Others that I had not met were also present, including the scarred-man with an azure eyeball and a tall, balding, dark skinned man who advised us on the general rules of safety in a deep baritone voice. Both figures exuded authority and power -- neither of which had to do with the wands that were hidden amongst their loose robes.

“Right then,” began the grizzled man, “Name's Alastor Moody for those who don't know. It's either Moody or Mad-Eye to you kids.”

I felt his gaze drop on me, or at least his rotating electric blue eyeball did. It was oddly disturbing, being watched by something that wasn't real. It locked with me for a brief second, before spinning rapidly around inside the man's head.

“Stay in groups at Diagon Alley” Moody barked sharply. “Make sure there is a member of the Order with you at all times. War isn't a time for making pleasant conversation with strangers.”

“But professor” began Hermione slowly, “wouldn't it be better to coalesce into one large group?”

Moody let out sharp, gruff laughter. “And let ourselves be a large target? Bah! Smaller groups make it much more difficult to attack us all at once” he grumbled. He began to hobble towards the fireplace, placing more weight on the leg that wasn't a prosthetic.

The disfigured man took hold of a large pot that stood over the mantle of the fireplace and withdrew a generous portion of the Floo powder before handing it to everyone in the room. I felt the familiar finely crushed pebbles between my fingertips, the coarse material grinding against my skin.

“Potter, you're new to this” growled Moody. “Toss the powder into the fire and say the location clearly. It's Diagon Alley.”

As if in example, Moody threw his generous handful of powder into the flames, clearly stating his location. The flames flared into a harsh emerald, raising in intensity but not in heat. The scarred man withdrew a gnarled, yet slender, wand from within the folds of his robe and held it at the ready before entering the flame. His body disappeared in a roar of fire, leaving only a pale orange flame where once emerald flames stood.

Emerald flames? I always knew the Wizard of Oz existed.

I stepped forward, standing in front of the flames as the heat warmed my face. The flames seemed to leak out of the fireplace, urging me to touch them. I threw the powder into the flame carelessly, opening my mouth.

“Diagon Alley” I intoned clearly. The flames bellowed in response, conflagrating to new heights and power. This time I didn't tarry to test the waters of the flames.

I entered. The fire growled its acceptance and consumed me, flames licking my body but  leaving my flesh intact and not scorched. Green flames changed into darkness, enveloping my being as I felt myself being whisked away.

My world refocused as I found myself being pushed out of a fire with near-instant speed. I was prepared this time and stepped out of the large, human sized fireplace with efficiency. My eyes scanned the setting, reflexes kicking in from years of refinement.

I was in a pub, a variety of the patrons scattered around the room under cloaks and cowls. The bartender stood behind a long table, cleaning several large glasses with a clean rag. A variety of glasses hung over the barman's table, each being suspended in the air as if by an invisible force. Behind the bar stood a row of what I assumed to be liquors -- Ogden's Firewhiskey, Dragon's Breath, and a strange, unmarked petulant green liquid.

Small fans covered the top of the room, each rotating slowly with measured efficiency. I smelled the stench of ale and food in the air, a mix of beer and some type of pasty being cooked. The barman looked over to me and his eyes widened slightly, somewhat frightened, surprised, and in awe. I saw his mouth form the words “Harry Potter” silently.

I heard the flames roar behind me again and a variety of figures came out in quick succession -- most notably the Weasley family and the young Granger girl. The members of the Order instantly fanned out across the room -- Moody edging near the back door, Tonks only a few feet away from myself, and the dark-skinned man moving to triangulate around the group.

A sharp grunt from Moody coerced the group forward, I followed but I felt the burning gazes of everyone in the pub. I guess I could reason why -- I was dressed in normal attire, the same clothing I had when I came to Grimmauld Place. The rest of my troupe was garbed in robes, and where the rest of them seemed carefree, I met each of the patron's eyes with equal ferocity.

We moved to the back of the pub with precise efficiency, avoiding interaction with any of the moving members. We were soon located in the back of an alleyway, while Moody held his wand in his hand and tapped specific bricks on the walls.

“There we go” he murmured to himself.

The bricks rattled powerfully and dust crumbled from beneath the stone slabs. They folded inward, parting within one another to move to the sides of the walls. The interlocking bricks parted to create a pathway, a doorway to another world itself.

And my God, it was amazing.

Through the doorway I saw columns of stores that ran the length of a long alleyway -- very much in resemblance to the London Underground. Hundreds of wizards and witches traversed the narrow passageway, garbed in an assortment of different colored robes, hats, or some even in seemingly normal attire.

Buildings lined the streets, many of them resembling early twentieth century architecture with shingles that were barely hanging on or buildings that seemed to held up by the frames of magic itself. Shopkeepers stood outside, pitching their new products while large signs stood behind their windows. Young children clustered outside various shops -- the largest crowd around one that depicted a sport of several people mounting brooms and flying.

I've seen some pretty amazing places in my life: the Coliseum of Rome, the London Bridge, the Palace of Versailles, The Louvre. But never had I ever seen a secret that had been kept for hundreds of years -- a secret that had been under my nose all of my life.

It was inconceivable, that a secret of such great magnitude was hidden. If a commercial center like this had been lost to the world, what of other deceased civilizations? The Library of Alexandria could have been cloaked by the guiles of magic. The Bermuda Triangle, perhaps a whole veiled civilization of magical people? Mount Olympus -- a colony of wizards and magical creatures instead of gods? Perhaps the lost City of Atlantis wasn't as lost as I was led to believe.

My feet walked forward of their own volition while my eyes were enraptured by the world around me. Some older people, of their late teens, were playing games with one another that involved the dismissal of sparks from two wand points. Their faces captured by jubilant glee, carefree and innocent.

“Neat, isn't it?” asked Tonks from my left side.

I blinked and was woken from my reverie, eyes sweeping to my side to see the woman standing next to me. She had caught me at my weakest point, and she knew it.

I don't like being caught at weak points, but hey, even the best of us slip up sometimes.

“It's unique. Not what I expected, to say the least” I replied, schooling my features. A wry smile sat on her lips but she said nothing more.

We moved forward through bustling crowds and shopping students to where a large, cathedral-like building of white marble towered above the surrounding buildings. I noticed my company had gone shy of the Weasley members -- they had broken off from the group with Moody as their guard to go peruse an assortment of other shops.

I walked up a shallow staircase of similar white marble and passed through two large, bronze doors. The words “Gringott's Wizarding Bank” were emblazoned in fine gold plating over the top of the doorway. Inside of the building was a surfeit number of tellers, situated on desks that ran the length of the main hallway. Some were tallying large stacks of gold, while others weighed rare jewels the size of my fist.

The creatures that were the tellers however, were not human. They were small, malformed creatures that vaguely resembled the Goblins of lore that I had read about in childhood. Stout figures with protruding snouts, long ears and beady eyeballs moved throughout the bank, often carrying large piles of paperwork.

Born and raised in fantasy gone awry -- that's me.

Tonks stopped moving and I paused, watching the young witch carefully. She reached a hand inside of her side pocket and fished around for something before she removed a small key and handed it to me.

“Your vault key,” she said. At my questionable expression she continued, “Dumbledore told us your parents left their vault to you in their Will, it's all yours now.”

I grasped the key and felt the cool metal in my hand. It was a heavy thing, probably made of bronze or perhaps brass.

I don't like to rely on people -- never have and never will. If I have to rely on someone, I like to rely on the living. So here I came to a crossroads in the laws that I followed -- this was breaking two laws at once.

But then again, money could prove to be a valuable resource. The world is ran by it, the greedy pursue it while those in control hold large stores of it.

“I would like to make a withdrawal.”

- - -

“Standard Book of Spells: Grade Five” I mused to myself, fingers flying across a number of tomes in the crowded book store.

There were rows of texts, mounds of books, and ladders that traversed the multiple shelves of the busy store. The store smelled of dusty old parchment and paper -- which wasn't that far off because half of these texts were made with parchment. No wide-ruled stacks of paper here, just rolls of parchment by the foot.  In my left hand was a packet of quills and inkwells that had been used in years past.

Students and adults alike passed by the shelves of books, some of them with less than savory expressions. Most of them however, shared that look of joy and happiness to be returning to school. I guess a lot had changed from when I went to public school. But then again, I had changed a lot since then too.

I picked up one of the said novels that I was looking for and placed it into a large bag. My eyes scanned the shelves for anything else of usefulness -- anything that would help me play catch-up with my soon-to-be peers.

My eyes landed on the Standard Book of Spells: Grade Seven.

I like to tell myself that I'm a smart guy. Magic couldn't be harder than some of the areas that I've been forced to study in. It seemed to be a point and shoot topic; not much theory, just spells.

“It's mostly practical anyways” I murmured before grabbing the seventh year text from the shelf. The layer of dust coated my fingertips as I slipped it into my increasingly heavy bag.

“Not really” said a new voice.

I jerked my head upwards from the shelves and my eyes landed on the figure. A young girl, around my age, with gentle, light locks of brown hair cascading down the sides of her face to her upper back. Piercing hazel eyes stared back at me, watching me with careful and meticulous precision. She walked towards me, the motion all hips and long legs, seemingly refined from years of use. Her robes were elegantly designed, accentuating two orbs of milky flesh that lay beneath them while a short cut ran along the legs, providing for ample movement. Usability and style all in one.

It took quite a lot of self restraint to keep the dirty thoughts away.

“Theory, is just as important as actual spell work. What's the use of a few words if you don't know how to make it work?” she asked wryly.

“Perhaps,” I returned, reaching out to grasp one of the books on a topic called Transfiguration.

“Mm.” She raised a dainty hand to grasp a text on the details of formulating Potions, opening it. After a few page flicks, her pert nose scrunched up in appall.

I watched her carefully out of the corner of my eyes, all the while perusing texts that I required for the upcoming term. She exuded sophistication, or more precisely, aristocracy. Movements were elegant and defined, yet I could feel something looming beneath it. Something complex -- not good, but not necessarily evil. Cunning, would be a more fitting term.

“Are you attending Hogwarts this autumn?” she queried, eyes sweeping up from her readings for a moment to look at my own. I met them with equal intensity, from the corner of my eye.

Very few people can hold my gaze. I'm told most of them see a heartless person, or someone so bent on  success that it incites fright. In my life, only a handful of the Vanzetti family had held my gaze, and this newcomer Dumbledore.

She didn't falter.

“Correct. Are you already attending?” I asked courteously. A half-smile quirked on her lips, baring the tips of white teeth.

“I'm a fifth year student. Have you had a chance to purchase a wand yet?” she asked, taking a step closer to me. I raised an eyebrow speculatively. Intuitive, too. Intriguing.

 

“And what would give you the belief that I'm a fledgling magician?” I asked evenly, rotating to face the young girl. Her eyes flickered with vague amusement.

“That's a first year text. Transfiguration for Beginners is a book that parents buy their children for Yuletide gifts during their first year at Hogwarts. It's supposed to help prepare them for final examinations,” she provided casually, motioning to the book in my hands.

My eyes flickered down to the text in front of me, verifying the title. I could even see the illustration of a pin being transformed into a matchbox -- it was juvenile at best. Unfortunately, I couldn't even do that.

Oh yeah, the picture was showing how to do it. Ergo, the pictures moved.

“How astute. I'm afraid I didn't catch your name, Miss…?” I trailed off.

She considered me for a moment, meeting my eyes again with unwavering certainty. She extended a hand, vertically, knowing all the implications that came with it.

“Daphne. Daphne Greengrass” she said. I gripped her hand lightly, the corners of my mouths tugging upwards to form an amused smile.

“Harry. Harry Potter.”

Daphne's eyes flickered up to my forehead for the shortest of moments, enough to verify the jagged scar that was barely visible over my fringe. Her hand gripped my own lightly.

“Well, Harry, I was on my way to Ollivander's myself. Would you care to join me?” she offered. She made a sharp jutting motion with her chin to signify the exit.

I inclined my head, “After you, Daphne.”

We moved through the bustling passageways of Diagon Alley, abandoning my guard en route to the building that lay just across the street. Flourish and Blotts lay behind us, Ollivander's lay ahead. I could hear the bustling activity of something nearby -- perhaps a demonstration of a product of some sort. It obviously wasn't dangerous, noting the cheers and chuckles that ran through the crowd.

My eyes followed Daphne the whole way to the store, she was an interesting character. She was the type of person that moved against the flow of a river, and succeeded. Every motion was done with precision and grace, seemingly innocent. But underneath that calm exterior, I could feel the intricate pattern of thought that emanated from her.

Of course, maybe that observation was skewed by…other factors.

I held open the door for Daphne as we entered  -- see, I'm still a nice guy -- a bell chiming in response over the threshold. I entered into a dusty room with small boxes that towered to the ceiling, covering every inch of spare space. A back workroom was dimly lit and barely visible among the boxes yet I could make out the silhouette of a small man from the candle flame within the room.

“One moment,” he called from the depths of the room.

A short moment later, a portly man emerged from the back room. His eyes were a deep blue color, almost oceanic with a vastness that showed his life. Grays wisps of hair lay atop his head, windswept upwards and to the side. He withdrew a small handkerchief from his pocket and padded his condensing scalp. His eyes turned to me and he pushed the round frames of his spectacles further up his nose, eyes sparkling with interest.

“Ah, Mr. Potter, a long overdue customer. And good day to you, Miss Greengrass. 10 Inches,  Walnut, Unicorn hair is it? Still fully functional I hope?” asked Ollivander, eyes alit with anticipation.

Daphne nodded pleasantly, “Still perfectly functional, Mr. Ollivander. I do hope everything is in order?” she asked kindly. Ollivander's eyes flickered over to me for a split second before he nodded shortly, a barely visible movement.

“And you Mr. Potter, I do expect you are in need of a wand?” he prompted. He relaxed somewhat as he swiveled away from Daphne, only to tense when he met my gaze.

“Correct, Mr. Ollivander. Is there a selection of wands to choose from?” I queried. He let out a light chuckle and shook his head.

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. It is merely a matter of finding which of the many combinations are aptly suited to your person. Which is your wand hand?” said Ollivander. He withdrew a small, silver measuring tape from his pocket and opened it.

The tape moved of its own volition, measuring the right arm that I had held out before him. The tape traveled the length of my arm: shoulder to wrist, wrist to fingertip, elbow to wrist. Ollivander took careful note of each of the numbers and murmured in agreement to himself, and seemingly, the tape.

He walked behind the counter and to the back of the store, shuffling boxes until he removed an armful of possible choices. He opened the first box and held it in front of me.

“Twelve inches, willow, dragon heartstring. Give it a wave,” instructed Ollivander.

I grasped the wand and gave the man a questioning expression before I flourished it in front of me. A thunderclap sounded inside of the room and an invisible force lashed out in front of me. The air blurred in front of me, something moving rapidly until in made contact with a vase. The vase shattered with a loud clatter upon impact, falling to the floor in a myriad of pieces.

“Not that one, I think,” said Ollivander slowly, prying the wand from my clenched hands.

The ebb of magic felt good inside of me, almost addictive. It was close to something I had felt before, the same amount of pure power and infinite energy. The same direct flow of energy I had felt with my own forms of magic.

And so the process continued, several wands were given to me and were taken away just as quickly. Some flicks and swishes were met by uncontrolled colorful sparks, others by some more entropic effects. Daphne stood silently behind me, the only sound coming from her were chuckles at my misfortune.

“Try this one,” suggested Ollivander, removing a particularly dusty box off of the shelves. “Eleven inches, holly, phoenix tail feather as its wand core.” His tone had changed, from childish anxiety at a new customer to staunch wariness.

I lifted the wand out of the small box and felt warm, pure power course through my veins. It was refreshing, and compared to the others, it felt just right. Goldilocks and the Three Bears here I come.

A swish later found neat, golden sparks spewing forward from my wand. The old wandmaker was ecstatic, eyeing the tool in my hand with utmost fascination. I watched him expectantly, half-waiting for him to tear the wand out of my hand or cry for joy.

“Mr. Ollivander?” I asked slowly.

The man's glazed over eyes shook out of their reverie and he stared at me with interest. “Do forgive an old man for his momentary gap in time. Every wand I sell has a history, and that one, has one of the most unique” he began with a reminiscent tone.

“That wand in your hand, is peculiar. It has never been sold, never reacted reasonably well with any other wizard or witch. It is the brother of the one who gave you that scar” continued Ollivander, gesturing to the marking on my forehead.

I blinked. Wands had histories now, even related. Maybe this guy was a little touched in the head, he definitely wouldn't be the first of overworked old men to suffer from dementia.

I smiled kindly, paid him the galleons he requested, and moved to exit the store. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Daphne jot down what looked like an address before passing it to Ollivander. The wandsmith nodded slowly and went off to the backroom again to indulge in his own activities.

We walked out of the store, the bell sounding our exit as we left. Once we stepped outside however, we were greeted with a rambunctious crowd, all cheering jubilantly. I spared a glance to Daphne and saw a slight bitter scowl wash over her face for a faint second. I almost missed the motion -- almost.

“The Minister has come to town,” she provided, waving a vague hand towards the center of the crowd.

And so he had. In the center of the crowd, moving towards a large building at the end of Diagon Alley was who I assumed was Cornelius Fudge, the Minister of Magic. He was a moderately sized man, regal purple robes, trimmed with golden filigree,  covering his torso while a small bowler cap sat upon his head. He had a slightly pudgy face, with the drooping cheeks of age. By his side walked several of his advisors and assistants, including one man who looked vaguely familiar to the Weasley clan.

“He's a bought man,” I murmured. The signs were obvious, the slight fear he held in his eyes as well as the greed in his lavish spending of fine silk robes.

“A weak leader,” said Daphne with distaste. “A man like him halters progress in the world.”

I couldn't help but nod my agreement. From what I'd heard about this man, he was a weak politician who was trying to secure a falling power base. A leader that was too weak to rule with a strong fist, and too publicly involved to hold any strong opinions.

No, it wasn't the Minister that I cared for. It was the puppet master who was pulling the strings behind the show.

“Is that Harry Potter over there! Come young man, do come forward!” shouted the Minister over the crowd.

I stood  at the door to Ollivander's while the crowd became quiet and heads turned, each trying to find me. Political ploys.

I moved forward through the crowd as if I had parted the rivers of the Nile itself. The crowd was silent, some of the murmuring silent prayers that I had survived and returned to their world while others watched me with piqued interest. The sound of my boots were the only noise that echoed in Diagon Alley, clacking against the stone with defined movements. The Minister smiled broadly and gestured me forward, as if coercing a small child into his arms.

“Minister Fudge” I greeted, holding out one hand in a universally recognized sign. His grin, if possible, broadened as he shook my hand with enthusiasm, pumping it strongly. I grasped his hand with a vice-like grip, letting him know that this wasn't a social call.

“Welcome, welcome Mr. Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived has returned!” he proclaimed, not noticing the grip I had placed. A cheer went through the crowd and I couldn't help but smile, albeit coldly.

Worker ants. Every single one of them. Wizards weren't intellectually superior to their normal, Muggle counterparts. They were just as gullible, just as blind, just as easily won over.

“Mr. Potter! John Robinson, Wizarding Times. Where have you been all these years?” a man called from the crowd. A flash of cameras went off while Fudge's hand was still interlocked with mine, but I turned my attention to the news reporter.

Where had I been? I had been living in London on the streets, doing what it took to secure an empire. An empire that was crumbling, one that would take time to rebuild.

I flashed the reporter a mechanical smile, “Here and there” I replied cryptically. The crowd chuckled while the reporter frowned, obviously displeased.

“Now, now, John. No need to immerse the boy in politics just yet” chided Fudge, placing one arm on my shoulder. I flinched and cast the Minister a cold glare. He saw the unspoken threat and relaxed his grip until it was barely touching the outside of my jacket.

“Rita Skeeter, Daily Prophet. Tell the readers of the world, Harry, is there a special someone in your life?” asked Skeeter. The cosmetically affected reporter's lips settled into a sweet smile, casting me an overly friendly wink.

Scandals, scandals. Tut tut Miss Skeeter, word wouldn't get out if I slept with even you.

I offered her a quaint smile, “Maybe another time, Miss Skeeter. I'm simply here to do acquire my purchases for the upcoming term” I responded, averting conversation.

Rita Skeeter didn't miss a beat, “How's an exclusive at 4 o'clock at the Leaky Cauldron? You have quite a following, you know.”

I inclined my head politely, “I must decline, Miss Skeeter. I really should conclude for the day. There are just so many things to see and very little time to see them,” I said, beginning to move away.

“What about the threat of war Mr. Potter? Do you believe You-Know-Who has returned?” called another voice from the crowd.

I stopped moving while the crowd died down and watched me expectantly. I felt Fudge's grip tighten on my shoulder, his eyes moving nervously around in its socket. An important question, one that could curry me political clout or shatter whatever image I possessed. I could practically feel the anxiety of Fudge from behind me.

“Don't make enemies hastily. Make sure there are few that know you are against them” 

An article of advice from Vanzetti, one that I'd put into use.

I turned to the crowd, “I will withhold my opinion on this upcoming war until there is more substantial evidence to be seen.  Good day” I said with a tone of finality. I felt Fudge's grip relax as he turned towards me with beaming pride.

I outstretched my hand again and he grasped it, I could feel the moisture between his fingertips.

I grabbed his fingertips hard and pulled him towards me while the crowd dissipated around us. My mouth was just outside his ear while my hand crushed his fingertips.

“You owe me,” I said softly, no malice in my tone. “When the time comes, I expect for you to return the favor, regardless of whoever's payroll you're on.”

The Minister of Magic blanched, all color draining away from his skin while a new round of sweat beaded on his forehead underneath the purple bowler hat. He nodded shortly and I released my grip, giving him a kind smile as his left hand nursed his red, knobby fingers.  

“What do you want?” he asked warily, hand still trembling.

I smiled kindly, “Nothing extensive Minister. Just your friendship, perhaps a favor or two.”

He frowned but nodded slowly, surveying me carefully. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my guard beginning to close in on me. I offered the Minister a reassuring smile, meeting his frightened eyes.

“Good day, Minister.”

I've said it before, and I'll say it many times more. I like holding the pieces of the puzzle. I was off to a good start, a Minister with a large favor owed to me, a few allies made along the way, and even the public held me in good regard. I was gaining territory in spades.

For the first time I realized that the Wizarding world was fragile. Ran by corrupted officials, operating to cloak the true problems of the world, and ruled by power. On one side sat the benign Dumbledore, on the other, the corrupted Voldemort. Both had their hands in politics, and both were well versed in the arts of magic.

I could play two sides, I could keep myself safe without having to rely on an old man. All it would take would be the small debt here, maybe another ally there, and I would be positioned perfectly.

Maybe I could go one step further. Maybe I'd stay here and grasp the reigns of a falling government -- push it where I wanted it to be pushed. With my back turned to the minister, a cold smile graced my lips.

It was just like London, all over again. This time however, I would play to win.