The Road Not Taken

(Formerly, “Wyckham Academy”)

Summary: AU: Harry Potter takes the road less travelled with an option to attend another school of magic… does being not at Hogwarts still make him the Boy-Who-Lived?

Disclaimer: I don’t own Harry Potter, any other characters, worlds, affiliates, etc., except for any new names you do not recognize which are oh-so-obviously mine.

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less travelled by,
And that has made all the difference.

—Robert Frost, 1916

Prologue

London, England: January 1, 1981

Anita Hartz rang in the New Year at a local bar with her best friend, Paige Wyckham. They had just finished their first semester of first year at Oxford majoring in English, both hoping to be teachers one day. The two instantly hit it off in the first lecture, and had hung out ever since, especially learning that they came from the same neighbourhood in Swansea.

The two staggered out of the bar as it neared 3 am, laughing and giggling over a group of students’ latest commentary on their most hated Professor. Paige was leaning against Anita, her arm slung over Anita’s back to hold her upright. Paige was, after all, more of a drinker than Anita would ever be.

“Alright, Paige?” Anita asked. She only had a pint and was the designated driver for the evening, happily giving her best friend all the drinks she wanted, with a new bottle of Tylenol at the flat waiting for her.

“Sure,” slurred Paige, giggling. They giggled together in the silence of the evening as other late-night stragglers wandered off in London, looking for their next party or a bed.

The two walked slowly down a narrow cobblestone lane, quietly giggling and looking for the nearest tube station. As they turned a corner, they heard a distant, but distinct, shout and stopped.

Although Paige was fairly gone, she had enough street-sense to sober herself up as much as possible. Anita, on the other hand, froze, and started to hyperventilate when multicolour beams of light sailed through the air. A tall, young man came barrelling around the corner, panting heavily, nearly running into the two women.

“What are you doing here?” he gasped. “Run! Death Eaters!”

Perplexed, Paige was going to ask him what he meant by Death Eaters, when he grabbed her other side and began tugging the two girls after him, back the way they came.

Briskly as a group with a drunk could be, they made it to the same bar they had vacated earlier, and entered. There was still a large after-two crowd, who were no longer drinking but singing rowdily and watching the telly: a foreign football game was on. The man they were with sunk heavily into a booth, facing the bar door but half-hidden in shadows.

Paige looked curiously at him and slurred, “What’s a Death Eater?”

The man whipped his head around to face the two women before groaning. He hid his face in his hands. “Muggles!”

“Pardon?” asked Anita, blinking. She was very confused, what exactly was a Muggle or a Death Eater? She asked as much.

The man leaned forward and said, as quietly as possible with force behind his words, “you must believe me – there is a world out there, hidden underneath your nose that would never believe exists.”

“Kind of like an underground society, then?” asked Anita.

The man nodded. “Yes. But imagine that they hide themselves amongst you. And imagine that they can do magic, where spells exist, where dragons and witches and wizards are real.”

Paige nodded along drunkenly. “I once thought I saw a dragon!” She hiccupped.

“Oh?” the man asked, raising an eyebrow.

She nodded. “I was nine an’ mum an’ dad an’ I were in Norway an’ this huge beast of a thing landed in the water and snapped a fishing boat in two!” She frowned. “We left immediately afterward, leaving our tour guide, an’ when we met up with him again he couldn’t remember the dragon, but we could.”

The man nodded. “Norwegian Ridgeback. Nasty blighters they are.”

Anita stared. “Ok, let’s humour you, and say that this world is real – who are Death Eaters?”

The man sighed. “Just like how your world has its good and bad guys, so does the magical world. And the Death Eaters are the worst of the lot.”

Paige opened her mouth to ask another question, but the man (who was looking out the bar window) gave a startled jump, and slipped a stick onto the table just as the door burst open and a voice exclaimed, “Avada Kedavra!”

A green light flashed across the room and the bartender fell to the floor, with the glass he was cleaning shattered next to him.

Following that was panic.

People began running to the doors, any exit they could find, the bathrooms, breaking windows – Paige took a step away from the booth and was swallowed by the mass of people still in the bar.

“Paige!” cried Anita, sliding across the booth seat. “Paige!”

The man reached out and grabbed her arm. “No! They’ll kill you! Your friend should be fine.”

He then motioned for her to hide under the table, following him. He fingered his stick – Anita thought it would be a wand, if he was telling the truth – and began to murmur under his breath.

He then turned to face Anita, and she sucked in her breath, startled by the intensity of the man’s face. “I’m sorry you got dragged into this,” he said. “They hate anyone non-magical, and those born from non-magical parents. Bigots, prejudice arses they all are. Just remember, we’re not all like them!”

He then turned back to face the laughing group of seven, ready to spring out from his hiding place.

“Wait!” Anita called. “Who are you? Can I at least thank you properly?”

The man looked back and frowned, before saying, “I’m Matthew. Matthew Blake.”

Anita nodded, and the man left. She couldn’t see, but she could hear. She could hear the cries of patrons in the bar, their screams of terror and sobs. She could hear a bunch of weird words and phrases shouted back and forth and things exploding and the telly bursting into a shower of sparks and cables.

All too soon or far longer that she initially thought, the bar fell silent save for four loud cracks that filled the air. Holding her breath, Anita counted to thirty and then counted some more until she heard the wail of police, fire and ambulance sirens. She then crept out from under the table, and felt her eyes begin to tear up at the carnage in front of her.

Bloodied bodies lay in the room, a few breathing shallowly and in need of medical attention. As Anita stumbled around bodies and slipping on glasses and beer bottles, she came across one person she had hoped had escaped.

“Oh, oh no… Paige…”

The medics found her sobbing next to her best friends’ corpse.

London, England: November 1, 1981

Anita was shopping for her parents’ Christmas present, even though it was two months in advance. Her studies were taking up a lot of her time and she wanted to take advantage of the break she had to get her shopping done now instead of later.

The streets were unusually crowded in downtown London, with people wearing crazy mismatched clothing and wearing robes and pointed hats. Anita didn’t think much of it, until a group of elderly women passed by, their faces bright and animated.

“– Praise be! You-Know-Who is finally gone!”

“All thanks to that young Potter boy –”

“– Poor dear… orphaned, no parents anymore –”

“– Muggles don’t seem to ever understand –”

Anita stopped, and turned to face the women, calling out loudly, “Excuse me?”

The three, all wearing those funny robes and pointy hats, looked at her blankly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear, but you… you said ‘Muggles.’ Do you mean non-magical people?” Anita was grasping at straws. For days after Paige’s death, and weeks following that, she almost didn’t believe that magic was real and that Matthew Blake had kept her safe. But she could never forget that New Years Day, even if she wanted to. Those scenes still visited her in her dreams.

The three women shared uneasy glances, but Anita interrupted quickly. “No, please, I’m a Muggle, but my friend, we were attacked earlier this year by Death Eaters–”

One woman let out a murmur. “You poor thing, survived, did you?”

Anita nodded.

The other two murmured their own condolences and one pursed her lips before looking around. She stepped forward and wrapped her arm around Anita and asked, “Can you take a walk with us, dear?”

Anita nodded again, feeling foolish. She was far too trusting. “I can finish my Christmas shopping later.”

With the older women congregating around her, they walked off, and Anita learned more about the wizard world than their government wanted Muggles to know about, especially without any family involved in their world.

London, England: June 23, 1984

Anita had grown close to her elderly witches, and spent every free weekend she could in London having Sunday tea at the Leaky Cauldron. Initially surprised to find such an establishment existed, she quickly grew to enjoy the quirks of the wizard world and found herself defending non-magical people – she took a quick disliking to the term “Muggle” as she considered it derogatory term – from prejudiced wizards.

Her matrons were Augusta Longbottom (whose son and daughter-in-law were tortured to insanity just days after she first met them), Matilda Warbeck and Michaela Davis, who happily informed her of the comings and goings of the wizard world and when they learnt Anita wished to be a teacher, began telling her tales of Hogwarts.

And after each one, she found herself getting more and more upset.

The wizard world seemed to completely neglect muggleborns, who give up seven years of their life only to be disregarded because of their background. There was also a high illiteracy rate in young wizards and witches who did not receive the proper help when their ailments were discovered.

When Anita began to explain how non-magical children were educated, and how Hogwarts should offer more courses, Ms. Longbottom quipped, “Why don’t you do something about it, dear? You are going to Canterbury Christ Church for your PGCE this upcoming September, and will be a licensed teacher in the eyes of England and Scotland.”

Anita was floored; she would be a teacher and could do something! It was then with Ms. Longbottom’s words, and Ms. Warbecks’ and Davis’s encouragement that Anita got through her ten-month program, while planning on opening a new school for witches and wizards – one where they would receive a far greater education than Hogwarts offered.

London, England: May 6, 1985

Anita finally graduated from Christ Church and had spent the past month writing her proposal for the Wizengamot and the Minister of Magic.

Ms. Longbottom had graciously pulled a few strings and Anita had a date for when she was to pitch her proposal for a new wizard school in southern England.

Nervous, but resolute, Anita began her presentation by listing the curriculum of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, before beginning on her own elementary and secondary education, citing differences and similarities. She then explained what she would teach her school, why each subject was important, and how they could use the skills her school would teach in real life scenarios.

The entire body of witches and wizards seemed entirely unmoved, especially Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, but Anita ploughed on, and on, showing diagrams and giving lesson plan examples; she cited teaching theorists and ESL methods until she was red in the face and when her voice was hoarse and her body fatigued.

“Thank you, Ms. Hartz,” said a witch named Amelia Bones. “You’ve given a thorough and detailed presentation.” The more polite members of the board clapped. “You will receive our answer within a few weeks.”

Anita was dismissed, and more than a little dismayed.

Swansea, Wales: May 22, 1985

Anita knew she didn’t sway the wizards; they were too far set in their archaic and strict ways of life to think about integrating a new school system – it went against Hogwarts, which was steeped in tradition, and insulted their very race.

Unhappy, Anita begged off two Sunday teas with her favourite ladies, opting to stay at her parents’ country house while looking for teaching opportunities in the local paper.

Lounging peacefully on an outside chair, Anita was more than a little startled when a brown owl swooped down next to her, with a letter attached. Still fairly wary about owl communication, Anita thanked the bird, who flew away, and unfolded the square piece of parchment.

Dear Ms. Hartz,

While you did not meet with me during your presentation of May 6th, please know that I was watching from the observation stands – as my status and name allow me to do. Do not be alarmed Ms., as this is merely an informal letter from me to you, with certain propositions involved that I believe to be mutually beneficially.

You see, my name is Nicolas Flamel, and with the sway that I and other certain members of the Wizengamot have, I am pleased to be the first to say that you have the go-ahead, with Ministry approval, to construct your proposed school…

On November 28, 1985, the Wyckham Academy of Magical Learning was technically open, with all construction completed. By December 14, all major International wizard and non-magical newspapers had advertisements for open teaching positions ranging from biology to alchemy, physical education/kinesiology to transfiguration, and art/music to wizard law and politics.

By the end of January 1986, the first round of hiring took place, under the careful eyes of Anita Hartz, Nicolas Flamel, Augusta Longbottom and Michaela Davis. Anita was overly happy and surprised to see that her New Years Day saviour, Matthew Blake, was an entrepreneur and CEO of Blake Communications: a Muggle-wizard public relations company. He was applying for the position of business and communications professor. Anita hired him on the spot, and then asked him to have coffee with her.

In March, the house elves were hired, the Muggle government had Wyckham Academy listed as a special education learning institute (where “we’ll contact you if we’re interested” was the motto), and Nicolas Flamel had set up a scholarship fund with Gringotts who were more than happy to accommodate the old and powerful wizard.

At the end of Hogwarts’ 1986 school year, when they were sending the students home on the Hogwarts Express, Wyckham Academy sent out brochures to all muggleborn, half-blood and pureblood students at Hogwarts to explain about Wyckham Academy and their mission. Children who just turned eleven or were going to before December 31 were also contacted about Wyckham. The teacher applicants were all chosen and settling in to their new roles by this time, happily writing theory texts and conducting experiments before the school year began.

By July 1986, the professors of Wyckham Academy (a delicious mix of purebloods, half-bloods, muggleborns and non-magical staff totalling 35) were travelling all over the UK to visit with families who inquired about Wyckham Academy.

By mid-July, Wyckham had enrolled 20 first years, 13 second, 8 third, 16 fourth, 22 fifth, 7 sixths, 4 seventh years, and 2 recent Hogwarts graduates who were interested in Wyckham’s optional “eighth” year.

By the time the 1986-87 school year finished, the Wyckham graduates were praising the Academy and more students enrolled for the upcoming year.

From there on, Wyckham Academy became Hogwarts’ main competition.

Harry Potter, turning eleven in three weeks, always knew he was special – but never in his right mind did he actually believe he was this special!

A week ago, at the beginning of July, a brochure and information package had been sent to Number 4, Privet Drive, addressed to his Aunt and Uncle, care of Harry Potter.

At first they had been surprised, but not too surprised. His elementary school had mentioned in his report card that they would possibly be sending his and Dudley’s school records to the house as Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had not specified where the two preteens would go to for their secondary education.

When Vernon and Petunia had opened the package though, they were surprised by the official notification letter on cream paper, which was printed out specifically for Harry’s guardians with reference to his name. They were surprised by the colourful multi-page pamphlet that had pictures of students in a high-tech science lab, wearing lab coats, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the library, and indoor gym and swimming pool. But there were other pictures as well: pictures of students waving sticks and working over cauldrons, flying around on broomsticks in the air, playing some sort of sport.

At first Uncle Vernon wanted to chuck the brown envelope and its contents, but Petunia said something that caused both Harry and Dudley – who were eavesdropping – to start.

“This isn’t from Hogwarts, Vernon; it’s not from the school my sister went to!” Petunia whispered harshly. “Look at the pictures; read the letter sent along by the Headmistress, they combine normal classes with those freakish ones!”

“Do you think that freakish school will send the boy a letter as well?” asked Vernon gruffly.

“It’s possible.”

“And what are your feelings on this, Pet?”

Harry held his breath. Would he finally learn about his past? His parents?

“I would rather the boy go to this Academy place than Hogwarts. It looks better than what Lily used to say, at the very least. I suppose it’s the boy’s choice.”

Aunt Petunia didn’t sound all that happy to say that, though.

And a week later, his Aunt Petunia called up the information phone number for Wyckham Academy. A day after that, the Headmistress/English professor was sipping Earl Gray, commenting happily on the furniture to Aunt Petunia.

“Harry? Are you all right?” the woman, Anita Hartz or Professor Hartz as his Aunt wanted him to call her, asked.

Dazed, Harry could only murmur in reply, “I’m a wizard?”

Anita glanced at his Aunt, who sat stiffly in an armchair, staring at the wall. Not finding any help there, Anita began to ease Harry into the world she had been introduced into five years earlier.

Anita told him of his parents – what she knew from gossip and fact – and about Hogwarts, while trying not to put it down too much (it wasn’t really her fault that Wyckham snatched up the majority of muggleborns and a good deal of talented purebloods and half-bloods, it was just a better school!).

Harry took it all with a grain of salt, eager to impress Anita by not lashing out at his Aunt for hiding most of this information from him his whole life. Finally, Anita began to point out things of interest at Wyckham Academy and explain the optional year.

It was sometime during their conversation that Petunia retrieved the mail, and with it, came Harry’s Hogwarts letter.

Anita did her best to explain the letter, similar to how Ms. Longbottom explained it, and fell silent. Petunia watched Harry with narrowed eyes while Harry bit his lip, thinking about which school to go to.

Finally, he looked up and said, “I’ve made my decision.”

Petunia sat stiffer than before, her eyes were fixed firmly on her young charge. Anita put down her tea cup and gave Harry Potter all her attention.

Harry took a deep breath, put down both acceptance letters and the Wyckham Academy pamphlet. He then said, while looking Anita in the eyes, “I choose your Academy, Professor.”

Unfortunately, it seemed his Aunt and Uncle were very eager to have Harry shipped off to a boarding school for ten months of the year, and asked if it were possible for him to leave immediately.

Anita, flustered, answered, “Well, of course, technically, Harry did choose Wyckham…”

Vernon swelled and said heavily, “Then he can bloody well go now, right Professor?”

Anita, trapped, nodded in surprise, and watched as Harry retrieved his meagre belongings from a hallway cupboard. Now suddenly furious, Anita asked Harry to wait for her outside so they could go to London and buy his school supplies.

Once he was gone, Anita rounded on the Dursley’s so fast, she nearly lost her balance. Threatening them with Child Services and the Regional Surrey Police, Anita explained that there would be hell to pay, and she promised they would be hearing from her again in the near future about their charges’ neglected welfare.

Without waiting for a reply, Anita strode out the door, ignored an old woman in a shawl, and unlocked her BMW for Harry to enter.

She didn’t talk until they were twenty minutes from the Dursley’s residence.

“What’s your favourite school subject, Harry?” she asked, trying to sound bright, and forcing the dark thoughts swirling through her brain into a corner for later evaluation.

The boy shrugged. “Dunno, really. The Dursley’s weren’t happy when I came home from school with better grades than Dudley so I stopped trying. It helped when I missed school.”

“Was there something you liked before that happened?” asked Anita, scolding herself for thinking about making a U-turn and running the family over ‘accidentally’ if she came upon them.

“I did like English, because I like reading. I’m a good runner, too, so any exercise was nice.”

Hoping to brighten the young boy up, Anita chirped, “Well, Wyckham Academy does have mandatory exercise classes for all students, to keep obesity down and our students fit. One is a heavy-duty course that is geared toward body-building and strength, where you complete an obstacle course and work out at the gym. First years won’t have a detailed regime, but it does help overall. It includes martial arts and street fighting. The other option is a dance class, where you learn steps from swing and jive to Latin ballroom and hip hop. Both are vigorous,” she added to Harry, facing him at a red light.

“Which would you suggest for me?” he asked. “As it’s mandatory?”

Frowning, Anita shrugged and pressed on the gas when the light turned green, and a few minutes later, turned on the M5. “It really depends if you join any clubs. For any of the sport clubs, like duelling, Quidditch, or even football teams, you should take the physical one, not the dance.”

“I don’t really play sports, though.” Harry seemed disappointed by this.

“You said you can run well,” commented Anita. “Perhaps you can also kick a ball at the same time and be an awesome footballer!”

Anita led Harry toward the Leaky Cauldron, humming the Macarena. “Non-magical people are called ‘muggles’ by the magical world and they can’t see Leaky unless it’s pointed out to them.”

“Is this how you get to Diagon Alley?” asked Harry, smoothing down his jet black hair.

Anita nodded. “There’s a brick wall in the back; when you have your wand, you tap the correct pattern on the bricks and the wall opens up.”

“So what happens when you don’t have a wand?” asked Harry, slightly alarmed. Hartz introduced herself earlier as a straight non-magical person.

Anita laughed. “The barkeeper, Tom, knows me pretty well. Also, Auggie will be there with some muggleborns to show them around, so we coordinated our times.”

“Auggie?”

“Augusta Longbottom. Her grandson, Neville, is your age. Actually, his birthday is a day before yours. He’s also going to Wyckham,” commented Anita, holding the door open for Harry. Whispering, she added, “Move quickly, and don’t say your name. You remember what I said about the rabid ‘Boy-Who-Lived’ syndrome these people have.”

Harry grinned, remembering, and moved quickly toward an elderly lady in a vulture hat. She was speaking to a group of parents, their children listening avidly. A chubby boy with brown hair was at her side, looking embarrassed and lonely. He had apparently heard all this before.

“Hi Auggie,” said Anita, waving slightly, “got another to add to the group.”

Augusta nodded, smiling pleasantly. “And this, ladies and gentlemen, is Anita Hartz, the Headmistress and English professor at the Academy.”

Anita made introductions, as Harry moved to the boy’s side.

“I’m Harry Potter,” he said, offering a hand.

“N-Neville L-Longbottom,” the boy stuttered. He seemed to be in awe.

Harry sighed. “I’m just Harry, really. Until two hours ago, I didn’t know I was also the Boy-Who-Lived.”

Neville’s eyes went round, but he nodded anyway. “A-Are you going to W-Wyckham Academy too?”

Harry smiled. “Yeah, it looked better than Hogwarts did. Are you going because your grandmother knows Hartz?”

Neville shrugged, now seemingly getting over his previous awe of the black-haired boy. “Gran isn’t too happy with Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts, lately. He keeps sending letters to Anita, insulting her courses and complaining about how Hogwarts is turning into a pureblood school because she gets all the muggleborns.”

Harry frowned. “That doesn’t sound too nice. Hartz was pretty unbiased when she described Hogwarts to me. I just liked all the courses offered at Wyckham compared to the smaller amount at Hogwarts.”

“Wyckham’s got a huge list of courses,” agreed Neville, glancing at the bushy-haired girl who was tuning in to their conversation. “First and second year is pretty much the same, but in third year you can start adding electives.”

“How do you know all this?” the girl asked, in a slightly bossy tone. Harry was wondering as well.

Neville blushed. “Anita Hartz, the headmistress, is a good friend of my Gran. She was my babysitter while in university. You could say she’s my honorary Aunt.”

Harry smiled again. “Lucky you, you know what to expect!”

Neville smiled back. “Not really, Anita would just gloss over things or look at files while with me. She’s helped me with a few basics, but it wasn’t until my uncle dropped me out of a window that my family realized I was a wizard and not a squib!”

“Squib?” asked Harry, while the girl gasped, “out a window?”

Neville blushed again. “A squib is a person born into a magical family but without any magical powers. And most wizard families do something to get the magic in their children… um… shown, I guess? That why I was dropped out a window and bounced all the way down! Didn’t get a bruise!”

The girl looked ill, before shakily extending her hand. “I’m Hermione Granger. I’m a muggleborn, so I don’t know anything yet, but I really hope to learn so much…”

“Neville Longbottom,” replied Neville.

Harry shook the girls’ hand. “Harry Potter.”

Anita and Augusta called for attention and the large group entered Diagon Alley, moving to Gringotts first to exchange or take out their money.

Hartz said loudly, “I’ll take a small group to Gringotts and move in the opposite direction as Ms. Longbottom, so we aren’t one large group moving from one spot to another. Harry – you’re still with me. Anyone else?”

Neville moved to Hartz when his Gran motioned for him to, and Hermione tugged on her parents’ hands. Two others joined the group.

“Great, let’s go,” said a cheery Hartz. On the way to the glowing white building, (that was slightly lopsided) Hartz explained the monetary system, an unbiased view of Goblins (which she then compared to the biased view most wizards had), and a brief history of Gringotts.

Neville was happily filling Harry and Hermione in about the do’s and don’ts and the how-to’s of the wizard world, explaining their courtesy rules and the traditional Pureblood ranks. Harry was mildly surprised to find out that as the last surviving Potter he ranked as a Duke.

Of course, then Neville explained that the heredity titles were merely for show, so despite being a Duke, Harry had virtually no power. The English purebloods held more respect for the titles because it was a throwback to bygone days when tradition meant everything, so Harry could expect to be addressed as “His Grace,” every once in a while.

Unfortunately, when Harry inquired about his family’s status – thanks to Neville explaining his “rich, celebrity” Boy-Who-Lived title – Harry wanted to know about the family vaults and business ventures. The goblin, mildly surprised at the young human who wished to know everything, said, “Goblin Vergsnak is the head of Wizard Liaisons, he can direct you to an accounts manager.”

Harry followed the goblin’s pointy finger to a lone goblin, which if Harry was entirely truthful with himself, looked very bored, and was stamping papers dully.

“Thank you,” he replied politely, and told Hartz. She nodded and said not to take too long, but he had a good half-hour; the non-magical parents and children were taking a little longer setting up direct funds transfers and accounts for their children.

Harry explained what he was hoping to learn to Vergsnak when he was told to come to the counter. Vergsnak seemed very surprised, but nodded thoughtfully.

“It is understandable, Mr. Potter. Let me check my records as to who oversaw your finances. You wouldn’t happen to have you key, would you?” Vergsnak asked.

Harry frowned. “Key? I’m sorry, Mr. Vergsnak?” at the goblin’s stare, Harry changed the honorific. “No then, Goblin Vergsnak. I never received a key to enter my vaults. I wasn’t aware I even had a vault until today, coming here.”

Vergsnak looked floored, and frowned, his pointy teeth grinding together. “Very well, this is very distressing.” He held out a tiny rectangular onyx box, with a round opening at one end. “Place your finger in there. It’ll take a blood sample, which will verify you are Harry Potter.”

Harry followed the instruction, watching in awe as the box glowed blue, and handed it back to the impatient goblin.

“Very good, Mr. Potter. Right this way,” Vergsnak had left his counter, placing an ‘Out of Service’ sign in cursive script on the top, and motioned for Harry to follow him off to a darkened side of the bank. Slightly wary, Harry did so.

Instead, as they rounded a corner, they entered a well-lit library-like room. The room was long and filled with black granite and glowing white marble; tapestries of goblins fighting others hung proudly behind lower counters where goblins spoke with others in hushed voices or looked over large stacks of paper and ledgers.

Vergsnak stopped at one of the counters half-way down the room. The name plaque for this goblin was ‘Goblin Grosberg, Wizards’ Accountant.’ Harry started; he wasn’t aware rich wizards had accountants.

“What is it, Vergsnak?” asked Grosberg.

“Mr. Potter has requested an oversee of his family’s accounts, Grosberg. Who is in charge of them?”

Grosberg frowned, reaching below eye-level and pulling on a drawer handle. He began looking through the papers, alphabetically, until he reached ‘P’ and pulled that folder out.

“Parker… Parkinson… Patil… Perks… Pitman… Pipers… and here we are: Potter.” Grosberg held out a single, small cream card. “The accountant in charge of the Potter estate was Goblin Ragger, who was dismissed in 1981 by a Mr. Albus Dumbledore.”

“What?” Harry yelped, slightly appalled and hysterical. He drew attention from goblins around, but didn’t apologize. “My family’s money has been sitting around, gathering some interest or being decimated because someone not involved in my family made a decision?”

Grosberg and Vergsnak shared a scowl. “This is a mistake, Mr. Potter,” admitted Vergsnak. “To have this happen and quietly so we goblins would not know; well, we apologise.”

“So what now?” asked a dismayed Harry.

Grosberg looked up from the paper. “I would suggest one of our best accountants, Mr. Potter. Archibald Wallace is a wizard who has worked for us since 1845. He takes on clients that we refer to, and before beginning to work on their accounts, swears a wizards’ oath to never do intentional harm to that family’s money.”

Vergsnak nodded. “That would be the best idea. Shall I take him up now?”

Harry glanced at his wristwatch and saw only ten minutes had past. “I can only do this for another twenty minutes or so. I’m on a bit of a tight schedule, if you don’t mind…?”

Grosberg nodded, and Vergsnak motioned for Harry to follow him again. Desperate to learn more, Harry began asking some of his own questions that he learnt from Hartz while walking to Gringotts, to get a goblin’s perspective.

Vergsnak seemed surprised to learn that Harry knew some very unbiased and favourable views of goblins, and the two engaged in a conversation about the wizard world, prejudice, history and viewpoints.

They reached Wallace’s office soon, and Harry reluctantly said goodbye; Wallace had called, “Enter,” so Harry turned the door handle and entered a lush gold, maroon and brown office.

Wallace was old; he had thinning, messy white hair, dull brown eyes, and a smirk on his face. His clothes were dated and creased, and Archibald Wallace gripped a wooden walking cane tightly in his right hand.

He was also standing by a window overlooking Diagon Alley, and only turned when Harry cleared his throat.

“My, my,” the old man whispered, in a soft, gravely voice. “You are completely a splitting image of that sly old dog, Rex Potter himself.”

“Rex Potter, sir?” asked Harry, taking Wallace’s offered client armchair.

Wallace grinned, “Your great-great-grandfather, Mr. Potter. Now, what can I help you with?” the man sank down into his own chair with a sigh of pleasure.

“My accounts sir; I wanted to learn more about them, but it seemed they’ve been in limbo since Albus Dumbledore told my family’s previous accountant to bugger off.”

Grinning at the curse, Wallace laced his fingers together and nodded. He snapped his fingers and immediately a small green creature popped into existence, carrying a large box. Wallace took the box, thanked the creature called Toppy, and began to pull out ledgers upon ledgers. The creature had since disappeared.

Wallace quickly scanned the latest financial records, humming and huh-ing, a frown becoming more and more prominent as the minutes crept by. It was nearing the twenty-minute mark since Harry left his school group; Wallace finally sighed and closed the ledger he was looking at.

“Mr. Potter, I give you my word as a wizard, and family man, that your family’s money will be safe from outside harm, and from any intentional harm that I could cause,” the man spoke in his gravely, serious voice, his wand in hand and glowing brightly.

Harry was in awe of the display, and felt something in his chest respond to the oath.

“Now that that is settled, let’s see what we can clean up here, quickly,” began Wallace. He began to scribble things in a new ledger with a pencil, explaining as he went along.

“So, Mr. Potter, your family has lost a lot of money due to the dismissal of your previous accountant, and due to money being lost in failing businesses. I understand that you are beginning your first year at… the Academy? Yes? Excellent, there is a man there by the name of Matthew Blake. He started and owns Blake Communications, an excellent PR company. PR companies like Blake Communications represent and promote other companies’ products in the business world, Mr. Potter.” Wallace peered at Harry. “Blake is also the business professor at the Academy, so I would suggest taking his business course when you enter your third year. It will prepare you for these accounts later on.

“You are entitled to withdraw 500 Galleons in total from your trust fund each month. The majority of this will go to the Academy as tuition, but you will have more than enough left over. I will be sending you monthly reports with advice on to which stocks to sell, buy, and which companies to sell off. In these reports you will also receive the total amount of monetary and liquid assets the Potter name holds, including ancestral homes. Does this make sense?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Harry, a little flustered.

Wallace sent a sheet of parchment across to Harry. “This is the current outlook of your accounts, Mr. Potter.” He then slid across a new, crisp ledger and something that seemed to be a cross of a briefcase and a mini-trunk. “This is a Business Case. In it, you can store on shelves your monetary amount, or however you plan on separating items. It’ll help keep things in order. Take it. The ledger is self-updating and will show the current value and interest in your vaults: your trust, and family.”

Harry nodded.

“I will contact you again in a month, after your birthday. Hopefully we’ll have more time later on in our relationship, and begin a wonderful relationship. Goodbye, Mr. Potter,” finished Wallace, standing shakily, and holding out his hand. Harry shook it, grinning happily.

“The goblins have also left this for you,” the man said, pointing to a pouch. “That is a good deal of money that will help you get your school supplies; be wary, it’s mixed with Muggle currency, as the Academy goes to London for some items. Your trust vault key is also in there; goblins use it as a way of entering your vault to get money.”

Harry, happily surprised, said, “thank you, sir, so much! This has helped me immensely.”

“I’m glad,” smiled Wallace. He let go of Harry’s hand and then smirked. “By the way, Potter – Rex was an adventurer, you know. Always got into trouble, that bugger did, and he would drag me along with him. I daresay that you’ll live up to him… I would look him up in Wizard Genealogy.”

Harry nodded, taking the advice. He left soon after, and met up with Hartz, who had just finished with the Grangers.

“Okay?” she asked, concerned. Harry nodded.

“Superb.”

Getting his textbooks was a hassle, especially with Hermione. She wanted to know everything, literally, and almost bought a copy of every book on the course list until third year – but her parents and Hartz stopped her, while Hartz pulled her aside and has a whispered conversation with the girl. Hermione seemed to deflate, but also nod in resolution. They seemed to have come to some agreement, because Hermione put back many of her books; she did, however, buy two that were not anywhere on the course list.

Harry decided upon a snowy owl from Magical Menagerie, and on Hartz’s suggestion named her Hedwig (something about a notable witch in history). Neville had a pet toad, so he didn’t buy anything. He did get a tube of dead flies for Trevor, though.

Harry was very excited about his wand. He wasn’t sure what to make of Ollivander though. The man was scary: he was quiet and always whispering, but quite convinced that the perfect wand was out there for each child that came to his store.

When Harry stepped up, Ollivander remarked on his parents’ wands, and began to thrust similar cores and woods at him. So far, Harry blew up a vase, shattered the front display window, blew up six wand boxes, snapped a wand in two by touching it, and had two vacant chairs shoot to the ceiling and shatter into billions of pieces.

Finally, Ollivander brought out a dusty box from the very back of his shop; he was muttering, “curious, very curious,” over and over as Harry tried it. A glow surrounded his body: it was white while his wand emitted green, blue, and red sparks that took the shape of snitches and a bear-like dog.

“It is curious, Mr. Potter,” remarked Ollivander on prompting of Harry, Hartz, and Hermione’s part, “that this wand’s core animal gave one other. And that wand where the core resides, I’m sorry to say, is in the wand that gave you that scar on your forehead.”

Harry frowned. “Voldemort’s wand.”

Ollivander shushed him. “Wizards do not like hearing You-Know-Who’s name. They fear it.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s just a name, but okay. How much is it?”

“Your wand will cost seven Galleons.”

Harry was quiet for the rest of the purchases in Diagon Alley.

Because of the non-magical classes and Wyckham Academy’s non-magical participation in events, uniforms were issued from an independent school clothing manufacturer in London centre.

Near that outlet factory was where the students could get their English texts (Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet and Twelfth Night, William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, L. Frank Baum’s The Wizard of Oz and Berholt Brecht’s play Mother Courage & her Children), and all their other non-magical texts.

They also laughed and enjoyed a free ice cream purchased by Ms. Longbottom and Hartz. While in London, Harry spent more time talking to Hermione with Neville, learning about her opinions and how to get around the city.

It was quarter past five when they finished getting their magical supplies and non-magical in London. The parents began ushering their children back toward Charing Cross to their parked cars or toward a mass transit system. Soon, Harry was left with Hartz near her BMW.

“To Wyckham?” she asked, after they loaded Harry’s school supplies in the boot (except for his owl, which sat in her cage securely strapped in the back seat to avoid jostling).

Harry nodded firmly. “Hey, Professor?”

“Yes, Harry?”

“Thank you.”

Anita smiled. “It’s never a problem, Harry.”

TBC…

Written: April 2007; edited: July 2008.

Beta: Geri