A/N: I'm a bit embarrased about how long it took me to write this chapter. . . it's not like I have a good excuse either. . . oh well, here it is. Sorry if it's a bit boring.

Chapter Two

"Something happened!"

Boromir reluctantly followed Hagrid. However little did he want to stay and listen to "Professor" Dumbledore's chatter, he was not especially inclined to go with the man-mountain that was Hagrid. Unfortunately, if he read the look that Hagrid was giving him correctly, he did not have a choice.

So, there he was, boots and trousers draped over one arm, the other holding his surcoat up around his knees, and walking into another hall which reminded him of the Throne Room in Minas Tirith (minus the throne), which only further reminded him that he would never see the White City again, at least not with living eyes. This brought a lump to his throat, which angered him, so Boromir gritted his teeth and ran to catch up with Hagrid. He was beginning to have and inkling of what it was like to be a hobbit.

"Entrance Hall," Hagrid grunted. "Fur enterin' the castle."

They entered a small room. It was bare, except for a large open hearth, a crock-pot containing some white powder, and a painting of a girl sitting in a meadow of flowers. Boromir barely spared the painting a glance, until a grey pony galloped into the picture. A knight ran into the scene, tripping over his own feet and crying, "Avast, ye fiendish beast! Stop I say!"

Boromir's eye's widened, but before he could say anything Hagrid yanked him around to face the afore-said hearth, in which there was now a blazing fire.

"Righ'," Hagrid said, "all yeh got ter do, is take some floo powder an' chuck it in the fire."

Hagrid demonstrated by grabbing a pinch of the powder and tossing it into the flames, which then turned green.

"Then, yeh get in an' say the name o' the place yeh wan' ter go, the Leaky Cauldron."

Boromir stared at him incredulously. "I am supposed to get into the flames?"

"Yeah."

People have called Boromir many things, but cowardly is not one of them. Nor is suicidal.

"No."

Hagrid growled. "It won' 'urt yeh, but if yeh don' get in there righ' now, then I will."

Boromir decided that it was better for his own health if he did as he was told, seeing as Hagrid was about four feet taller than him.

Scowling darkly, he glared at the merrily crackling fire. He was not particularly fond of fire, no matter how useful it was. This was due to an accident that he had when he was eight, involving playing too close to the fire and burning clothes.

It had been a traumatizing experience, and not something that he particularly wanted to happen again.

He threw some floo powder into the fire and it turned green again. Right before he got in, he turned back to Hagrid. "Are you sure –"

Hagrid pushed him.

It was a pleasant surprise when he did not burst into flames.

"Oh."

Hagrid was looking at him impatiently (when was he not?), so Boromir said hastily, "The Leaky Cauldron?"

He began to spin. It would have been nice if Hagrid had warned him of this.

Boromir automatically tucked his arms in tightly and squeezed his now soot-filled eyes shut. After what seemed an age he flew out of the fireplace and onto the floor. Boromir staggered to his feet, and swayed for a few moments until he stopped feeling like he was going to be ill.

The noise was incredible. The room was packed with robed figures in various stages of breakfasting and bustling around. One table was particularly loud, as its occupants, a family of redheads, deemed it necessary to shout their opinions across the table to each other.

He startled as a floating tray whizzed past him at high speed, weaving in and out of various objects until it skidded to a halt by its designated table.

Boromir was roughly shoved forward towards the bar, where a wizened hunchbacked man stood, cleaning a glass.

"Tom," Hagrid grunted, "two rooms."

Tom grinned toothily and nodded, but said nothing.

They went through a door that led into a small courtyard surrounded by a brick wall. Hagrid walked up to the wall, took a pink object out of his coat and tapped it on seemingly random bricks.

Boromir discovered that the bricks were apparently not random, when an arch appeared, leading onto a crowded street.

"Yer list," Hagrid said. Boromir assumed he meant the envelope Dumbledore had given him, so opened it and took out the parchment inside. He looked briefly at the strange runes on the parchment before saying to Hagrid, "I can't read it."

"Yeh can't read – bah. . ." Hagrid grumbled. He snatched the pieces of parchment from Boromir, tossed one away and read the second. "Righ'. Get yer wand now."

Boromir had the strangest sensation that Hagrid's sentences were getting shorter and shorter.

Hagrid ploughed his way through the crowd to a shop and shoved Boromir through the door. He left without any explanation.

The walls of the dusty shop were lined with shelves, making it look like an archive – except instead of books and manuscripts, there were long, thin boxes.

"Hello?" Boromir called, wondering what exactly he was supposed to be doing here.

A small wizened man appeared from the back of the shop. "Hello!" he said in an irritatingly cheery voice, "I'm Ollivander! You must be a muggleborn, because I have no idea who you are! Hah!"

"A what?" Boromir wondered if this was some sort of insult.

"A person whose parents aren't magical, of course! Now then – wands!"

Boromir had no idea what a wand was, and was about to ask, but Ollivander had already disappeared. He came back with an armload of those slim boxes, which he dumped at Boromir's feet.

"You're going to be a tricky customer to match, I can tell!" Ollivander cried gleefully.

Wonderful, Boromir thought, another eccentric old man.

"Maple, unicorn hair, eleven inches." Ollivander took a stick out of one of the boxes and handed it to Boromir who looked at the stick (or 'wand' apparently) blankly.

"Well go on, give it a wave," said Ollivander impatiently.

Feeling dubious, Boromir waved and – nothing happened. Not like he had expected anything to happen anyway.

Ollivander snatched the wand out of his hand. "Nope!" he said, looking delighted. "Here, here, this one! Ebony and phoenix feather, eight inches!" The wand was snatched back almost as soon as it was given to him. "Beachwood! Nine inches! Dragon heartstring!"

This time when Boromir waved the wand, blue sparks shot out of the end. "Something happened!" he said in utter astonishment, dropping the wand.

"Yes," Ollivander agreed, looked extremely disappointed. He heaved a great sigh as he put the wand back in its box and started wrapping it in something brown similar to parchment. "Something did."


By the time Boromir collapsed onto his bed back at the Leaky Cauldron, he had a throbbing headache and he was exhausted.

Boromir had the feeling that he was being punished for trying to take the ring –and part of him thought he deserved it. Yet, if Boromir was honest with himself (and he always tried to be, except for recently when had started ignoring the rational little voice in his head) he wondered if he really deserved being trapped in the body of an eleven-year-old in a world full of insane people who seem to think he is a wizard. Was the guilt of betraying his companions and possible bringing forth the downfall of Middle Earth not enough?

Evidently not.