You raise the coffee cup to your lips, leaning against the side of a bakery and away from the press of the crowd. It's Saturday morning and London is bustling.
Despite almost sleeping through your alarm, you managed to get up, get dressed and get here by 9:30. You don't really have an idea when the Headmistress will come, but it's not like you have anything else to do today.
Distracted, you put away your phone and it's games, opting instead to watch the crowd to calm your nerves. It's been almost a week since you first learned about the existence of magic, and besides waking up to a cat that turned into a table, it's been a very normal week. It honestly wouldn't be surprising if you had chalked up the entire thing to an alcohol infused dream and not spent the bus fare to come here.
But being a scientist meant trusting in what you can see. Well, usually. Sometimes. It's more of a metaphor, really. In any case, you doubt the cat hair on your counter is an optical illusion. At least you think it's cat hair. It's not yours at least, too coarse and short. Then again, it could have been hair from strays that had clung onto and-
Alright, you admit it. You're a bit nervous about all this. You're scared of how this day will change you, of what you're going to learn. A whole new world of magic isn't exactly like going to university. A woman turned your tea table into a cat by touching it with a stick! There is a very high chance you're insane, but the fact that you haven't seen anything 'untoward' during Fresher week speaks against it.
A black stray meows at you as it stalks by. You meow back.
You take another sip of the warm coffee. You're starting to regret your decision to wear you "interview clothes", as you called them. A black collar shirt, charcoal dress pants and polished business shoes, the ensemble that helped you get onto the Oxford register but is now killing you slowly in the heat. You've been standing out here for a good while, and it's only been getting worse; people are starting to stare. You would have avoided the hot drink, but you need your wits to be as sharp as possible.
Your eyes still wandering unconsciously, you drain the last dregs of coffee, check the lid if you had won anything, then throw the cup into a nearby bin. You step further into the shade, trying to find to keep yourself cool. Really, it's been half an hour, surely there would be...some...sign....
There's something wrong with the street.
No, not with the street itself. Not the pavement, or the sidewalk or even the cars. No, there's... something weird about the people. They all look normal, shoppers and families and friends all out and about on a Saturday morning. It's the same crowd you would see anywhere in London, or the country for that matter.
No, it's something about the way they're moving. Some hint of coordination, something deeper about their movements that shouldn't exist. It's like watching ants marching; an act deeply inhuman in it's nature. The hair on the back of your neck stands up, and something tells you that all this is
wrong, that the street shouldn't make sense, that Charing Cross is a street that
you shouldn't be on-
"They can't see the pub." A voice states cheerfully next to you.
You jump in fright, and then stare at the woman who appeared next to you. It's her. Headmistress McGonagall, and she now looks more like a witch than before. Probably the hat.
"I hope you weren't waiting for too long, Mr. Bell." She says, eating a bun between sentences. "There was a sale on spiced buns and it's been a rather long time since I had one of these delightful Muggle inventions."
You stare at her in shock and confusion, your thoughts disordered.
Muggle? What's a Muggle? You vaguely recall her saying something about Muggleborns at your first meeting, but you never had the presence of mind to ask her about it. Just one more question to the pile. You regain control of yourself.
"Headmistress," You say, as respectfully as you can. "It is good to see you again."
She looks over at you critically. "Hm. Can't say the same. We can't have you walking into Diagon Alley like this."
"Beg pardon?" You ask, confused. "Is there something wrong with my clothes? Do I need a hat?"
As an answer, she takes out the same stick as last time and taps you on the shoulder before you can react. Suddenly, your clothes change around you, becoming cooler, more airy. The sleeves widen until you can hide a textbook inside, your pants loosens and untucks your shirt, which swallows it's own buttons and flows down until it reaches shoes.
As you look down in growing shock, you find your clothes have turned into a similar style of the clothing the Headmistress is wearing.
"Better?" She asks. "And I don't think a hat would suit you, Mr. Bell."
You look around wildly. The crowd seems oblivious to the world-record wardrobe change that had just been performed. You glare back at the witch, trying to calm your heart.
"You know, you could have warned me!"
"If such a little thing surprises you, Mr Bell," She takes out her stick, taps it to the wrapping of the bun she had just finished eating, and it folds itself into a hummingbird. It flies around up to you for a moment, pecks you on the nose, and then dives into the nearest wastebin. "Then I'm afraid today is going to be a very long day for you."
***
"Good evening Hannah." The Headmistress says warmly, greeting the pub's owner as both of you enter the establishment. It's pleasantly cool inside, but in a manner that's different from a building being air conditioned. There's no wind.
"Headmistress!" The woman, Hannah, cries from behind the bar. She's tall and blonde, hair tied in a braid that she hangs over her left shoulder and wearing a starch white apron over a light pink bathro-er, robe. Her expression is one of pleasant surprise. "Would you be needing anything? A room, or if you want I could whip something-"
"Not today dear. Just passing through. Slow day, is it?"
"Slow week more like." Hannah says, nodding at the room. There's seating and tables for a full twenty to thirty people, but they're all vacant. Rather clean though.
The entire room is very clean in fact, now that you're taking a good look. There's no windows curiously, but some rather archaic lanterns provide clear, steady illumination for any corner of the room. Although made almost entirely out of wood, the entire place is polished and burnished into a brassy sheen that reflects the light spectacularly and the smells wafting from the door behind Hannah is making your mouth water. The kitchen probably, the remnants of breakfast. But the most interesting thing about the place are perhaps the portraits, or rather how they're placed. A dozen or so, each with tables pushed up against them so the frame is resting the top and facing the patrons, it's almost as if-
What. The. Fuck.
You wrench your attention away from a painting where a plump woman in orange-enameled armor had just winked at you saucily and try to focus on the conversation between your new Headmistress and the owner of a magical pub.
"It's always like this at this time of year, Professor, with the new term coming up and everyone done their shopping. It's nothing to worry about." Hannah is saying. "Most of Diagon Alley is like this as well, most shopkeeps deciding to close up and go on a little holiday."
"Well, it's a good thing I've reserved ahead of time then, isn't it." The Headmistress nods to Hannah and gestures you to follow her further into the pub. "The clock is ticking and we must be off. Good day then Hannah, give my regards to little Edmond."
"Good day to you, Professor!" Hannah responds cheerily. She looks at you curiously, but the fact that the Headmistress hadn't yet introduced you prevents her from giving you more than a simple nod. You nod back jerkily.
You follow the Headmistress as she leads you through a long corridor that opens up into a weedy, overgrown courtyard. You're still struggling to understand all you've seen lately that you can't help but be dragged along. You had plans, you were going to act like the perfect student, show off your intellectual side and convince her she had made the right choice in enrolling you. Now you can barely get a word in edgewise because even the paintings are startling you.
You shake your head, trying to focus. Now's not the time to loose your cool. Calm down. Relax. Cent-
"Toffee?"
You blink up at the Headmistress, who is holding out a very ordinary looking bag of sweets. She shakes the bag a bit.
"It's rather relaxing and good for your jaw." She advises. Her expression is neutral, except for a slight glint in her eye.
What the heck. You nod gratefully and plop one into your mouth, not noticing the Headmistress taking out her stick and taping one of the bricks. You had just started chewing when the first bricks started to fall down in rain of masonry, intensifying until the rain became a downpour and the hole in the wall becomes a doorway.
"Now then, Mr Bell. Shall we begin?"
It's only because the toffee has glued your jaws together that you aren't gaping in astonishment.
***
"What you must understand Mr Bell, is that the Magical community tends to be fairly insular, introspective. We are concerned with our problems, and being coerced into helping others would be ill-advised. Besides, Muggles seemed to have done quite alright by themselves. In fact, I would say they're doing far more than alright. Why, I remember my father speaking about the horrors of the Great War-"
You have practice in keeping an ear and an eye focused on different tasks, such as during note-taking, but even you find it difficult in following the Headmistress' sudden history and cultural lesson. The toffee had been gradually broken down by a few minutes of consistent chewing, and by that time you were no longer gaping like a fish and could actually ask questions.
And the questions you had! Everywhere you looked, there was a new sight to see, a different store to browse and examine. Entire fields of magic were unraveling before you, and the only thing that prevented you from going inside to thoroughly examine each is your self-control and the fact that many of the shops weren't open. Their doors were locked tight, signs proclaiming their short hiatus left out front. Even that was enough to capture your attention, as many of the signs were animated and the very names of shops were compelling and mysterious. Magical Menagerie? Codwall's Cauldrons and Containers? The Ergonomic Apothecary? It didn't help that many of the signs had figures that looked as if they were on smoke breaks, though they waved at you lazily if you happened to glance at them.
Your fascinated mind was brought back by the sound McGonagall's voice.
"-And here we are. Our first stop: Gringotts, the Wizarding Bank. You, Mr Bell, need to open an account."
You look up at the massive, marble-white building that looms over the shops around it. If one were to look at shoppers like flies, then the ordinary shops were like honey. Gringotts was a 1000 watt bulb. You had no doubt that there were more people on the street, the entrance would be jam-packed. Something about the building proclaimed security, stability, wealth. The unadorned walls lent it a certain dignity that was absent in many of the shops you had passed, no matter how interesting they were.
But at the moment, the streets were empty save for you, the Headmistress, a pair of old women lounging on a nearby bench and a harassed looking father carrying a crying baby past. Rather anticlimactic, but you can't really complain.
You head up the polished stairs, trying not to feel trepidation as the shadow of the building swallows you.
***
"Now then, Mr Bell, I ask that you press your thumb into the box here." Tilclaw points at the open square next your signature.
Trying not to wince, you press your bloody thumb into the crisp white space, marring it with your impression. As soon as you lift it up, the blood on your thumb vanishes and the pain disappears. Huh. Convenient.
"So, uh, Mr Tilclaw?" You ask hesitantly. The Headmistress is sitting next to, eating a plate of candied nuts that you're sure is reserved for children, but otherwise seemingly content to let you ask questions. You're a cramped office, the tables, chairs and walls just slightly off human dimensions to make things uncomfortable. "How does this work?"
"Just Tilclaw please," growls the goblin. "My people don't use your forms of address."
"Ah, apologies." You say hastily. "So, how does all this work?"
The goblin signs. He looks like a very short man, like someone suffering from dwarfism, except for his pointed ears, pitch black eyes and double jointed fingers. They resembled an insect when they moved, and watching him move his fingers around your newly signed bank contract reminded you strongly of two spiders fighting to the death.
"Mr Bell, we are a bank. You give us money, we do clever things with it to make it grow, and you can take it out again." His voice was higher-pitched than a human, but no less sarcastic. "We even offer loans and insurance, but I do not believe you will be needing them now."
He rolls up the contract and slides his finger down the side, sealing it tight. "At this point, I would offer to show you down to Vault 1014, which is your vault now, if you haven't realized yet. However, there does seem to be an issue in that your vault is completely empty. And by completely empty, I mean it doesn't exist yet. Traditionally, one would first deposit a lump sum of money with us first before contracting, which would finance the construction of the vault and allows us to actually place something inside once it's built."
He does...something with the contract in his hands, peels it apart in a manner which makes your eyes hurt, and suddenly there are two sealed cylinders of parchment where there was once one. He hands one to you and plops the other into the chute that is sticking out of desk.
"Truthfully Mr Bell, we would not even be meeting today, if it weren't for certain...promises that were offered in return for your unorthodox contract." At this he glares at the Headmistress. "Promises that haven't come to fruition yet."
"You'll get yours, goblin." She responds casually, unfazed by the enraged look Tilclaw is giving her. "Just do your part."
Tilclaw visibly restrains himself, and then turns to you. "As such, if you return to Gringotts after a week's time, you will find a Basic Vault assigned to you, and goblins to lead you there. This vault only offers basic protection, and relies more on Gringotts defenses than any ones personalized to the vault. Furthermore, you will find that many of the lucrative services we offer you will be substandard compared to the ones offered to the more...substantial vaults. Of course, Gringotts defenses are more than adequate to deal with the brand of thieves your vault will accrue, Mr Bell."
"Uh, thanks." You say. "How are the vaults protected, by the way?"
Tilclaw stares at you for a moment. "Mr Bell, are you a Muggleborn?"
The Headmistress coughs politely. "It would be best to assume he's from abroad. Remember the deal, goblin."
"Goblins never forget, witch." Tilclaw barks back. He studies you for a moment, before speaking. "A key will be given to you the next time you come here. That is all you need to concern yourself with. Furthermore, if I am to consider you as a foreigner, be advised that Gringotts provides currency exchange services, irrespective of vault status. We can provide exchanges for any amount upto 100 Galleons or equivalent, larger sizes requiring appointments. Gringotts offers exchanges in over 250 currencies, both Muggle and Magical, including hag-favors, riverbed stones, and coagulated blood shards for-."
"How much in pounds?" You cut in, recognizing a sale pitch when you hear it.
"Around 37.99 pounds per Galleon," He states brusquely. "2.23 pounds per Sickle and 0.07 a Knut. Is that all Mr Bell?"
Nowhere near. But it's enough for today, so you nod and make to leave, the Headmistress already at the door and waiting impatiently.
"And one more thing Mr Bell." The goblin's voice calls out to you. You pause, halfway to the door.
"Even though you aren't a Muggleborn," With this, he inclines his head towards the Headmistress, "I will say this. Gringotts is growing increasingly tired of explaining to Muggleborns why they cannot bring in their gold and silver and expect us to turn it into Galleons and Sickles at the drop of a nail. It seems it is difficult for their tiny heads to understand that there is a difference in the gold we use here and the gold in circulation in the Muggle economy. Please do not have a tiny head, Mr Bell."
Despite yourself, you find yourself asking, "What's the difference between them?"
Tilclaw leers. "Magic."
***
"No textbooks?" You ask cautiously, trying not to break your neck as the tape measure winds around you. Your clothes have reverted back to their ordinary look once you entered the shop (Malcom's Robes or some such, you were too engrossed in your own thoughts to pay attention).
The Headmistress' eyes peer at you over the top of a magazine she was reading. Transfiguration Today, if your eyes didn't fool you. Which may be a possibility.
"As term is starting in a few days, most families have already come and picked the shops clean. Florish and Blotts was hit the hardest, it is doubtful a trip there would be useful." The tape winds around your torso eerily, and then begins measuring your shoulder blades. "No matter; Hogwarts will supply your school books, Mr Bell. You should find, when you arrive home, a parcel containing all necessary books for your core subjects that should last you until the Fifth year. Shrunken, of course."
"Fifth year?" You ask in surprise. "Not all seven?"
"Education becomes a bit more complicated after the Fifth year, Mr Bell. Hopefully, it won't take as long for you to reach that standard. In truth, you should be able to finish your Hogwart's education within three years."
You stare at the Headmistress, trying not to notice the tape measuring the length of your eyelashes. Seven years of education, compressed down to three? Is she crazy? Well, you are rather clever, but even you have limits.
But then again, you begin to reconsider as the tape tilts your head up and to the side. Education starts at Hogwarts at age eleven, correct? You're eighteen, far older and more capable. That should increase your learning rate if you-
"Mary dear, can you please stop ogling Mr Bell and start bringing out his robes? Three is more than enough times to measure someone's face." The Headmistress' sharp voice cuts through your thoughts.
There is a short 'eep' and then the girl who had been directing the tape measure with her wand darts into the back room, letting the tape fall forlornly onto the floor. You let your outstretched arms fall back down and turn to look at the Headmistress.
"My apologies for that Mr Bell. I was hoping for a bit more professionalism, but it seems Madame Malkin is on sabbatical today, and her daughter isn't made of the same stern stuff she is."
You nod, still confused. Who's Malkin?
"Although I must ask you to be more discrete with the circumstances surrounding your admission into Hogwarts. For your own good, you understand. Many people will not take kindly to someone as old as you being granted a wand and being given free reign to practice magic. It may make things a wee bit troublesome." There is no change in her voice, no implicit threat or warning you can detect. Nevertheless, you still shiver.
Mary rushes in from the backroom, red in the face and probably not just from the running. She quickly gives you a small bag containing the "Self-Repairing" Robe the Headmistress had picked out for you- a plain, black attire that looks more functional than decorative. You duck into a changing room to switch out of your regular clothes and into the actual robe. The feeling is almost identical to how it felt this morning, when the Headmistress altered your clothes
"I can pay for myself." You say, more a question than a statement, as the Headmistress drops a Galleon onto the counter and bids Mary goodbye. You both step out the store, letting the heat wash over you. She looks unfazed, while you can already feel the sweat sprouting out of your skin.
"You are." She responds simply. "All of this is being financed by a fund that was set up in your name a few weeks ago. It's not much, but it should be enough to get you started. It's already paid for your tuition and all your books, and there's still enough left over for a wand. The last bit is going into your vault, so as to begin collecting interest."
You nod distractedly for a moment, trying to process this, when something she just said clicks.
"Wand?"
***
You try not to act conspicuous as you wait at the entrance to the shop. Ollivanders, a wand shop that somehow has been in business longer than empires, is completely empty. Of people. There are stacks of boxes littering the shop that you can see, however.
The Headmistress had declined to see you within, unlike the last two times, saying something about some "interesting situations occurring". That this had occurred after a paper airplane had flown upto her and unfolded to become a letter did nothing to decrease the suddenness of her departure, nor assuage your nerves.
"Mr Bell, I presume?" A dry, crackling voice arose from within the depths of the shop. It spoke volumes about the number of surprises the day had brought that you barely reacted. "I was told you would be coming today. It is strange, I admit, your...circumstances."
The voice resolves into a hunched old man, white hair sticking out of him like he had just been shocked. He was wearing a dusty and disheveled brown robe, and his eyes were a cold, clear blue.
"I'm afraid you have my at a disadvantage, Mr...?" You say, trying not to feel intimidated. The store was rather creepy, shelves filled with dusty boxes covering every wall and blocking the windows. There had to be some magic involved, to make an atmosphere so chilly and dark in the middle of the day.
"Ollivander. Garrick Ollivander, wandmaker and proprietor of this ancient shop." The man seemed to almost glide towards you, unnoticed of the tripping hazard the pile of boxes around him created. "Like many before you, you have come to claim one of the most potent magical instruments for yourself, no?"
"Ah yes." You shift uncomfortably for a moment. "Bit late to start for me now, I know, but-"
"Mr Bell." The bone-dry voice stops you cold. "I am aware of your tardiness. And the reason behind it, the regrettable damage to Hogwarts' Nativity Record. Such as marvelous artifact it is. But, you do not need to pretend otherwise."
"Oh. I see." You say, relaxing by inches.
"Yes, truthfully it would be hard to conceal such a deception from me while trying to enlist my efforts to procure a wand for you. As you are well aware, wands are given to a wizard or witch when they're first eleven; when they're mind and personalities are still forming. It allows the wand to imprint on them easier, see? Now, hold out your wand hand."
You raise your right hand uncertainly. A much older and worn tape measure sets to work wrapping itself around your arm. Ollivander hums and clicks his teeth speculatively, watching it critically. "Acting as a foreigner is well and good, Mr Bell, but foreigners have no use for wands; it is a strictly European tool."
"Really?" You ask, interested. "What do they use then?"
"Substandard tools." The wandmaker says, derision dripping off his voice. "Fools brandishing instruments and foci that are better suited to a Vanishing pit than for any serious magic. I would not worry about it, Mr Bell. A wand is what a wizard needs, not trinkets. That's enough now."
He gestures empty handed at the tape and it rolls itself up neatly and slots itself into a corner.
"Now then, Mr Bell. Let's begin today's task, shall we?" Ollivander rubs his hands together, a curious gleam rising in his eyes.
"Well, alright." You say, still on your guard. "What are my options?"
Choose a Wandcore and a Wandwood:
[] Phoneix TailFeather: Stability
[] Unicorn Manehair: Complexity
[] Dragon Heartst-
"Oh, no no no, Mr Bell. That isn't how this works." He sighs. "The wand chooses the wizard, not the other way around! Come, let's start large."
With that, he swipes one of the boxes laying at his fight and hands you a wand from within.
"Cherry, Dragon heartstring. 12 inches. Just hold it carefully."
The pink wand is in your hand for a brief second before Ollivander grabs it away quickly.
"Hm. How about a Chestnut, 10 inches and a Phoneix tailfeather? For those with a gift with the living."
Again, the wand is in your hands just long enough for you to get a feel for the wood before it's taken away.
"Difficult. This is going to be very difficult. Dogwood, perhaps? 11 inches and a Unicorn manehair?"
This time, the moment the wand touches your hand, it shoots off like a rocket deeper into the store.
"Hah!" Ollivander chuckled. "I can tell this is going to be exciting."
***
"The problem, Mr Bell, is that you're too old." The venerable wandmaker's voice comes from deeper in the store, where he had gone to pick out some more stock. "Your sense of self is largely set already. Newly made wands will dislike that, we need something made of sterner stuff."
"You speak as if the wand has a mind of it's own." You call, lounging against a shelf. "As if it's more of a pet than a tool."
"Exactly!" The cry came. "A wand and it's wizard grow together, they influence each other! A bond tighter than family, closer than friendship! But no wand will be able to influence you, Mr Bell. Instead, it will be the one influenced, molded by you. It is a one way street, one which very few wands will wish to cross-aha!"
The wandmaker came hurrying back to the front of the store, carrying a single box. You had been expecting, like the last few times, half a dozen, not one.
"Is this it?" You ask, cautiously. Your feet are starting to hurt.
"Perhaps." Ollivander whispers. "Here, give it a flick."
He gives you the wand. Compared to previous wands you've tried, this one looks more subdued. It doesn't have a grip, or a handle or any other extra features. It is simply a smooth, brown, tapering stick.
You take a deep breathe, and then carefully flick the wand, like you've done so many times before with no effect.
Lighting crackles.
Streams of electricity twirl out of the wand's tip, lazily twisting in the air like snakes. The effect grows, the streams interlocking and moving in complex, fractal patterns that mesmerize you, even as they burn your retinas. You watch, entranced, as they move, dance, and fade away.
You look at Ollivander, trying to blink away the spots in your vision. He smiles.
"I believe we've found your wand, Mr Bell. Acacia, 11 inches and a Unicorn Manehair. A peculiar combination, I must say."
"Peculiar?" You question.
"Acacia is a wood that is subtle, hides it's true nature. It dislikes extravagant, flashy magic and prefers the complex, abstract arts. Acacia does not concern itself with who it's wielder is, rather in what they can do. Coupled with a manehair from a unicorn? Well, that's a peculiar wand for peculiar wizards, a combination which I sell rarely. A wand that is suitable for, no demands the most complex of magic from it's wielder, even if the magic is Dark."
"Dark?"
"Dark Magic. Evil. Vile. Tell me Mr Bell, you are aware of the circumstances surrounding your birth?"
You nod slowly. "There was a crisis at Hogwarts, and the Nativity Record turned off-I mean went dark, wait no-"
"I understand what you mean. The Record went to sleep and you were born during that time. A most unfortunate coincidence, no? But look at the greater picture, Ashton Bell. Do you know what happened that night, to shake Hogwarts so?"
You stare. "...No."
And so he tells you. He speaks to you of a battle, a Siege. A devastating conflict that tore at the lives of an entire generation of the magical community. Where the entire faculty of a school took up arms against a Dark Lord and his forces. The Dark Lord, Voldemort.
You sit down on a chair. "I...I thought it was an earthquake or...something that would have jostled the foundations, not-" You shake your head.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Ollivander smile is wide. "Because I find it interesting that, Mr Bell, that you have been chosen by a wand that may one day be capable of performing magic of a similar caliber."
***
You are subdued outside the store, cradling your new wand carefully. The feel of the wood on your skin is electrifying, as if some dormant part of you is being defibrillated. Perhaps it is, you muse thoughtfully, tracing the smooth varnish on the wand. I haven't used magic for seven years-
You spot the Headmistress waving at you from a nearby bench, the one the twin witches were sitting. You walk over to her, feeling troubled.
"Ice cream?" She holds out a cone to you, the cream staying fresh despite the heat. "It will cool you down, Mr Bell. How is the new wand?"
You accept it wordlessly, sitting down next to her and resting your feet. The cream is delicious after the long day. "Acacia and unicorn manehair."
"Hm," The Headmistress licks her own cone thoughtfully. "I prefer Dragon heartstring. The potency, you understand, although that may just be bias talking. And Acacia is a solid wood, good for Transfiguration."
She finishes her cone quickly, letting the wrapping vanish into thin air. "I do believe we are done the most important errands today, Mr Bell, and we still have some of your money left over. Would you care to buy something extra from any of the open shops?"
You look at her for a moment. "Ashton. Call me Ashton."
She snorts. "Young man, if this is some ill-guided attempt to worm your way into my good graces, then you are sorely mistaken. I will address you as I will. You will address me as Professor."
You chuckle quietly. What Ollivander had said changed your view. Made you look at things differently. The mistrust you harbored towards the Headmistress was still there, but you didn't feel quite so bitter now. You were willing to make some allowances. Accept that it may have been an honest mistake.
Doesn't mean you're not going to drain Hogwarts of every little speck of magic you can learn.
"Well, I have some ideas on what to buy."
Available Budget: 5 Galleons (Unspent will be placed in Vault)
Note: Buying the academic items ahead of time will allow you a headstart on that subject, but without the supervision of a trained professional. Also note that some of these items you may not even need, given Oxford's facilities.
[Knockturn Alley Locked]
[Low Funds Lock]
[Bad Timing Lock]
[Bad Timing Price Increase]
[Currency Breakdown]
1 Galleon = 17 Sickles
1 Sickle = 30 Knuts
1 Galleon = 510 Knuts
37.99 £/G; 2.23 £/S; 0.07 £/K
Choose:
[] Basic Potion Ingredients Kit (1 Galleons)
A large parcel of common potion ingredients, useful for the novice to the enthusiast. Gives the ability to brew potions up toa Third Year Hogwarts student.
-[] Subscription (15 S/month)
Owl-Delivered parcels that arrive at the beginning of each moon. Smaller than the Potion kit, but consistent deliveries.
-[] Bulk Purchase (4 Galleons, 10 Sickles)
For the entrepreneur, a 5X parcel deal!
[] Wand Holster (1 Galleon)
A wrist equipped mount, this allows the prepared witch or wizard to carry their wands with them at all times!
-[] Wrist Support (+5 Sickles)
Grants steadier and smoother spellcasting over those without.
-[] Quick Draw (+2 Galleons)
Some say this is a frivolous addition. That the ability to have one's wand shoot out from the holster and into one's palm with a flick and return with a similar gesture is useless and downright dangerous. They are fools. FOOLS.
-[] Invisibility Enchantment (+4 Galleons)
Not true invisibility, perhaps, but this Disillusionment Enchantment grants the holster the ability to blend in with the wearer's skin, hiding both itself and the wand. Warning: Magic only works when the wand is holstered. Not recommended for children.
[] Wardrobe Upgrade (Upgrade Robe)
-[] Form Fitting (1 Galleon)
Your robe will always change itself so it is worn comfortably and attractively, no matter your bodyshape.
-[] Self-Cleaning (1 Galleon)
You can actually skip baths while wearing this. Doesn't mean you should.
-[] Self-Ironing (1 Galleon)
Your robe always looks fresh and crisp. No post-ironing coziness though.
-[] Color-Changing (10 Sickles)
Your robe can shift through a variety of different colors based on preset triggers. Warning: More colors and complex triggers will cause a faster decay in the enchantment.
-[] Morphing (3 Galleons)
Your robe can change it's shape into a different attire entirely. Due to it's complexity, each "morph" requires a separate purchase, upto a maximum of four. Useful for Muggleborns or Aurors.
-[] Extra Sets (Base Cost: 1 Galleon)
More robes, yo. These ones come with Self-Repair like your current one, but you can remove that for a 7 Sickle price reduction.
[] Cauldron (2 Galleon)
-[] Size Upgrade (10 Sickles)
Upgrade your cauldron from a size 2 to a size 3, allowing for larger batch brewing.
-[] Collapsible (12 Sickles)
Your Cauldron collapses down into flat circle. Great for transport, but weakens the cauldron's structure.
-[] Self-Cleaning (15 Sickles)
Tap your wand on the lip deliberately and the contents will vanish automatically!
-[] Self-Stirring (1 Galleon)
Your Cauldron will now accept orders, on the rate and directions the liquid is to swirl at.
-[] Self-Heating (1 Galleon)
A little knob on one of the legs allows you to do away with dangerous fires.
-[] Quality Upgrade (2 Galleons)
Your Cauldron is now made of better materials, meaning less chance of leakage, breakage and gives the option to work with more dangerous materials.
[] Telescope (1 Galleon)
-[] Collapsible (5 Sickles)
Your telescope can now fit into your luggage case comfortably.
-[] Handhold (10 Sickles)
You no longer need a stand to view the night skies. Comes with an Aim Steadier, and if taken with Collapsible, will fit into your pocket.
-[] Clear Skies Enchantment (2 Galleons)
Clouds? What Clouds?
-[] Nighttime Enchantment (2 Galleons)
What do you mean I can't stargaze during the day?
-[] Enhanced Zooming (3 Galleons)
You can now see the moons of Mars from Earth!
[] Pet -LOCKED-
-You don't think your building allows pets...
