Godric’s Hollow.
Dumbledore gazed at the village, his eyes full of memories.
Beside him, Black leaned against a wall and waited for his stomach to settle.
Why did Apparition have to feel so awful?
Perhaps it was like travel sickness.
Some Muggles couldn’t bear car journeys; apparently, his stomach objected to instantaneous travel.
‘Professor Dumbledore!’
A middle-aged man hurried towards them.
‘Mr Pierre.’
The man shook Dumbledore’s hand enthusiastically.
‘Everything’s ready, just as you asked.
Here are the keys.’
He handed over a small bunch.
‘Thank you very much.
As capable as ever, Mr Pierre.’
‘Thank you, Professor.
If you need anything else, please don’t hesitate to ask!’
He left looking thoroughly pleased.
Throughout the exchange, he hadn’t so much as glanced at Black.
‘He’s quite a fan of yours, isn’t he?’ Black said, approaching with his suitcase now that his stomach had recovered.
‘A devoted admirer, as Muggles would say.’
‘Perhaps he simply approves of the way I’ve handled certain things.
I’m not sure I would call him a fan.’
Dumbledore lifted the keys.
‘Your new home is ready.
Or rather, my old family home.
I haven’t been back since… well, for a very long time.
I asked Mr Pierre and his team to put it in order.’
The house stood on the edge of the village: a small, detached building with two storeys, a neglected garden in front and a wooded hillside rising behind it.
Black breathed in the scent of leaves and growing things.
‘This is perfect.
Bear One can spend his time up there.’
He looked at the garden.
‘And I could grow all sorts of interesting plants here.’
He liked the place already.
At least he could cultivate unusual things without attracting too much attention.
Godric’s Hollow was home to Muggles as well as wizards, but most magical households used Muggle-Repelling Charms.
Their neighbours rarely noticed anything peculiar.
When they did, they tended to blame ghosts.
And according to Dumbledore, the wooded hillside belonged to the family too.
Black had a good idea where he would keep his magical creatures in future.
There would be plenty of time to explore his new home.
Diagon Alley, on the other hand, was waiting.
‘I had hoped to introduce you to a few of the neighbours,’ Dumbledore said.
‘But if you’d rather visit Diagon Alley first…’
The second journey by Apparition was easier.
Black still felt dizzy, but at least his stomach didn’t protest quite so strongly.
Dumbledore had brought him directly to the entrance of Diagon Alley, bypassing the Leaky Cauldron.
Once the dizziness passed, Black looked around eagerly.
He stood on a cobbled street with a brick wall behind him.
Presumably, the pub lay on the other side.
Soft sunlight fell across a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop.
A sign above them advertised copper and brass cauldrons in every size, with collapsible and self-stirring models available.
Black pointed.
‘What are those?’
‘Cauldrons.
We use them to brew potions.’
‘Could you cook a hotpot in one?
Put broth in it and cook things together at the table?’
‘I imagine so,’ Dumbledore said with a smile.
‘I’ve never tried it.
I’m not sure anyone has.
But we could give it a go when we get home.’
Diagon Alley was effectively the shopping centre of wizarding Britain.
It was much wider than Black had imagined, with far more shops.
Even so, the street was almost full.
People crowded the shopfronts and streamed past them in both directions.
‘Come along,’ Dumbledore said.
‘I suspect the thing you would most like to buy is a wand.
Am I right?’
Black followed him along the cobbles, looking from one shop to the next.
Some were so peculiar that he genuinely couldn’t work out what they sold.
He kept up a steady stream of questions, partly from curiosity and partly because a child raised among Muggles ought to have plenty to ask.
‘Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce?
How much is a Sickle in pounds?
Can you fry dragon liver?’
A little further on:
‘Why are they all looking at that broom?
Haven’t they got anything to sweep with at home?’
Dumbledore answered every question patiently, however unusual.
Soon they reached their destination.
Peeling gold lettering above the door read:
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.
A single wand rested on a faded purple cushion in the window.
‘In you go.’
Black followed Dumbledore inside.
Just after they entered, a girl in a green dress appeared a short distance down the street.
Long blonde hair fell smoothly over her shoulders.
There was a faint, habitual haughtiness to her pretty face.
‘Professor Dumbledore?’
She watched the shop door.
‘Who’s that boy with him?’
Someone important enough for the Headmaster himself to take shopping for school supplies?
She wanted to know more.
Black surveyed the famous wand shop.
There was little space for customers.
Apart from a bench in the corner, that part of the shop was bare.
Behind the tall counter, however, thousands of narrow wand boxes filled shelves from floor to ceiling.
A thin coating of dust lay over everything.
Black wondered whether Ollivander left it there deliberately to make the place look more venerable.
‘Professor Dumbledore.
A rare pleasure.’
The speaker was a small, thin elderly man with untidy hair and striking silvery eyes.
‘I believe my grandfather made your wand.
A fine piece of work.
Though I don’t suppose you still use it, do you?’
‘Good afternoon, Garrick.
We’re here to find this young man a wand of his own.’
Smiling, Dumbledore placed a hand behind Black and gently ushered him forwards.
‘Black Grin.
The grandson of an old friend.’
Dumbledore hadn’t asked Black to take the name Dumbledore.
Perhaps he hadn’t worked out how to explain the sudden appearance of a new descendant.
Grindelwald was out of the question.
So, for public purposes, Black remained Black Grin.
And apparently, he was now the grandson of an old friend.
Unfortunately, names were easier to disguise than faces.
Especially from someone who had met as many people as Ollivander.
The wandmaker’s pale eyes moved from Dumbledore to Black, then back again.
‘This old friend of yours.