The sun was already high over the sleepy countryside, spilling lazy beams of gold across the crooked rooftops of the Burrow. It was mid-August now, the sort of day that sat comfortably between the seasons—summer reluctant to give up its warmth, autumn preparing its first chill in the shadows. The air was crisp but not cold, bright but not harsh, and alive with the hum of bees and the faint rustle of hedgerows. Somewhere in the distance, a lark trilled its insistent song, as if to remind everyone within earshot that the countryside was awake and well.
Harry leaned against the sun-warmed windowsill of the tiny room he'd been given—Ron's room, cluttered and cheerful and with unhealthy amount of Chudley Cannons merch—and tried not to grin too much at nothing in particular. He had grown used to the way the Burrow seemed to breathe around him, floorboards creaking as though stretching after a nap, staircases twisting and sighing like they had lives of their own. It was nothing like Privet Drive, which had always seemed suffocatingly still, as if it were trying to smother even the possibility of anything interesting happening.
He turned the envelope in his hands over and over, running his finger along the thick parchment as though he might wear it smooth. His name—his real name—gleamed across the front in emerald-green ink, every curve of the letters sure and confident:
Mr. Harry Potter,
Room beneath the attic,
The Burrow,
Near the Gnome Hill,
St. Ottery Catchpole.
He traced the letters idly with the tip of his finger, the way one might linger on a photograph of a place they'd only ever dreamed of visiting. For years, the sound of his own name had been a thing stolen from him, spoken like a curse, spat between clenched teeth by the Dursleys. But here, in his hands, it looked like it belonged. Here, it looked… true.
He didn't even know precisely where here was. St. Ottery Catchpole, according to the address, though the name sounded more like a riddle than a village. Somewhere in Devon, Ron had muttered vaguely, waving his hand as though pointing in the general direction was enough. Harry didn't care. For the first time in his life, not knowing felt like freedom.
No prying neighbours craning their necks over fences, no Aunt Petunia sniffing over seasonal decorations, no Uncle Vernon puffing red-faced about order and normalcy, and certainly no Dudley demanding another round of shopping to accommodate his ever-increasing bulk. Harry almost smirked at the thought of them now, marching through Marks & Spencer for "autumn essentials" while grumbling endlessly about him. The thought slipped away as quickly as it came, because today—today—none of it mattered.
Today he was going to Diagon Alley.
The thought bubbled inside him like a kettle just on the edge of boiling. Ron had been deliberately infuriating about it all morning, refusing to answer Harry's questions about how they'd get there. "Just wait," was all he'd said, grinning like he'd swallowed a secret whole. Harry had tried to press him, but Ron had only shrugged, looking altogether too pleased with himself.
Harry sighed, turning the letter over again, the emerald script catching in the light. His chest felt oddly tight, full in a way it hadn't before—like he was carrying something too large to name, something that wasn't quite fear and wasn't quite joy but seemed to hum somewhere in between.
The Dursleys would have called it absurd, of course, this business of letters and magic and hidden alleys. They'd have laughed at the notion of a place where cauldrons and spellbooks were sold as casually as Dudley's trainers. But here at the Burrow, absurdity was the point. Magic wasn't hidden or hushed—it was the foundation of everything. It was the way the ghoul banged pipes in the attic at odd hours, the way the walls leaned at their own whim, the way Mrs. Weasley's clock didn't bother with time but told you instead where each family member happened to be.
Harry looked out the window, where the garden spread untidily beneath him, full of buzzing bees and gnome tunnels and the occasional faint crash as Fred or George attempted something that ended with smoke. His mouth tugged into a smile despite himself. Absurd or not, this was the sort of absurdity he wanted.
He held the letter close again, running his thumb over his name, and thought: today, I'll see it for myself.
As Harry thought about the day the owls came in, the memory still thrilled him, as though the feathers had only just brushed past his cheek that morning. Owls. Proper owls, not the sleepy barn kind that perched in hedgerows or the twitchy little screech-owls he'd sometimes seen on the edges of Privet Drive. These were post owls—messengers, trained and purposeful, swooping down in a rush of wings that filled the Burrow's kitchen with a gust of feathers and a soft thunder of beating air.
Harry had heard the notion before, of course. The books in Ron's cramped little room had mentioned owls being used for wizarding correspondence. There had even been a coloured illustration in Magical Creatures Common and Uncommon, showing a dignified tawny owl carrying a scroll tied neatly to its leg. But reading a thing on a page was one matter; watching it unfold at the breakfast table was quite another.
It had been the morning after Dumbledore's visit. The house still felt thick with the echo of that quiet, curious meeting. Harry had gone to bed with questions buzzing in his head like midges, and woken to the bright smells of bacon and woodsmoke. Mrs. Weasley had, as usual, laid out enough food to sink a lesser household: mountains of toast, rashers of bacon, plates of sausages, tomatoes fried until they spat and hissed, and eggs prepared every which way.
Predictably, Ron and the twins had challenged Harry to a competition—who could down the most omelettes without collapsing (he still couldn't pinpoint when he'd been convinced to join this challenge). Ginny had sat to one side, chin propped on her hand, giggling as though the whole performance was a pantomime put on for her amusement. Even Percy had made an appearance long enough to roll his eyes at the lot of them before retreating to his room with a comment about "serious O.W.L. preparation."
By the time Harry surrendered—groaning, clutching at his stomach, and conceding defeat to the twins' frankly terrifying capacity for bacon—the kitchen was thick with the warm fug of breakfast. And then, as though a cue had been given, a sudden wind stirred the lace curtains at the open window.
"Oi—duck!" Ron had blurted, just as a half-dozen owls swooped through the gap in a flurry of wings.
Harry ducked instinctively, though one owl clipped his hair in passing. They were magnificent things up close: feathers glossy and sleek, talons curved and sharp. A great tawny one carried a heavy envelope in its beak, while a smaller barn owl fluttered with a parchment clutched in its claws. One particularly solemn eagle owl landed squarely on the table, scattering crumbs, and fixed the boys with a gaze that seemed to weigh their very souls.
Mrs. Weasley, far from startled, only sighed fondly and wiped her hands on her apron. "Letters, of course. Hogwarts owls. Don't gawk, dears. They won't bite—well, not unless you fuss them."
Fred—Harry thought it was Fred, though it might have been George—grinned and reached up to stroke the tawny's chest. "Every year it's the same," he said. "They swoop in all pomp and circumstance, as though none of us remember September's round the corner."
George, for his part, leaned across to peer at the letters. "First years get the good post, though. Letters of acceptance, shiny new supply lists. Ooh, look, Harry, this one's yours."
Harry blinked as the eagle owl strutted forward, dropped a thick envelope onto his plate, and hooted in what sounded like mild satisfaction. His name was written across the front in emerald ink, the letters elegant and slanted, as though each stroke of the quill had been placed with deliberate care.
Mr. Harry Potter,
Room beneath the attic,
The Burrow,
Near the Gnome Hill,
St. Ottery Catchpole.
His throat tightened a little as he traced the lettering with his finger. It was such a small thing, an envelope, but it was his. Addressed not to "the cupboard under the stairs," not to Privet Drive at all, but to him—where he was, here, in a house that didn't treat him like an intruder.
Ron nudged him, grinning. "Go on then, open it! It'll be the same as mine, only better, since it's got your name on it all posh-like."
With fingers that felt oddly clumsy, Harry slit open the envelope. Inside were two crisp sheets of parchment, the first of which carried the letter itself. He read it once, then again, just to be sure he wasn't imagining it:
---
HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump,
International Confed. of Wizards)
Dear Mr. Potter,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall,
Deputy Headmistress.
---
It was extraordinary how a single sheet of parchment could feel so heavy in the hand. This was it. Official. He was no longer a boy who might be a wizard, who possibly belonged in this new world. Hogwarts itself had spoken, and the words were like a key turning in a lock.
He unfolded the second sheet. A list, written in that same tidy emerald ink, itemising all he'd need for the year:
---
UNIFORM
First-year students will require:
1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)
Please note that all pupils' clothes should carry name tags.
COURSE BOOKS
All students should have a copy of each of the following:
The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk
A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot
Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling
A Beginners' Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch
One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore
Magical Draughts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger
Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander
The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble
OTHER EQUIPMENT
1 wand
1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)
1 set glass or crystal phials
1 telescope
1 set brass scales
Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad.
Parents are reminded that first years are not allowed their own broomsticks.
---
The twins leaned over either shoulder, reading aloud with exaggerated pomp. "One wand, one cauldron, and no broomsticks," Fred intoned gravely.
"No broomsticks," echoed George, shaking his head in mock sorrow. "A national tragedy."
Harry laughed despite himself, though a little shiver of nerves stirred in his stomach. He wasn't sure which of these things he was more daunted by—the robes, the scales, the long list of unfamiliar books. Yet there was a thrill in it too, an electric hum at the base of his spine.
A wand. A wand of his very own.
Ginny, who had been quiet until now, peered at the parchment with wide eyes. "You'll get to pick one," she said, almost reverently. "They're all different. They choose you, Percy says."
Ron nodded sagely, though his mouth was still stuffed with toast. "Yeah. You'll see."
Harry folded the letter carefully, sliding it back into its envelope. He wanted to keep it safe, as though the words might vanish if he left them lying about. For all his doubts and questions, one truth shone bright and unshakeable: he belonged to this world now, owls and all.
-+-+-+-
He smiled faintly at the recollection, the image of owls cluttering the Burrow's rafters vivid even now. At the time, though, the whole business had been less wonder and more nerves. The parchment had smelled faintly of ink and wax, the words so official they might as well have been carved in stone, and yet behind all that formality had lurked an avalanche of practicalities. A wand, cauldrons, telescopes, brass scales—never mind how magical they sounded, they still had to be bought, carried, looked after.
And then there was the letter-writing. He hadn't written more than a note or two in his life, and those had usually been under Petunia's sharp eye for things like thank-you cards at Christmas. Replying to a school was an entirely different matter. His first thought had been that it would fall to him alone—he was used to that, after all. Washing socks, patching trousers, cooking breakfast, he'd always been the one to manage. Writing to confirm his attendance, arranging to get into London, figuring out how to pay for it all—well, those too he would have braced himself to handle.
But the Weasleys hadn't let him. Molly in particular had swept in with such brisk assurance that it made his head spin. She'd taken the letter from his uncertain hand and declared she'd see to the reply herself, as though correspondence with Hogwarts were no different than a shopping list for flour and treacle.
"There now, dear," she'd said, quill scratching across parchment with practiced ease. "Professor McGonagall will have her acknowledgement before supper. And no, don't you fret about the rest of it—fees are seen to by the Ministry, and Hagrid will explain the business with your vault in due course. Dumbledore will have told him. You needn't lose a wink of sleep."
And somehow, with her saying so, he hadn't. For the first time in his life, someone else had taken responsibility not just for him but with him. It was as though a weight he hadn't known he carried had been gently set aside.
Letters had been sent out promptly after that: one to Hagrid, arranging to meet them the following Sunday at a place called the Leaky Cauldron (an inn, Molly explained, with the same tone she might have used for "the baker's down the road"); another to Dumbledore, informing him of the plan. The whole process had been dealt with so efficiently it seemed the Weasleys had been doing this sort of thing for decades—which, Harry supposed, they had.
And so, days later, he found himself in Ron's slanted little room, perched on the sill of the window, letter folded and refolded in his pocket, waiting. The late-summer air drifted in, warm and humming with the buzz of lazy insects, while downstairs the noise of the family preparing rose and fell like the tide.
The trip had become, in true Weasley fashion, a family outing. Ginny was beside herself with excitement, though she had no supplies of her own to buy; Fred and George muttered conspiratorially about "stock" for their next prank venture; Percy had declared loftily that he would be acquiring new ink of a superior quality, which no doubt only Percy cared about. Ron was as keyed up as Harry himself, though he went a bit red in the ears whenever he mentioned what he would be getting.
"New wand, finally," he'd admitted the evening before, trying for casual, though the grin tugging at his mouth spoiled it. "We'll both be first years, you and me, so… brand new."
Harry hadn't known what to say. He supposed he ought to feel self-conscious at his own excitement, but he didn't. The prospect of stepping into a shop and having someone hand him a wand—his wand—was more intoxicating than he could put into words.
The sound of Molly's voice floated up the staircase, brisk and commanding: "Harry, dear, are you ready? We'll be off in a tick!"
He jumped, realising he'd been sitting with his chin in his hands, daydreaming at the window. Straightening his clothes as best he could—tugging at the hem of his shirt, brushing at his knees—he stuffed the letter securely into his pocket. It was foolish, he knew, but he couldn't help wanting it near him, like a talisman against the fear that it might all disappear.
Then, bounding down the uneven staircase two steps at a time, he felt his nerves fizz into a kind of bright eagerness. Shopping. Proper shopping. Not Dudley's cast-offs, not dull afternoons trailing after Aunt Petunia in the high street, but supplies for Hogwarts. His supplies. His future.
He was going to Diagon Alley.
***
The entire Weasley family, plus one nervous Harry Potter, gathered before the fireplace in the Burrow's sitting room. Harry stared at the hearth, baffled. The fire crackled merrily enough, but nothing about it suggested a means of travel. He'd been prepared for brooms, portkeys, even the possibility of flying carpets if half the stories in Ron's books were to be believed—but fireplaces? That was a new one.
What made it all the more absurd was the way the Weasleys stood about as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world. They were dressed for the outing in what Harry now recognised as wizarding attire: flowing robes in varying degrees of dignity and scruffiness. Arthur's was serviceable and a bit faded, patched discreetly at the hem; Molly's was neat and floral, with a light scarf wrapped around her; Percy's, of course, was immaculate, complete with a polished prefect's badge gleaming at his chest. Fred and George had matched each other in cheeky defiance of fashion, both sporting lurid green trim on their sleeves. Ginny's robes were plain but freshly pressed, her red hair flowing behind her freely. Ron had been dragged into something second-hand and slightly too short at the ankle, though he tried not to notice.
Harry looked down at his own clothes—jeans and a shirt Molly had charmed to look somewhat tidier—and wondered if he'd missed the memo.
Molly fussed with a small tin box in her hand, rattling it as though hoping to summon courage from inside. She glanced at Harry, her brow puckered with the kind of worry that only mothers could manage. "Arthur, are you quite sure? He's never done it before. It can be tricky for a first-timer—"
Arthur's kindly voice cut in, patient and reassuring. "It'll be fine, Molly, really. Perfectly safe, so long as he does exactly as instructed. The Floo Network is how we travel from one fireplace to another. It's all interconnected, you see, monitored by the Department of Magical Transportation." He gave Harry a nod. "We use Floo Powder. Throw a pinch into the fire, step in, state your destination clearly, and off you go."
Harry's throat went dry. "Step… into the fire?"
"Yes," Arthur said cheerfully, as though stepping into flames were no more alarming than stepping into a lift. "The fire becomes green and harmless once the powder's in. Perfectly safe."
Harry shot a nervous glance at the family. None of them looked remotely worried. Ron was bouncing on his heels, eager to be off. Percy looked smugly composed. Even Ginny, who had spent the first few days blushing furiously whenever Harry so much as looked her way, seemed confident now, her earlier awe replaced with easy casualness.
Leaning closer, Harry asked Ron under his breath, "You've done this before?"
"Loads," Ron said, grinning. "Nothing to it."
"It's simple, really," Ginny piped up, eager to be helpful. "Just don't sneeze halfway, or you might end up in the wrong grate."
Harry's eyes widened. "The wrong grate?"
"She's joking," Ron said quickly, though his ears went pink. Then, in a more serious tone, "Just remember: tuck your elbows in, keep a firm footing, and hold your breath."
Harry nodded, though his insides squirmed.
Meanwhile, Molly was still fretting. Arthur squeezed her shoulder with quiet reassurance. "The Ministry allots department heads a monthly Floo quota," he said. "I've still a bit left. It's there for emergencies, but a school trip for Harry Potter rather qualifies, don't you think?"
Harry blinked at that. "You get a… quota?"
Arthur smiled. "Indeed. A certain allowance of powder for official or family use. It keeps the supply regulated. Quite handy, really."
Before Harry could muster another question, the twins had already grabbed pinches of powder, shouted "The Leaky Cauldron!" into the blaze, and vanished with identical whooshes, leaving behind a flurry of sparks. Percy went next, all precise diction and smooth posture. Ginny followed, bright-eyed and eager, disappearing with a squeak of excitement.
Arthur stepped forward, kissed Molly's cheek, and with a fatherly wink at Harry, vanished himself.
That left Harry staring at the hearth, Molly with her worried box, and Ron shifting impatiently at his side.
"You'll be fine," Ron said, trying for casual encouragement. "Just… don't forget to hold your breath."
Harry swallowed, heart thudding, and nodded.
He steeled himself, tucked his elbows tight to his ribs, grabbed a pinch of powder from Molly's tin, and hurled it into the flames. They roared green instantly, leaping higher, beckoning. Summoning courage from some hidden corner, he stepped in.
"The—Leaky—Cauldron!" he shouted.
The world jerked away. He was spinning, spinning through a roaring tunnel of fire, his body whirling end over end. Chimneys flashed past, glimpses of strange parlours and startled faces flickered in and out of view, and ash whipped against his skin. He tried to breathe but choked instead, coughing, his eyes streaming. The sensation was like being dragged backwards by a hurricane while tumbling down a drainpipe.
And then, with a violent lurch, he stumbled forward out of a soot-blackened grate. He crashed onto the floor of a dingy pub, coughing so hard his ribs ached.
Patrons groaned. One wizard muttered, "Lost a Sickel on that one." Coins clinked into someone's palm.
A hand patted his back. Another shoved a rag into his hand. He wiped his face furiously, smearing soot rather than clearing it, his glasses sliding down his nose.
"Forgot to hold your breath, didn't you?" Ron said cheerfully, stepping neatly out of the fireplace beside him, as unruffled as if he'd just strolled through a door.
Harry could only nod, still coughing, his pride somewhere back in the Floo Network.
The Leaky Cauldron smelled of ale, smoke, and the faint tang of something medicinal. The patrons, now satisfied, turned back to their drinks. Harry straightened, clutching the rag, cheeks burning, but beneath the embarrassment he felt something else too—excitement, sharp and undeniable.
The Leaky Cauldron was darker than it had any right to be on a summer morning. Dust-motes drifted in slow spirals through the low light, the sunlight outside seemingly stopped at the threshold as though reluctant to intrude on the place's long-set gloom. The air was warm and smelled faintly of smoke, stale ale, and something more indefinable—perhaps dust from old stone mingling with a tang of herbs from bottles stacked behind the bar.
Harry blinked rapidly, coughing into the cloth some kind patron had thrust into his hand, and tried to gather his bearings. The barroom was larger than it had seemed in his imaginations when he thought about a inn or a pub—though to be fair, he had never been to a pub or an inn, just heard about them. Now he had a moment to stand in the wide wooden-floored room, and it opened itself up to him in fragments: heavy oak beams crossing the ceiling, round wooden tables scattered here and there, each with occupants hunched over tankards, glasses, or teacups, their conversation a lively hum.
Some patrons laughed at some joke Harry couldn't quite catch. Others leaned close, voices low, eyes darting toward the new arrivals, though no one seemed particularly surprised by children stumbling from the hearth in a shower of soot. A man in a plum-coloured cloak was snoring gently against the back wall, while a witch in emerald robes shuffled cards alone at her table, muttering numbers to herself. At the bar itself stood a man with a bald, polished crown of a head, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a long glass being rubbed industriously with a cloth that, Harry thought, did not look especially clean.
That must be Tom, Harry guessed—the barkeep and owner Mr. Weasley had told them about. With whom he had an agreement to floo-in here. Sure enough, Mr. Weasley was already there, beaming warmly and shaking hands across the counter as Tom broke into a broad smile. They exchanged a few words Harry couldn't hear, Arthur's voice rolling along as if he were greeting an old friend. Tom chuckled, set aside the glass, and produced something from beneath the counter, which Mr. Weasley received with a polite incline of his head.
The fire flared again behind Harry and spat out a tumbling Ron, who emerged with considerably less coughing than Harry had. He grinned, brushing ash from his sleeves.
"Went all right then, did it?" Ron asked cheerfully, thumping Harry on the back in a way that suggested he might have done the same to a jammed Chudley Cannons Beater. Harry gave a half-grimace, half-smile.
"Forgot to hold my breath," he admitted, croakily. "Feels like I swallowed a chimney."
Ron barked a laugh. "That's the trick, isn't it? First time always knocks it out of you. Ought to have remembered to close your mouth as well. Saves you chewing on soot for the rest of the day."
The fire roared again, this time delivering Mrs. Weasley in a swirl of green flames and a cloud of powder. She stepped out with surprising grace, though she immediately broke into a flurry of fussing, wiping at soot on Ginny's cheek and brushing the twins down even as they laughed at her. Molly let out a long breath of relief when her eyes landed on Harry, her shoulders relaxing.
"Oh, thank heavens you all came through. Every year I dread something going wrong. There now—stand still, Ron—your collar's scorched." She clucked and shook her head at the twins, who were elbowing one another and making faces.
Fred—or possibly George—called out merrily to the room, "Another triumphant landing for the Weasley Fire-Flight Service! No broken bones, no lost limbs!"
"Yet," his twin added.
"Don't tempt fate," Molly said sharply, herded them like errant sheep, and bustled Ginny close to her side, ignoring the girl's protest that she didn't need to be fussed over.
Ron, meanwhile, leaned closer to Harry, lowering his voice. "Funny thing, though. We could've gone straight through to the Alley if we'd wanted. It's linked up direct." He shrugged, as though he found it mildly ridiculous but wasn't about to argue with her. "Mind you, I think she wanted to check us all at once before we step out. Make sure no one's lost a shoe or a finger or anything."
Harry smiled faintly, though his stomach still twitched from the trip. He was just wondering how many fireplaces could possibly be linked to one pub when Mr. Weasley raised a hand for them to follow. They filed after him, past the bar and through a narrow passage at the back of the inn, until they came out into a small flagged courtyard hemmed in by high brick walls. The sunlight fell squarely into it, making Harry blink after the pub's gloom.
"Now, Harry," Arthur said, stepping briskly to the far wall, "watch closely, this is rather clever."
Harry glanced at Ron, who leaned towards him eagerly. "Just watch. You'll like this bit."
Arthur counted the bricks upward with his wand-tip, lips moving silently. He paused, made a neat flick, and tapped a particular brick three rows up. A bright little spark leapt from his wand, striking the mortar with a sound not unlike a tap on a wineglass.
At once the brick trembled. The entire wall shivered as though it had caught a sudden breeze, though the air in the courtyard was still. Bricks shifted, folded, and slid away as if they had always been blocks in some elaborate puzzle. Harry's jaw dropped as the small, ordinary wall unfolded itself like the lid of an enormous box, pulling itself back into an arched opening. Beyond lay a wide, bustling street alive with motion and colour.
Diagon Alley.
Or at least—that was what they called it. Alley. What nonsense.
Harry took an involuntary step forward, staring. His first thought, clear and undeniable, was that this was no alley at all. Alleys were narrow, cramped things that ran behind rows of dustbins or between leaning houses where no sunlight reached. This was… something else entirely.
The street stretched wide enough to hold a dozen carriages abreast, the flagstones gleaming pale beneath a morning sun that had been quite hidden in the courtyard. Buildings rose tall on either side, their façades crooked yet somehow grand, with bow windows, gilt signs swinging overhead, and balconies that jutted at unlikely angles. The entire street seemed to lean and curve, every shopfront painted a different shade, every window filled with something gleaming or strange.
And the noise! A constant chatter of voices, laughter, haggling, the occasional shout, all layered with the rustle of owls' wings and the tinkling of bells as doors opened and closed. Children darted past with bags of sweets in hand, witches clustered around displays of fabric bolts, a wizard in an enormous hat argued cheerfully with a shopkeeper.
Harry felt his breath catch in his throat. He had thought he'd remembered the Alley from last summer, but clearly he had not remembered enough. It wasn't simply bigger than he had pictured—it was alive, every inch of it crowded, colourful, clamorous.
Ron grinned at him knowingly. "Told you. First time seeing it proper always knocks you sideways. Doesn't look like much from the Muggle side, does it?"
Harry shook his head mutely, eyes still wide.
Molly called out for them to stick close, but even she sounded pleased, her stern fussing fading a little as she shepherded her brood into the stream of the crowd. Arthur waited at the arch for Harry, smiling patiently.
"Come along, Harry. No need to be shy. The Alley's quite safe."
Safe, perhaps. Ordinary? Not in the slightest.
Harry stepped forward, following the Weasleys through the gateway, and felt the full tide of Diagon Alley wash over him, dazzling and dizzying in equal measure.
As they walked, the crowd pressed in around him almost at once, swallowing Harry whole. The moment they stepped through the arch, the stream of wizards and witches carried them forward whether they wished it or not, the Weasleys bunching into a cluster to avoid being scattered. Harry clung close to Ron's shoulder, though his eyes kept darting everywhere but forward, tugged this way and that by the sheer, unrelenting spectacle of Diagon Alley.
On the left, a broomstick display glittered in the sun. Sleek models hovered a foot above their stands, polished handles gleaming like varnished oak, bristles trimmed to razor neatness. A painted sign boasted, Newest Edition – The Silverbolt by Fors & Higgs! Outstrips the Nimbus 1900! And in the opposite shop – Nimbus 2000! Coming Soon! Harry slowed, neck craning, catching the shimmer of runes etched faintly into the handles. He was shoved lightly in the back by a passing witch and forced to stumble onward, but the sight had lodged itself firmly in his mind.
Past that came a cauldron shop, rows upon rows of iron, brass, and pewter kettles stacked high in the window, some stirring themselves idly as though eager to be put to use. A thin wizard outside cried out, "Self-scrubbing! Ever-heating! Guaranteed never to rust!" before being drowned out by a woman hawking cloaks a few doors down, flinging fabric over her arm to display how it shimmered in the light. Cloaks of deep velvet, silk shot with threads of silver, wool so fine Harry thought it must melt to touch. She spun them in the air and the colours shifted with every twist, drawing gasps from a clutch of onlookers.
Harry might have stood stock-still and gawped like a tourist all morning had he been alone. But the Weasley family was a force of nature in motion.
But he walked on.
It was not an easy thing, he discovered, to keep a large family on one path through Diagon Alley. Every shop window tempted one child or another. George nearly veered into a joke shop where a tower of fireworks promised Portable Blazes! before Molly yanked him firmly by the collar. Ginny, eyes round, slowed at a stand selling sweets, her face lighting at the sight of Chocolate Frogs stacked in precarious pyramids, until Fred steered her on with the promise they'd return later. Percy sniffed disdainfully at a group of street hawkers but nearly collided with a squat witch carrying three owl cages at once.
Arthur and Molly didn't make it look easy. There was nothing easy about it. But there was something practiced about the way they managed it, a rhythm born of years wrangling children through crowded markets. Molly's sharp eye caught every attempted escape before it had fully begun, while Arthur's calm hand on Harry's shoulder kept him tethered. It reminded Harry of how Mrs. Figg used to guide him through a supermarket—except here, instead of hissing at him to behave, Molly issued brisk commands to all of them at once, and somehow they obeyed.
And all the while, the Alley unfurled around them. Stalls spilled over with trinkets, potion ingredients stacked high in bins, feathers brushing faces, vials clinking together like ice in glasses. Somewhere overhead a sign creaked in the wind, painted with a proud unicorn rampant. Harry glimpsed cages upon cages of owls, feathers drifting down to the cobblestones as they hooted irritably at the noise. A boy dashed past with a butterbeer bottle clutched triumphantly in his fist.
It was alive. Overwhelmingly, impossibly alive.
Harry rolled his eyes at himself, because it was the sheer cheek of it—Alley, they called it. Alley. No alley Harry had ever known could hold so much as a bicycle, let alone half the wizarding world crammed shoulder to shoulder. He muttered as much to Ron, who laughed loudly.
"Told you before, didn't I? 'Diagon Alley' sounds like it ought to be a dingy shortcut between two shops in Muggle London. But nah—" He spread his hands, nearly knocking into a woman balancing a basket of flobberworms, "—it's massive. Proper town centre, this."
"But where is it?" Harry asked, craning his neck to look past the crooked rooftops. "I mean, how can it just—be here? You can't see it from outside, can you? The Leaky Cauldron looked big, yeah, but this is—this is—" He gestured helplessly, trying to capture in words the press of people, the width of the street, the crooked spires that seemed to climb higher the more one looked.
"Pocket space," Percy said loftily from just ahead. "Everyone knows that."
"What's a pocket space?" Harry asked, frowning.
Percy opened his mouth with the air of a lecturer about to pronounce, but Arthur, overhearing, cut in with a mild chuckle. "Now, now, let's not overwhelm Harry. He's got the gist of it. Think of it like—folding. Like folding a very large cloth into a very small drawer. You can't see how it all fits in there, but it does. Magic makes it work."
Harry blinked at him. "So it's bigger on the inside?"
Arthur's smile widened. "Just so. It's old magic, very old—older than the Ministry, older than Hogwarts, if you listen to some historians. The wizarding world has long been fond of tucking things away in folds and corners where no one expects them."
Harry absorbed this silently, the explanation hovering tantalisingly just beyond his full understanding. He felt a spark of something between awe and hunger, the desire to know more, to pull the trick apart and see how it really worked. But Arthur had already moved on, gently calling for Fred and George to keep up.
So Harry let the thought sit at the back of his mind, while Diagon Alley swallowed them further into its whirl of noise and colour.
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The Weasleys wove their way through the crowd with the practiced ease of a family long used to navigating chaos, and Harry, swept along in their wake, barely noticed how far they'd gone until Ron suddenly jabbed a finger forward.
"There it is—Gringotts!"
Harry's eyes followed, and his breath caught. Rising above the bustle of shops and stalls stood a building quite unlike any other in the Alley. White stone gleamed in the sunlight, polished to a sheen that made it look more marble than rock, though the blocks were slightly uneven, giving the whole edifice a crooked, almost hunched appearance. Steps—broad, worn by centuries of feet—led up to towering bronze doors that shimmered faintly with enchantments. Even from the street, Harry could see goblins stationed at either side, their pointed features watchful, eyes sharp as if they missed nothing.
It was both inviting and intimidating, a monument of wealth and warning in equal measure.
And there, standing like a misplaced mountain outside its doors, was Hagrid. The half-giant's shaggy mane caught the light as he idly combed at his tangled beard with fingers that could have doubled as small spades. His great umbrella leaned against one shoulder, looking absurdly delicate in his enormous hand. The moment he caught sight of Harry and the Weasleys, his face split into a grin, and he raised one arm in greeting.
"Harry! There yeh are!" he bellowed, the sound carrying over the clamor of the Alley.
"All right there, Hagrid?" Arthur called up cheerfully as they mounted the steps.
"Travel safe?" Molly added, giving him a fond but exasperated look, as though she half-expected he'd arrived by wrestling a dragon instead of any sensible means.
"Aye, was fine," Hagrid rumbled. "Couple o' detours, but yeh know how it is."
The Weasley children chorused greetings of their own, Ginny bouncing a little on her toes, and Ron looking particularly chuffed to have such a giant friend waving them over in public.
When Harry reached him, Hagrid clapped one massive hand on his shoulder with such enthusiasm that Harry staggered under the weight. "Good ter see yeh, Harry. Now, Molly—" He turned, his expression softening in a way that always seemed odd against his wild beard. "Dumbledore asked me ter take the lad round fer his shoppin'. Bank first, o'course."
Harry's face fell before he could stop himself. "Oh—must we? I'd rather go with Ron and Ginny, if that's all right."
Ron perked up instantly. "Yeah! He ought to come with us!"
Ginny nodded eagerly, eyes shining.
Hagrid chuckled, a booming sound that made a few passersby startle. "Don' worry yerselves, it'll only be the bank. Then we'll meet yeh after. Best ter get the vault business sorted first, yeh see. Can't be buyin' books or wands wi'out gold, eh?"
Harry hesitated but, reassured by Hagrid's warmth and Ron's sulky acceptance, allowed himself to be steered toward the gleaming doors.
As they mounted the marble steps, Hagrid leaned down, lowering his voice though it still carried like distant thunder. "This here's Gringotts. Only wizard bank there is. Run by goblins."
Harry wasn't surprised in the least. Professor Binns had gone on at great length in History of Magic about goblin rebellions, uprisings, treaties, and more rebellions. He'd heard so much about goblins that he half-expected to be quizzed on it any moment. Still, seeing them in the flesh—sharp suits, shrewd expressions, hands clasped politely around ledgers—was different than dusty parchment scribbles.
His gaze snagged on an engraved plaque fixed to the inner silver doors beyond the bronze. Letters shimmered faintly, as if written with fire:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed…
Harry read the rest silently, the warning curling in his chest like cold smoke. He swallowed. "Bit grim, isn't it?"
"Ha! That's goblins fer yeh," Hagrid said cheerfully. "They don' mince words."
The interior swallowed them whole—cool air, white stone stretching upward into a high vaulted ceiling. Polished floors clicked under shoes. A long hall stretched forward, lined with counters. Behind them, goblins perched on tall stools, their quills scratching furiously, eyes flicking up now and then with hawk-like intensity. Some weighed piles of coins, others examined jewels through jewellers' lenses, still others muttered into ledgers thicker than Harry's arm. The sound was a steady hum of parchment and metal, interrupted only by the occasional clink of a coin dropped into a scale pan.
Harry's jaw slackened. It was all so official, so serious. He couldn't imagine Dudley walking two feet in here without knocking something over.
They approached a free teller, a goblin whose hair was slicked back, ears neat against his head. He looked down his long nose at Hagrid with clear disdain.
"Good morning," Hagrid said stoutly, fumbling into his moleskin coat. He emerged with a small brass key, polished from years of handling. "Got a vault ter visit. This here's Harry Potter."
The goblin's gaze shifted to Harry, sharp as a knife's edge. Then, without a word, he extended a long-fingered hand. Hagrid dropped the key into it, and the goblin turned it over, inspecting every notch with a care that made Harry oddly self-conscious, as though his vault were somehow being judged.
"Very well," the goblin said at last, his voice crisp as parchment tearing. He snapped his fingers, and another goblin appeared almost immediately, bowing shallowly. "Griphook." And looking at Hagrid he said, "And your business?"
"Assume ye know about it?" Hagrid asked gruffly.
"I do, indeed." The goblin teller sniffed.
"'en that's that."
With another audible sniff, the teller snapped his fingers again and went back to doing what goblin tellers did.
Griphook straightened, eyes glittering. "Follow me."
Harry glanced up at Hagrid, who nodded encouragingly, and together they followed the goblin deeper into the bank, the cool air shifting to something damper, heavier, as the marble hall gave way to darker stone passages. Lamps flickered in iron brackets along the walls, their flames steady despite the faint draft. Somewhere far below, Harry thought he heard the echo of chains rattling or perhaps the squeak of wheels.
His stomach fluttered with unease and curiosity in equal measure. Whatever waited for him in that vault, it was part of his parents' legacy—something they had thought to leave behind for him. The idea both steadied and unsettled him.
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The cart rattled and clanked along the rails with the sort of reckless abandon that suggested it had never once considered the possibility of brakes. Harry clung to the edge, wind in his face, hair whipped back, eyes streaming as the tunnel walls blurred around them. Torchlight flashed intermittently, throwing the sharp cheekbones of the goblin driver—Griphook, he'd been called—into sharper relief. Across from him, Hagrid looked decidedly less heroic. His great hands gripped the cart's sides so tightly his knuckles were pale beneath their shaggy coating of hair, and his face had taken on a shade somewhere between green and grey.
"Yeh all right there, Hagrid?" Harry shouted above the roar of the wheels, half-concerned and half-delighted at the absurdity of it.
"M'fine," Hagrid wheezed, though the tremor in his beard suggested otherwise. His huge bulk jostled with every violent turn, and Harry thought that if the cart did tip over, it wouldn't matter how big or small you were—you'd be smashed all the same.
Harry's gaze strayed past Hagrid to the tunnels around them. The scale of it all pressed in. He'd thought, naively, that the marble steps of Gringotts led to a modest basement of sorts, perhaps a few dozen vaults tucked away beneath Diagon Alley. But this—this was something else entirely. Caverns stretched outwards into darkness, side tunnels forked and twisted, each with rails crisscrossing like the veins of some vast underground beast. Vault doors of every conceivable size and design blurred past: some simple iron doors set into rock, others engraved with sigils that gleamed faintly, still others locked with chains and bars thick as Hagrid's arms.
"How does nobody notice all this under London?" Harry blurted, ducking slightly as the cart dove into another low passage. The thought had been nagging at him for several turns now. Whole cathedrals could be hidden down here, and still the city carried on above, oblivious.
Hagrid, his cheeks puffed with the effort of holding down his breakfast, muttered, "Magic, o' course. Goblin enchantments. Keeps it all quiet an'—oof—hidden."
Harry frowned. "But I mean, doesn't anyone dig down by accident? The Underground trains, the pipes, the—"
"Magic," Hagrid repeated, a little more forcefully, as though the word alone could explain the architectural miracle of an entire world beneath their feet. He looked dangerously close to losing the struggle with his stomach, so Harry, wisely, let the matter drop.
They plunged deeper, the cart wheels sparking occasionally on sharp bends. At last Griphook gave a brisk tug on a lever, and the cart screeched to a halt before a towering door of smooth bronze. Harry tumbled out, legs unsteady, while Hagrid clambered out with all the grace of a wounded bear. He leaned against the tunnel wall, sucking in long draughts of the cool, mineral-heavy air.
"This," Griphook said with a certain relish, "is Vault Six Hundred and Eighty-Seven. The Potter family vault." His long nose twitched as though he scented the wealth within.
Harry's heart gave a strange leap. His vault. His family's. Until a moment ago, "Potter" had been no more than a surname scrawled untidily on school letters and whispered in odd tones by strangers. Now it was inscribed on a door deep under London, guarded by goblin craft, as though the name itself had weight.
Before opening it, Griphook turned his gaze on Harry. "You will, of course, require some knowledge of our currency if you are to make purchases." He spoke in the clipped tones of someone reluctantly offering a lesson to a child. "Seventeen silver Sickles to one gold Galleon. Twenty-nine bronze Knuts to a Sickle. Rather a neat system, I must say."
Harry tried to make sense of it. "So—so how many Knuts in a Galleon?"
Griphook sniffed. "Four hundred and ninety-three."
Harry's head spun. "Why not just make it ten, or a hundred? Wouldn't that be simpler?"
The goblin gave him a long, baleful stare, as though simplicity were a vulgarity beneath his dignity. "Because it has always been so. Goblin coinage is precise, unchanging, incorruptible. Wizards and their newfangled notions of 'simplicity' often lead to ruin."
Harry, undeterred, asked, "But how do you keep track of which vault's which? There must be thousands of them. Don't you get lost?"
At that, Griphook's mouth curved into something between a smirk and a sneer. "Lost? Never. Every tunnel, every twist of track, every lock and ward is of goblin design. The craftsmanship is unrivalled, and the security absolute. No thief has ever escaped Gringotts unscathed." His voice swelled with pride, and Harry had the distinct sense he'd stumbled into territory goblins enjoyed boasting about.
Before Harry could ask more—he had at least half a dozen questions simmering—the goblin drew a thin, wicked-looking key. He inserted it into a near-invisible slot, and with a deep groan the bronze door split down the middle. Metal shifted against stone, the vault sighing open.
The torchlight fell upon mounds of gold that caught the light and scattered it in every direction. Coins gleamed in heaps, like autumn leaves piled high. Silver Sickles spilled from tens and tens of leather pouches that had long since rotted, while stacks upon stacks of Galleons shimmered, their edges worn but their luster untouched by time. Bronze Knuts lay in tumbling rivers of coppery light.
Harry stepped forward, breath caught in his throat. For years he had lived cupboard-close with hand-me-down clothes and Dudley's disdain. To see such wealth—his wealth—was to feel suddenly as though he had been standing on the crust of a great mountain all his life, and only now did he realise its depth.
Hagrid straightened, less green than before, and gave a low whistle. "Tha's more than enough ter see yeh through school, Harry. Take what yeh need."
Harry hesitated, torn between awe and guilt. "But—is it really all mine?"
"Every last coin," Hagrid said firmly. "Yer mum and dad left it fer yeh."
So, with trembling hands, Harry filled a small pouch Hagrid had given for him. The coins clinked together with a sound richer than any music he had ever heard. When the pouch grew heavy, Hagrid gently intervened. "Tha's plenty. Yeh don't want ter be lugging a dragon's hoard around Diagon Alley."
They turned to leave, but Griphook was already steering the cart further along the tunnels. "One more stop," the goblin intoned.
The track wound into darker territory, the torches fewer, the air cooler. Harry noticed the vaults here were not adorned with glittering sigils or great locks of gold, but plain stone doors, smaller, sterner, as though their contents were not meant to dazzle but to endure. The cart stopped before one particularly unremarkable vault. It bore no grand number, no crest, only a simple slab of iron set into rock.
Hagrid stepped out first. His face was grave now, his earlier queasiness gone. With surprising care, he pulled on a thick dragon-hide glove and reached into the vast pocket of his coat. From it he withdrew a small, tightly wrapped package—no bigger than a loaf of bread.
Harry's curiosity sparked immediately. "What's that?" he asked, craning his neck.
Hagrid didn't answer. His massive shoulders hunched as he deposited the parcel inside the vault, laying it down with the tenderness of a man setting a child to bed. He withdrew quickly, and Griphook sealed the door once more.
The silence in the tunnel thickened. Harry wanted to ask—needed to ask—but something in Hagrid's expression stopped him. The half-giant's eyes, usually so open and kind, were shuttered now. Harry recognised in them the same guardedness he had seen in adults when they spoke of things they thought children ought not to know.
So he said nothing. He only tightened his grip on the pouch at his belt, feeling the reassuring weight of his own inheritance.
The cart started again, this time climbing, climbing ever upward. The air grew warmer, the torches brighter. The tunnels twisted and unfurled until Harry lost all sense of direction. Only the rush of air in his ears and the mounting excitement in his chest told him they were nearing the surface again.
The underground world of Gringotts receded into shadow behind them, leaving Harry with the dizzying memory of glittering vaults, goblin pride, and secrets wrapped in plain brown paper.
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The heat of the afternoon struck them full in the face as they stepped out of the cool marble foyer of Gringotts, the noise of Diagon Alley swelling about them like the rush of the tide. Harry's head was still half in the depths of the underground vaults—the echoing roar of the cart, the dazzling piles of gold, the strange little package Hagrid had guarded with such quiet intensity—but here was life again in all its bustling colour. Owls swooped overhead with ribbons and parcels, the chatter of witches haggling with shopkeepers carried through the air, and every shopfront was a riot of enchanted displays clamouring for attention.
Hagrid took a long breath and set his shoulders. "Right then, Harry. Robes next. Madam Malkin's'll have yeh measured in no time."
The shop wasn't far, and Hagrid steered him through the flow of shoppers with his great bulk, parting the crowd like a ship's prow cutting through water. As they approached, Harry noticed the neat purple front of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions—and, more importantly, the rather long line spilling out into the street.
"Blimey," Hagrid muttered, shading his eyes. "Knew it'd be busy. Prob'ly half the families in Britain trying ter get fitted fer the new term." He tilted his head, a slow grin spreading through his beard. "Wouldn't be surprised if the Weasleys were in there."
It turned out to be perfectly correct.
Inside, amid the swish of measuring tapes and the rustle of fabric bolts, Harry found Molly Weasley presiding with her usual mixture of efficiency and maternal warmth. She was shepherding most of her brood at once—Ron, Percy, and the twins—while Arthur had apparently taken Ginny off to a sweet shop to stave off her complaints.
The twins were on stools, arms outstretched, while their robes were lengthened magically to suit their taller frames. Percy stood nearby, looking faintly put out that his cast-offs were being so summarily altered. Ron was tugging unhappily at a sleeve that Madam Malkin's assistant was attempting to pin up, the fabric clearly having once belonged to one of the twins.
"Now hold still, Ronald," Molly said in exasperation. "It'll fit properly once the hem is charmed. You'll be thankful of it come winter."
Ron groaned but obeyed, his ears pink.
Harry, standing awkwardly in the doorway, took it all in without the faintest shadow of scorn. He knew hand-me-downs—knew the faintly embarrassing tug of clothes that were never quite meant for you, the way adults insisted they'd 'do just fine'. There was no shame in it. If anything, he thought it practical. Why waste money on things brand new when perfectly good ones could be adjusted?
Still, Mrs Weasley insisted on something different for him. "You'll have yours new, Harry," she said firmly, when Hagrid muttered about second-hand being no disgrace. "Good quality robes last longer, and the enchantments hold better. They can be refitted as you grow. It's the sensible way."
Harry, a little red about the ears, nodded. He hadn't wanted to argue, but he would have gladly worn anything.
Once his measurements were taken, the day became a whirlwind of errands. They spilled out of Madam Malkin's into the throng of Diagon Alley, ticking through the long list Hagrid carried. Cauldrons first—sturdy pewter ones stacked high in front of Potage's Cauldron Shop. Harry ran his hands along the rims, marvelling that soon one would be his, full of bubbling potions like something out of a dream.
The books were next, though less of an ordeal for Harry than expected. "No need ter buy the lot," Hagrid told him, his tone almost cheerful. "Mrs Figg'll be sending along the full set o' first year books what she's been keepin' fer yeh." Harry blinked in surprise, but it made sense—he supposed Dumbledore had thought ahead.
They pressed on. Parchment, quills, bottles of ink so black it looked like midnight. Scales, telescope lenses gleaming under the sun, phials for potion ingredients. Harry's bag grew steadily heavier.
At some point in the bustle Hagrid slipped away, muttering something about "an early birthday present." Harry scarcely noticed his absence until the half-giant returned, a broad grin splitting his face, and in his arms—an owl. Not just any owl, but a snowy owl, feathers like fresh-fallen snow, amber eyes glinting with fierce intelligence.
Harry's breath caught. He reached out as though afraid the bird might vanish. The owl tilted her head, scrutinising him as though weighing his worth. She was magnificent.
"Happy early birthday, Harry," Hagrid said smiling softly, as if the words cost him little but meant everything.
Harry wanted nothing more than to sit down right there in the street, to stroke the owl's feathers and marvel at her, but there was no time. The list pressed on, and Molly was already bustling them towards the next shop.
Arthur reappeared not long after, Ginny trotting beside him, her arms laden with brightly wrapped packets from Sugarplum's Sweets. She was all smiles, chattering about Fizzing Whizbees and Cauldron Cakes, while Molly shot her husband a look that could have frosted glass. Arthur leaned down, whispering something that smoothed her temper, and her glare softened to reluctant amusement. Harry noted the quiet exchange with interest; it was a kind of magic all its own, the way Arthur's calm could soften Molly's storms.
At last, the group split again. Molly, Percy, Ginny, and the twins set off to finish the remaining errands, while Arthur, Ron, Hagrid, and Harry turned their steps toward one of the narrowest, oldest shops Harry had yet seen.
"Time fer wands," Hagrid said, and Ron's face lit up like Christmas morning.
"It's the only thing new I'm getting," Ron confessed with a shy grin as they walked. "Dad promised I'd have my own wand, not just another hand-me-down. I've been waiting for it for ages."
Harry smiled. He understood. Of all the things they had gathered, this seemed the most important—an object not just of use, but of identity.
The shop they stopped before was tall and thin, with peeling gold letters spelling Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded cushion in the window, glowing faintly in the dust-moted light.
Harry felt his stomach flutter. This was it. The final piece of the puzzle, the tool that would make him not just a boy in a strange place, but a wizard in truth.
With Ron at his side, grinning with anticipation, Harry stepped inside.
The door creaked open with a soft chime, and Harry stepped inside Ollivanders, immediately enveloped by the rich, musty scent of ancient wood and polished wands. The interior was narrower than he expected, but somehow the shop seemed impossibly deep, the ceiling lost in shadow, shelves rising in irregular stacks that reached toward it, boxes piled to the rafters with a precarious sort of order only Ollivander could navigate. A single shaft of sunlight from a dusty window glinted off the wood, illuminating motes of dust that danced like tiny golden fairies in the air. It was quiet—almost eerily so—until a creak from behind a shelf startled Harry so sharply that he stumbled forward, colliding slightly with the polished counter.
"Ah! Good day, good day!" A voice squeaked from nowhere, and Harry jumped again. "And who do we have here? Hagrid! My dear, dear Hagrid! My goodness, how long has it been? And young Harry, is it you?"
The owner of the shop appeared with a suddenness that was almost magical in itself, stepping from between towering stacks of wand boxes. He was a tall, thin man, with pale, almost translucent skin and eyes that glittered behind round spectacles. He had a way of appearing where he was least expected, and his voice always carried the faint quiver of excitement, bordering on eccentricity.
"Ah, Arthur Weasley! Chestnut & Unicorn Hair, 11–12 inches, slightly whippy. I still remember the day you came in," he continued, his gaze darting toward Hagrid, who rumbled a deep chuckle. "And you, I see, have been quite... industrious, yes, yes," Ollivander said, his glance flicking to Hagrid's enormous umbrella with the faintest tinge of suspicion, as though it were capable of casting spells at any moment. "Though I must lament, Hagrid, that wand snapped rather abruptly! Oak with Dragon Heartstring, 16 inches, rather bendy..." He shook his head sadly, "A shame, a shame indeed. No matter, no matter. One cannot have everything."
Hagrid rumbled an apology, and Ollivander waved it off with a theatrical flick of his hand, already shifting his attention to the next customers. "Ah! And young Weasley, yes? Let us find the perfect wand for you, shall we?"
Boxes upon boxes were pulled down from the shelves, each rattled and tapped against the counter as Ollivander muttered under his breath. He gestured for Ron to hold one, then another, murmuring incantations that caused brief sparks of light to fly off the tips. Some wands seemed indifferent to the young boy, curling in his hand or twitching annoyingly. Ron's brows furrowed in concentration, his hands awkward as he tried each one, until finally, Ollivander paused, eyes narrowing in delight.
"Yes, yes, this one," he said, carefully placing a box before Ron. "Willow wood, unicorn hair core. First year, yes, yes, perfect. You'll find it responsive, loyal, a fine match for you."
Ron's face lit with a grin, the kind of wide-eyed, uncontainable grin that Harry knew meant sheer happiness. His first wand, his first real step into the world of magic, felt almost tangible in his hand. He gave it a small flourish, which Ollivander nodded approvingly at, while Hagrid let out a deep, satisfied hum.
"And now, Mr. Harry Potter," Ollivander said, turning his attention to Harry with a kind of solemnity that made the boy feel simultaneously important and terrified. "Let us see what is best suited for you."
The process was a ritual in itself. Box after box was pulled from the towering shelves, rattled, opened, and presented to him. Each wand had a personality, Harry soon realized, flicking and sparking, or refusing to cooperate entirely. Sparks flew in occasional bursts, light and harmless, and sometimes the wands even recoiled slightly as if nudging Harry to find the right one.
Minutes stretched as Ollivander muttered under his breath, testing and observing, until at last a wand—fine and slightly brown—shivered in Harry's hand and released a brilliant jet of golden sparks. He felt warmth flow up his arm, and the faintest thrill of connection that made the air itself seem to hum around him.
"Ah, yes, yes, there it is, 11 inches, holly wood, phoenix feather core, supple..." Ollivander breathed, leaning close. "You have the wand, Harry Potter, and you—well, you see, it is quite curious. Quite curious..." He whispered to himself. "This wand shares a twin, you know, one that did great things... and terrible things as well. Fascinating, isn't it, how wands find their partners?"
Harry blinked, uncertain whether to be impressed or wary, but the sparks dancing along the wand were impossible to ignore. He felt a rush of joy, of wonder, of the vast possibilities opening up before him. This wand was part of him now, and somehow, he knew, it would guide him through all the adventures—and dangers—yet to come.
Once both Ron and Harry had their wands, Ollivander carefully replaced the boxes, murmuring a few last words about care and caution. Payment was swift and uncomplicated, a minor detail compared to the excitement of wielding such magical instruments.
Stepping back into Diagon Alley, the day seemed to shimmer with a golden hue. Ron waved his wand experimentally, making a small flourish of sparks leap from the tip. Harry copied him, feeling the familiar thrill of magic igniting at his fingertips.
Hagrid clapped a massive hand on Harry's shoulder, chuckling warmly. "Well, that's all for now, Harry. You've got your wand, your supplies, all's in order. We'll meet yeh at Hogwarts in a few weeks, eh?"
The two boys exchanged excited nods, their minds spinning with the possibilities. The day had been a perfect collision of wonderment and discovery—first cauldrons, first books, first magical companions, and finally, the wand that would mark the beginning of a new life.
They retraced their steps toward the Leaky Cauldron, meeting with rest of the Weasely brood, where the familiar warmth of the pub's hearth and the soft clatter of mugs felt comforting after the heady chaos of the Alley. Harry felt a rare lightness in his chest, a sense that this day would be remembered for the rest of his life. Every step seemed infused with magic, every sight a new marvel.
He let himself drift slightly behind Ron and Mr. Weasely, taking in the faces of the people bustling past, the laughter of witches and wizards caught up in errands of their own, the shimmering reflections of sunlight on cobbled streets. He felt, for the first time fully, the thrill of belonging to this world, this strange and magical life that stretched out before him like a map waiting to be charted.
Harry Potter, he realised, had never felt quite so alive. And as they stepped back through the Leaky Cauldron's fireplace, the air scented with toast, tea, and a hint of enchantment, he couldn't help but grin. This was the day he had waited for without quite knowing it—the day of wonderment, discovery, and magic. And it was only the beginning.
He hoped, quite ardently, such days lasted a long, long time.