Harry stepped into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
First-year students were required to wear the standard Hogwarts uniform — plain black robes. Faculty and staff, however, enjoyed more freedom in their attire.
Harry understood perfectly well the purpose of such a rule. Uniforms avoided discrimination, fostered discipline, and created a sense of unity. His own legion had a similar dress code, and he knew the advantages of uniformity were endless.
Madam Malkin herself was a short, plump witch dressed in bright purple, her face framed by a friendly smile.
"Hogwarts uniforms, dearie?" she asked before Harry could even open his mouth. "We've got plenty, and there's a young man trying one on right now."
At the back of the shop stood a pale, thin boy perched on a footstool while a witch pinned up his robes. To be fair, he was rather presentable — even cute, if one judged by ordinary standards.
The boy was clearly another first-year. He was in the middle of boasting to Harry about his family's wealth, his father's greatness, and his own supposed talent at flying broomsticks.
Harry, curious to gather some information about his new classmates, didn't interrupt.
Unfortunately, after only a few sentences, the boy's arrogance revealed itself in full. He began openly mocking first-years from Muggle families, declaring that Muggle-born wizards should never have been admitted to Hogwarts. The school, he claimed, ought to be reserved for children of old wizarding bloodlines.
All of this he said without even asking what Harry's background was. Only afterwards did he pause and belatedly inquire about Harry's parents — in other words, whether Harry was pure-blood.
It was both presumptuous and disrespectful.
"My parents are dead," Harry replied, his voice calm but cold.
The boy blinked, taken aback. Harry's eyes, sharp and steady, made him feel suddenly small.
"What makes you so disrespectful?" Harry asked evenly. "Look into my eyes."
For a moment, the boy froze. There was something in those green eyes that made him shiver — not anger, but a power that seemed far beyond his comprehension.
Still, Harry reminded himself that such behaviour was typical of minor nobles. Compared to the idiotic kings and lords he'd met in other worlds, this sort of self-important brat was practically normal.
The boy boasted about his ancestry, claiming that his family had come to England with William the Conqueror, providing magical aid during the conquest. As a result, they were granted land and title — a barony or earldom, depending on which ancestor's tale one believed.
Harry nodded politely but inwardly rolled his eyes.
The boy then declared that his great-great-great-grandfather, Lucius the First, had once courted Queen Elizabeth I.
Harry almost laughed. That sounded more like a family legend polished over centuries than a historical fact. Still, it fit the pattern — wizards embellishing their pasts once persecution had waned and their status had improved.
Having travelled through many worlds, Harry had seen countless nobles who viewed commoners as less than human. Compared to them, wizarding society seemed far more balanced. Here, power was based not on bloodline but on individual magical strength.
And this pale little boy, no matter how much he bragged, did not radiate power.
Harry decided it wasn't worth the effort to argue.
"Those without strength," he thought, "cannot change anything."
Such arrogance might have been acceptable in the Middle Ages, but in modern times, saying such things aloud was simply foolish. Even Madam Malkin's smile began to stiffen as she overheard him.
"That's enough, be quiet, sir," Harry said firmly.
The boy stopped at once, the command cutting through his bluster like a blade.
"Yes, sir," he murmured automatically, realising too late that he'd obeyed like a servant. He wanted to protest, to reclaim some pride, but Harry's gaze silenced him.
"Never mind," he thought. "I'll wait until my two friends arrive. Then we'll see who's—"
Harry turned away before he could finish that thought. He had no interest in childish bravado.
When the fitting was done, he left the shop and rejoined Hagrid, who was waiting outside with a list of school supplies.
Their next stop was Flourish and Blotts, the famed wizarding bookshop.
The shop was packed to the rafters with books — towering shelves stacked with volumes bound in leather, silk, or parchment. Some were enormous, like paving stones; others were no larger than postage stamps. A few glimmered faintly with enchantments, while others seemed blank until touched.
Harry examined the assigned textbooks. Nothing particularly strange this year.
Hagrid chuckled as he read through the titles. "Some professors like to play tricks with their textbooks. Makes the first week lively, that's for sure."
Harry imagined Hagrid as a professor and smiled. If that day ever came, he was certain Hagrid's class would be half adventure, half chaos.
"Abuse of power," he murmured under his breath.
He spotted a thick volume on curses and hexes and reached for it, but Hagrid stopped him gently.
"Best not, Harry. You're not allowed to use spells outside school yet. The Ministry'll be on you in a blink."
Harry frowned. "So even studying them's forbidden?"
"Not exactly," said Hagrid. "But they'll think you're up to mischief."
Harry sighed. "Magic sounds more inconvenient than it's worth."
He decided, for now, to rely on his own strengths — hand-to-hand combat. That never failed him.
From there, they visited the apothecary and the cauldron shop. Harry's eyes lit up when he saw a gleaming solid-gold cauldron in the window.
"Fancy, eh?" said Hagrid. "But you'll be needing pewter, not gold. That's what's on the list."
Harry didn't argue. There was no point flaunting wealth; he'd learned that lesson well. They also picked up scales, a brass telescope, and the rest of the standard student gear.
He noticed that, despite how expensive such items would be for an ordinary Muggle family, everything became remarkably affordable once pounds were exchanged for Galleons.
It struck him that the wizarding world had cleverly built a kind of scholarship system — if a child had magical ability, they would never be denied education for lack of money.
Wizards, unlike Muggles, were a limited resource. Each one mattered. In fact, Harry learned from Hagrid that no wizard in Britain had been executed for many years. Even the Ministry valued life — at least, wizarding life.
Voldemort, on the other hand, had shown no such restraint. He'd murdered Muggles, rebels, respected wizards, and even his own followers. His cruelty had gone far beyond mere ambition.
"He had to be stopped," Hagrid muttered grimly.
Harry nodded. He didn't need convincing.
Hagrid checked the list again. "Next up, your wand. And… I haven't got you a birthday present yet."
Harry blinked. "You don't have to—"
But Hagrid waved a massive hand. "Nonsense! Your parents were friends o' mine. I'll get you an animal. How about an owl? Owls're brilliant — they deliver letters, parcels, the lot!"
Harry didn't object. He knew politeness when to yield.
Twenty minutes later, he was carrying a large birdcage containing a snowy owl, her feathers as white as winter frost. She was sleeping soundly, head tucked under one wing.
"She's beautiful," Harry said softly. Though he'd always liked cats, he couldn't deny the owl's quiet grace.
"Name her whatever you like," Hagrid said with a proud grin.
They walked on through the busy cobbled streets of Diagon Alley until they reached the final destination: Ollivanders — Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The shop was narrow and dusty, filled with long boxes stacked to the ceiling. The air hummed faintly with magic.
Hagrid clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Best wands in the world, this place. You'll find yours here, no mistake."
But Harry hesitated before stepping in.
"Hagrid," he said suddenly, "is there really nowhere to buy a sword?"
Hagrid blinked, puzzled. "A sword? What d'you want a sword for? You're going to Hogwarts, not a battlefield."
Harry smiled faintly. "Habit. In other places I've been… a sword was more reliable than a wand."
He wasn't wrong. Magic, for all its wonders, was fickle. It required rules, focus, and training. A sword, on the other hand, obeyed only strength and will.
He looked down the street once more before following Hagrid inside. Somewhere deep in his mind, he already knew that at Hogwarts, he would need both — the wand and the sword.