Harry grinned and jogged to catch up, the coins clinking softly in his pocket—each one a small, golden promise that his second life would not be wasted.
The wandmaker's shop waited like a secret that had been waiting too long.
From the outside it was narrow and unremarkable, a single dusty window and a sign that read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. The letters shimmered faintly, as if they wanted to vanish back into the wood the moment you stopped looking at them.
When Harry stepped inside, the air changed. It was dry, faintly sweet with polish and time. Stacks of slim boxes climbed the walls in crooked towers, every one humming with something restrained. The sound wasn't quite sound; it pressed lightly on the skin like the beginning of thunder.
"Good morning," came a voice from the gloom.
Garrick Ollivander emerged like a wisp of smoke, pale-eyed, pale-haired, his long fingers dusted with sawdust and gold flecks of shavings. "Ah. Mr Potter."
Harry froze for a moment. The memory of this meeting was so sharp he could taste it: the spark, the sudden warmth, the way the wand had sung in his hand. He almost laughed at the predictability of it—and then the laugh faded because this time it wasn't predictable at all. It was happening again, but differently.
Ollivander tilted his head. "You look as though you've seen me before."
Harry swallowed. "Maybe I just feel like I have."
The wandmaker's smile was thin and knowing. "Perhaps the wand remembers."
He began to drift among the shelves, pulling boxes, muttering measurements. Harry stood still, listening. Each time a lid came off, a note seemed to vibrate in the air, a distinct timbre—oak, ash, maple. He felt the difference without understanding it, the way a person feels the key change in a song. When the first wand touched his palm, the vibration collapsed. Wrong. The second sparked once, sullenly. The third buzzed like a trapped insect.
Ollivander's muttering grew pleased. "Curious… very curious."
Hagrid shifted uncomfortably behind Harry. "Is that a good thing?"
"It's always a good thing," Ollivander murmured. He vanished up a ladder, returned with a slim box of holly. "Try this one. Eleven inches. Phoenix feather."
Harry took it. The wood felt alive, almost breathing. When his fingers closed, warmth flooded up his arm—bright, clean, astonishing. Dust swirled from the floor in a soft spiral, and the shelves seemed to sigh. He hadn't needed to wave it; the wand had recognized him at once.
The joy of it hit him like laughter he hadn't known he'd been holding back. For an instant everything—past, present, storm, cupboard, death—folded into a single, blinding note of belonging.
He lowered the wand slowly, still smiling. "It feels right," he whispered.
"Of course it does," said Ollivander. "The wand chooses the wizard." His eyes flicked to the scar on Harry's forehead. "Curious that it should be this wand, when its brother… well, you will learn all that in time."
Harry nodded, but his thoughts had already drifted. The warmth lingering in his fingers reminded him of transfiguration —the way something inert could suddenly be alive. Transfiguration class had once been his favorite; maybe it would be again. The idea of reshaping the world, of coaxing one thing to become another, glimmered at the edge of his awareness like a word half-remembered.
Ollivander wrapped the wand carefully. "Treat it kindly, Mr Potter. Holly is loyal, but it answers best to courage."
"I'll remember," Harry said. He meant it.
Hagrid counted out coins, grumbling at the price, while Harry's gaze wandered over the shelves. Thousands of boxes, each containing a different combination of wood and core, each waiting for the one person who could wake it. He imagined them as sleeping minds, dreaming of spells. The thought made him shiver—not from fear, but from excitement.
Outside, the street noise rolled back in. Harry tucked the wand under his arm, cradling it as carefully as if it were a living thing. The drizzle had stopped; light spilled across the cobbles, turning puddles into gold. He wanted to test the wand immediately, to see what it could do, but instinct told him to wait. Power deserved patience.
"Next stop's yer school things," Hagrid said, starting toward the main thoroughfare.
Harry followed, but his steps were slower. Each window they passed reflected him holding the wand—a small boy, hair in every direction, a grin breaking through the solemnity. For the first time since waking in the cupboard, he felt not only alive but new.
The day's noise followed them back through the Leaky Cauldron and into the soft gray of evening. Hagrid carried the cages and parcels with the easy pride of a man who'd helped a child into his own world; Harry carried only his wand and a paper bag of books, light enough to swing at his side. The street lamps flickered on as they stepped out, gaslight glimmering off puddles, the city turning ordinary again.
The journey back toward the coast felt slower. Hagrid hummed and dozed, and Harry sat against the window, watching the blur of buildings slide past. The weight of what he'd seen that day kept unfolding quietly in him. He had remembered how the world worked, but remembering wasn't the same as feeling. Feeling had come back now: the thrill, the fear, the simple joy of touching a wand and knowing it was his.
By the time they reached the small boat again, the tide was coming in. The sea was calmer, carrying only the faint shimmer of moonlight. Hagrid's umbrella tapped the hull, and the little craft slipped forward as if pushed by invisible hands. Harry watched the ripples chase each other into the dark.
He thought of Ollivander's shelves: thousands of wands waiting, each one a small sleeping possibility. The idea that the wood and feather had chosen him—it wasn't just flattering; it was frightening. Something had recognized him, something older than luck. He wanted to understand why. Not yet as a scholar or hero—just as a boy who'd tasted a mystery and wanted to know what it meant.
He opened the bag on his lap and pulled out one of the books he'd bought on a whim: A Beginner's Guide to Spells and Charms. The letters on the cover shimmered faintly under the moonlight. He ran a thumb across them and smiled. The thought of opening it felt like the beginning of something.
Hagrid snorted in his sleep, beard rising and falling with each breath. Harry laughed softly. The sound broke some of the solemnity. He felt suddenly lighter, like the laughter itself was permission to be eleven again.
When the hut came into view, crouched on its rock, the clouds had cleared enough for stars to spill across the sea. They docked in silence. Inside, Hagrid collapsed into the armchair and was snoring within minutes. Harry placed his wand on the small table beside his camp bed and sat cross-legged on the mattress.
The room smelled of salt and smoke. Somewhere beneath the floorboards, the waves struck rock in a steady rhythm, like a slow heartbeat. He set the book in his lap and opened it. The first page was a simple list of basic charms: Lumos, Nox, Alohomora. He traced the first word with his finger, remembering how it had felt to speak it years ago.
He didn't try to cast it now. He just whispered the word, tasting it. The syllables felt different than he remembered—more deliberate, as though the air itself held its breath waiting for his voice. For an instant the tip of his wand glowed faintly, then went dark. The brief spark was enough to make him grin.
He wrote the word on the back of his shopping list, copying it slowly, feeling the shape of each letter. Light. It was such a small thing to ask of the world, and yet it answered.
He looked around the dim room. The light from the embers in the grate painted everything in shades of gold and rust. His wand lay quiet beside him; the pages of the book rustled in the draft from the window. Everything seemed to breathe with him—the air, the wood, the sea beyond. Magic wasn't distant; it was here, in the act of noticing.
He drew his knees up, resting his chin on them. The thought that had hovered at the edges of the day finally took shape. He didn't just want to survive Hogwarts again. He didn't only want to change a few fates. He wanted to understand the thing that had chosen him and bound this world together.
He said it out loud, softly, testing the weight of the words.
"I want to learn everything."
It wasn't a vow, not yet. It was a feeling, warm and terrifying in equal measure. A boy's promise to himself, whispered to the waves and the night. The sea answered with a low sigh against the rocks, and Harry Potter smiled.
Tomorrow he would return to Privet Drive. The cupboard waited, and letters would soon begin to fall through the slot again. But tonight, in the fragile peace between storm and dawn, he felt something new take root in him—curiosity, fierce and unafraid. The kind that could remake the world, one question at a time.
⸻
End of Chapter 2 – "Diagon Alley."