The week before September first arrived in a blur of heavy summer heat and restless anticipation.
Each night Harry lay awake in the cupboard, wand hidden beneath the mattress, counting the hours until he could leave Privet Drive again.
When Hagrid's booming knock finally rattled the front door one morning, Harry nearly tripped over himself in his hurry to answer.
"Ready, are yeh?" Hagrid asked, beaming. His great coat smelled faintly of rain and the wild.
Harry grinned. "I've been ready since last week."
Aunt Petunia made a strangled sound when she saw Hagrid standing in her hallway, but Harry barely noticed. The world beyond Little Whinging was calling, and he wasn't about to waste another breath inside those beige walls.
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They reached the Leaky Cauldron by mid-morning. Tom the Innkeeper waved them through with a grin, and the familiar courtyard waited beyond the back door, quiet and sun-washed.
"Go on," Hagrid said, giving him the honor.
Harry tapped the bricks as he'd seen done before – three up, two across. The wall rippled and opened like a living thing, bricks folding back into themselves until the alley lay revealed.
Even knowing what waited beyond, Harry's breath still caught. The place thrummed.
The street shimmered with the movement of spells – protective runes on awnings, a charm that kept the cobblestones clean, faint illusions painting the shop signs brighter than paint could. The air smelled of parchment and roasted nuts and something electric that prickled his skin.
He realized the whole alley wasn't just a collection of shops. It was an ecosystem of magic – a single living organism. Every spell bled a little energy into the next, feeding the street itself.
He could feel it: a heartbeat underfoot.
"C'mon, Harry," Hagrid called. "We'll start with yer robes."
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Inside Madam Malkin's, the clatter and chatter of customers faded into a soft hum of enchantments. Robes hung weightless in mid-air, needles stitching without hands. The magic felt delicate, purposeful.
"Stand on the stool, dear," said Madam Malkin kindly. "Arms out."
Harry obeyed. The measuring tape darted around him like a silver fish, tugging at his sleeve, whispering along the seams. He laughed as it tickled his ear.
"First year, then?" came a drawl beside him.
Harry turned his head slightly. A pale boy stood on the next stool, chin lifted, grey eyes sharp with curiosity. His hair shone like frost in the lamplight.
"Yeah," Harry said easily. "You too?"
"Of course." The boy's smirk carried both pride and caution. "Father's buying my books. Says the shop gets overcrowded with commoners this time of year."
"Sounds fun," Harry said dryly. The other boy blinked, thrown off by the casual tone.
Before the silence could turn awkward, Harry asked, "Do you know what House you'll be in?"
"Father says Slytherin," the boy replied at once. "All our family are Slytherin. You?"
Harry shrugged. "I'll let the Hat decide. Seems fair."
Something flickered in the boy's expression – not quite contempt, not quite respect. Then he gave a short nod. "I'm Draco Malfoy."
"Harry," he said, extending a hand before remembering where they were. "Potter."
Draco's eyes widened. "You're — oh." Surprise turned to calculation, but Harry only smiled.
"Nice to meet you, Draco."
He meant it. This time around, he wasn't going to treat people like prophecies. Every choice mattered, even the small ones. Draco Malfoy could become a rival – or something better – depending on how Harry handled this fragile moment.
Madam Malkin's measuring tapes snapped away, and the robes folded themselves neatly into a bag. Draco gave a polite nod before leaving, his expression unreadable.
Harry watched him go and thought, Not every story has to end the same way.
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Back on the street, the crowd pressed in again. Hagrid stopped every few steps to greet someone; Harry drifted, eyes half-closed, feeling for the rhythm under the noise.
At the edge of his hearing, the alley sang – a low vibration that changed as he passed each doorway. Flourish and Blotts was quick and lively, like the flutter of pages. Eeylops Owl Emporium was hushed and deep. When they passed a wand-polishing stall, the sound sharpened, bright and crystalline.
He couldn't have described what he felt if asked. It was like walking through music you couldn't quite hear but somehow knew by heart. He reached out once, brushing his fingers along the iron railing of a shopfront, and the metal warmed under his skin as if answering. The reaction startled him enough to pull his hand back, smiling despite himself.
"Everything alright, Harry?" Hagrid asked.
"Yeah," he said quickly. "Just – it's… alive, isn't it? All of it."
Hagrid chuckled. "Course it is. Wizardin' street. Magic soaks into everythin' eventually. You'll get used ter it."
Harry wasn't sure he wanted to get used to it. Wonder like this deserved to stay strange.
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They stopped for ice-cream outside Florean Fortescue's. The tables were cool marble, carved with tiny runes that kept the dishes from melting in the sun. Harry leaned forward, tracing one of the sigils with a finger, fascinated. The lines pulsed faintly, alive with charmwork. He tried to guess the logic behind them but gave up with a laugh, content to simply admire the craftsmanship.
Hagrid licked his cone noisily. "Yeh know, yer dad used ter come here too, when he was little. Same grin on his face, I'd wager."
Harry smiled, letting the words sink in. It was comforting to think some parts of his father's life had looked exactly like this – sunlight, laughter, the hum of magic under the stones.
For now, that was enough.
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The bell over the door of Flourish and Blotts gave a polite chime as Harry pushed it open. The shop smelled of ink and parchment and something older—like dust that remembered voices. Shelves crowded upward into shadow, lined with books that seemed to hum faintly to themselves. A charm hung over the ceiling lamps to keep the air fresh, but the weight of knowledge still pressed pleasantly against the skin.
Hagrid's great frame lingered at the entrance. "Go on, Harry. Grab what yeh need. I'll just—er—mind the door. Bit small for the both of us."
Harry nodded, already half lost among the aisles. He moved slowly, letting his fingers drift across spines. Some covers were smooth, some rough with embossed runes. The vibration under his fingertips changed from shelf to shelf: a light quiver around Charms, a slow, patient hum around History of Magic. The Transfiguration section made the hairs on his arm stand upright, as though the wood itself were shifting very slightly.
He pulled down A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration and opened it. The first page showed an illustration of a matchstick flowing into the shape of a needle. The lines blurred, solidified, blurred again. It was a picture that moved, but not like any magical photograph—this was slower, deeper, as if the paper itself were thinking about the change before deciding it had happened.
Harry smiled. The idea of changing one thing into another tugged at him, soft and insistent. It wasn't just the cleverness of it; it was the elegance. A transformation required balance—respect for what a thing was, and precision in what it could become. He didn't have the words for it yet, but it felt… right. Familiar.
A clerk appeared at his elbow. "First-year sets are two shelves over, dear. Standard list, unless you're looking for extras?"
Harry glanced up. "Extras?"
She grinned. "We sell supplemental guides—rune basics, wand movements, little pocket primers. Bright students like to have a head start."
He felt his mouth curve into a grin. "I'll take a look."
When Hagrid reappeared twenty minutes later, arms full of parchment rolls and new quills, Harry had built a small stack: Transfiguration Principles, Runic Structure for Beginners, and a slim green book titled The Nature of Magical Energy. He pretended it was chance, but something in him knew it wasn't.
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The apothecary was next, a narrow den of smells: sharp herbs, iron, sulphur, and honey. Rows of glass jars caught the light like liquid gems. Harry leaned close to a jar labelled Powdered Moonstone. Tiny specks inside glowed faintly, as though reflecting stars from another sky.
He reached out, stopped just before touching the glass. The glow brightened. He felt a pulse under his skin, a whisper of connection. He almost laughed. "You'd think it's alive."
The shopkeeper looked up from the scales. "Everything in here is alive, lad. Just slower or faster than we are."
That simple statement sank deep into him. It was what he'd been sensing since morning, put into ordinary words.
He bought his ingredients carefully, enjoying the ritual of it—the little scoops of shining powder, the bundles of dried root bound with string. Each thing had its own quiet presence, and when he packed them into his bag, it felt like carrying a piece of the alley itself.
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Outside again, the sun had lowered. The crowd had thinned to evening shoppers, and Diagon Alley had softened into gold and shadow. Streetlamps began to glow, one after another, small spells blooming up the curve of the street. Harry stood still for a moment, watching the light travel—each lamp catching fire as if it had been waiting for the one before it.
The sight clicked something inside him. He could see it now: each lamp's ignition nudging the next, a pattern of magical cause and response. It wasn't random. It was sequence—design.
Magic, he thought, wasn't just energy. It was communication.
The thought startled him so much that he almost said it aloud. He pressed it into memory instead, a treasure to unfold later.
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"Oi, Harry!" Hagrid's call brought him back. "Almost forgot yer vault key again!"
He jogged back up the marble steps of Gringotts. Inside, the vast hall was quieter now, torches burning low. He waited near the door while Hagrid settled the paperwork for his school account, letting his eyes roam the building. The silver veins in the marble he'd noticed before gleamed faintly. Now that he was looking properly, he could tell they weren't random either—they curved and intersected like lines in a diagram, feeding into each of the doors that led deeper underground.
He closed his eyes for a moment, imagining those lines running beneath the street, linking every enchanted object and ward. If the Alley had a heart, he thought, it would beat right here.
A goblin clerk glanced up at him. "Something wrong, young sir?"
Harry blinked. "No. Just… looking."
"Good." The goblin's mouth twitched. "Keep looking. Wizards forget to look."
The remark lodged somewhere between compliment and challenge. Harry tucked it away with the rest.
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They left the bank and walked back toward the archway. The alley behind them glowed like a living map, veins of light running from shop to shop. Hagrid lumbered ahead, humming, while Harry lagged a step behind, memorizing the scene: the warmth of the lamps, the faint shimmer in the cobbles, the sense that if he only listened hard enough, the street might whisper secrets.
He didn't want to leave. But he would, soon enough. Hogwarts was waiting. So was the rest of the story.
At the threshold he turned for one last look, whispering almost to himself, "I'll be back. I'll learn how you work."
The alley seemed to breathe in answer. The wind shifted, carrying the scent of ink and ozone and promise.
Hagrid clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Ready, Harry?"
Harry smiled. "More than ready."
They stepped back through the brick arch, and the wall sealed behind them with a soft sigh—like a secret promising to wait.
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End of Chapter 4 – "Through Diagon Alley's Veins."
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