The walk to Diagon Alley was a whirlwind of information. Hagrid, with his booming voice and endless enthusiasm, told Harry all about the wizarding world—its history, its customs, its wonders. He spoke of Hogwarts, of Quidditch, of magical creatures, and of Harry’s parents. Harry listened intently, his mind racing to keep up. It was overwhelming, but in the best possible way. For the first time in his life, he felt like he was learning something that truly mattered.

But nothing could have prepared him for what happened next.

They arrived at a dingy, unassuming pub tucked between a bookshop and a record store. The sign above the door read The Leaky Cauldron. Harry might have walked right past it if Hagrid hadn’t led him inside. The moment they stepped through the door, the atmosphere changed. The low hum of conversation died down, and all eyes turned to them.

Hagrid, seemingly oblivious to the sudden silence, strode up to the bar. “Mornin’, Tom,” he said to the bald, toothless man behind the counter. “Two butterbeers, if yeh please.”

But Tom wasn’t looking at Hagrid. His eyes were fixed on Harry, wide with recognition. “Blimey,” he whispered. “Is that…?”

Before Harry could react, the pub erupted. People surged forward, their faces alight with excitement. “Harry Potter!” someone shouted. “It’s really him!”

Harry froze, his heart pounding. Hands reached out to shake his, voices overlapped in a cacophony of gratitude and admiration.

“Thank you, Harry!”

“You saved us all!”

“The Boy Who Lived!”

Harry’s head spun. He didn’t understand. What had he done to deserve this? He was just a boy—a boy who had spent his life in a cupboard, ignored and unloved. These people were treating him like a hero, but he didn’t feel like one. The reverence in their voices made him uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to this kind of attention, this kind of… affection. Just a day ago, he had been living with people who couldn’t stand the sight of him. And now, here he was, surrounded by strangers who seemed to worship him. It didn’t make sense. If he was so important, if he was a hero, then why had he been left with the Dursleys? Why had no one checked on him? Why had no one cared?

A bitter feeling rose within him, sharp and unrelenting. He clenched his fists, forcing himself to smile and nod as the crowd pressed closer. But inside, he was screaming.

“Alright, alright!” a voice cut through the noise. It was Tom, the pub owner, waving his hands to shoo the crowd away. “Let the lad breathe, will yeh? He’s just got here, and he doesn’t need yeh lot smotherin’ him.”

The crowd reluctantly dispersed, though a few lingered, their eyes still fixed on Harry with awe. Tom turned to him, his expression kind but firm. “Don’t mind them, Harry. They mean well, but they can be a bit… much. First time in the wizarding world, eh?”

Harry nodded, still feeling dazed. “Yeah. It’s… a lot.”

Tom chuckled. “I bet it is. But don’t worry, you’ll get used to it. Now, how about that butterbeer?”

Harry managed a small smile, though his mind was still reeling. He glanced at Hagrid, who was grinning like this was the best day of his life. “Told yeh, Harry,” Hagrid said, clapping him on the back. “Yeh’re famous.”

Famous. The word echoed in Harry’s mind, but it didn’t feel real. How could he be famous for something he didn’t even remember doing? And why had it taken so long for someone to tell him?

With so many unanswered questions swirling in his mind, Harry followed Hagrid into Gringotts, the absurdly white and imposing building that stood out like a sore thumb among the crooked shops of Diagon Alley. The magical community, he decided, was as weird as it was quirky. The goblins, for instance, were not what he had expected. From the stories he’d read in the school library or the occasional public library he’d slipped into, he had imagined them as green-skinned, grotesque creatures. Instead, they were sharp-featured, with pointed ears, long fingers, and a shrewdness in their eyes that made them seem more human than he’d anticipated—though no less intimidating.

Hagrid strode up to one of the tellers, his massive frame dwarfing the goblin behind the counter. “We’re here to access the vault of Harry Potter,” he announced, his voice booming in the cavernous hall. “And there’s another vault—Hogwarts business. Dumbledore sent me personally.”

The goblin nodded curtly and led them down to the vaults. Harry’s breath caught in his throat when he saw the mountain of gold, silver, and bronze coins in his vault. He had never seen so much money in his life. Hagrid explained the denominations—Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts—and Harry quickly calculated the approximate cost of everything he needed for Hogwarts. Then, when Hagrid wasn’t looking, he discreetly pocketed an extra 50 Galleons. He had plans for that money. Books. Lots of them. He needed to know everything about the wizarding world. He couldn’t afford to be blindsided again.

After leaving the bank, Harry and Hagrid made their way to Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. There, Harry encountered a posh blonde boy who immediately rubbed him the wrong way with his haughty attitude and condescending remarks. Harry, not in the mood for nonsense, subtly activated his Somebody Else’s Problem Field (SEP Field) to distract the boy and then erased his presence from the boy’s memory as soon as he got his robes. It was a small act of petty revenge, but it left Harry feeling oddly satisfied.

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After leaving Madam Malkin’s, Hagrid led Harry to their next destination: Ollivanders, the famous wand shop. The store looked ancient from the outside, its peeling gold letters above the door reading, "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands Since 382 B.C." The narrow, dusty windows displayed a single wand resting on a faded purple cushion, giving the place an air of quiet mystery.

When they stepped inside, Harry was struck by how much larger the shop seemed compared to its modest exterior. The room was lined with towering shelves that reached the ceiling, each crammed with thousands of long, narrow boxes. Dust motes floated in the thin shafts of sunlight that filtered through the windows, and the air was thick with the scent of wood and something faintly magical. Harry’s eyes wandered upward, taking in the sheer scale of the place. He could feel the weight of centuries of history pressing down on him.

Harry’s clairvoyance tingled faintly, alerting him to the presence of someone moving silently behind the shelves. He turned his head slightly, already aware of the old man approaching, but Hagrid, standing beside him, jumped when Mr. Ollivander suddenly appeared from the shadows. The wandmaker’s pale, silvery eyes gleamed like moons in the dim light, and his voice was soft but carried an undeniable intensity.

“Ah, Hagrid,” Ollivander said, his gaze flickering to the half-giant. “Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, if I recall correctly?”

Hagrid shifted uncomfortably. “Er, yeah, that’s right. But, uh, it got snapped—”

“Yes, yes, a great pity,” Ollivander interrupted, his tone almost wistful. “That was a fine wand.” His attention then shifted to Harry, and his eyes seemed to pierce right through him. “And you… I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Potter.”

Harry blinked, surprised. “You have?”

“Oh, yes,” Ollivander said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Your mother’s wand, for instance—willow, ten and a quarter inches, swishy, excellent for charm work. And your father’s—mahogany, eleven inches, pliable, a powerful wand for transfiguration.” He paused, his gaze lingering on Harry’s scar. “It seems only yesterday they were in here, buying their first wands. And now, here you are.”

Harry felt a lump form in his throat but said nothing as Ollivander continued. “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. Unicorn hair, dragon heartstring, or phoenix feather. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, it is the wand that chooses the wizard, not the other way around.”

Ollivander suddenly pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. “Which is your wand arm, Mr. Potter?”

“Er, right,” Harry said, holding out his hand. The tape measure sprang to life, darting around Harry’s body on its own, measuring everything from the length of his arm to the distance between his nostrils. Ollivander, meanwhile, was already flitting through the shelves, plucking boxes seemingly at random.

“Try this one,” he said, handing Harry a wand. “Beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches, nice and flexible. Give it a wave.”

Harry did so, but before he could even complete the motion, Ollivander snatched it back. “No, no, definitely not. Here—maple and phoenix feather, seven inches, quite whippy. Try this.”

“Interesting… very interesting,” he murmured. He disappeared into the depths of the shop and returned with a dusty box. “Here, try this one. Yew, thirteen and a half inches, phoenix feather. A powerful wand.”

Harry took the wand. He gave it a flick, but nothing happened. Ollivander snatched it back almost immediately, muttering, “No, no, that won’t do. Curious… very curious.”

The process continued, with Ollivander growing more excited with each failed attempt. Wands flew off the shelves, boxes piled up around them, and Harry began to feel a bit hopeless. Ollivander handed him wand after wand—walnut and unicorn hair, cherry and dragon heartstring, even one made of ebony with a core of phoenix feather—but none of them felt right. Each attempt resulted in some kind of minor disaster: a shower of sparks, a burst of wind, or a loud bang that made Hagrid flinch.

Ollivander's eyes twinkled as he watched Harry try yet another wand, and he remarked with a faint smile, "You’re a rather picky customer, Mr. Potter, but I suppose the best wizards always are."

He then disappeared into the depths of the shop and returned with a dusty box. “Here, try this one. Ash, eleven and a half inches, phoenix feather, slightly springy. Go on, give it a try.”

Harry took the wand and felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He gave it a flick, and a stream of golden sparks shot from the tip, filling the room with a soft, glowing light. Hagrid clapped his hands in delight, and Ollivander’s face broke into a wide smile.

“Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, very good.”

Hagrid beamed with pride, clapping Harry on the shoulder, and said, "Finally! Congratulations, Harry—yer a proper wizard now, with a wand of yer own!"

Next, they visited a shop that sold magical trunks. Harry inquired about all the different types, his superior understanding helping him grasp the nuances of each model. He settled on one that was bigger on the inside and didn’t weigh much—perfect for carrying the mountain of books he planned to buy. It was expensive, but Harry didn’t hesitate. Knowledge was power, and he intended to arm himself to the teeth.

His final stop was Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore. Harry bought every book on the Hogwarts list and then some. He picked up titles on magical theory, history, and even a few on obscure branches of magic. He wanted to know everything. Magic had saved him, protected him, and now it was his turn to understand it. His abilities—his Reduced Presence, Clairvoyance, Shroud, and the rest—were the most precious things he possessed. They had kept him alive, kept him safe. He wondered if they were the reason he had survived the Dark Lord, or if his parents had done something to protect him. The thought of his parents brought a bitter pang to his chest. Why had they been taken from him? Why couldn’t he have had a normal life, with parents who loved him, who celebrated his birthdays, who praised him instead of Dudley? The bitterness lingered, a quiet ache that never quite went away.

As he placed the last of his books into the trunk, he was greeted by Hagrid, who was carrying a large cage. Inside was a beautiful snowy owl, her amber eyes sharp and intelligent. “Happy birthday, Harry,” Hagrid said, his voice warm and gruff. “This here’s Hedwig. She’s yours.”

Harry stared at the owl, his throat tightening. For a moment, he forgot about his bitterness, his questions, his plans. All he felt was gratitude—pure, overwhelming gratitude. He didn’t suppress his emotions this time. He ran up to Hagrid and hugged him, his voice muffled against the giant man’s coat. “Thank you,” he said, his voice trembling. “Thank you so much.”

Hagrid was surprised, but only for a moment. Then he beamed, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and patted Harry on the back. “Ah, it’s nothin’, Harry,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Yeh deserve it.”

For the first time in as long as he could remember, Harry felt a flicker of warmth, of belonging. It wasn’t much, but it was enough—for now.