"And ‘ere’s Gringotts," said Hagrid.
They had reached a snowy white building that towered over the other little shops. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was -
"Yeah, that's a goblin," said Hagrid quietly as they walked up the white stone steps toward him. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry. He had a swarthy, clever face, a pointed beard and, Harry noticed, shining golden eyes. He bowed as they walked inside. Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take, but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
"Like I said, Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid. “Yeh’ve got the greatest gathering of the magical world here in this building.”
A pair of leprechauns had been walking and talking as they passed Harry and Hagrid—Harry turned to follow their advance.
“Might be a bit rude to stare, Harry,” Hagrid pushed him along. “But I understand yer curiosity.” They kept moving forward and then they were in a vast marble hall. The hall was absolutely filled with people of all heights, weights, and kinds. Bankers sat on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins in brass scales, examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these. Hagrid and Harry made for the counter.
"’Ello Bill! Off the Cursebreaker rotation?”
The man named Bill’s eyes opened wide as he looked up to the giant, “Oh, Hagrid, hello!” He flashed a smile and Harry could tell he was a good looking man. “Oh, I’m just here filling in for Jorney Hockett,” he said, letting a nervous laugh escape. “Not my preferred beat, but I spent many a long days behind these desks before getting into the thick of Cursebreaking, so I guess it’s no surprise who they called to fill in.”
“Never looked comfortable behind a desk—you or your father,” Hagrid chuckled. “Guess it runs in the blood. Anyway, We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."
“Harry…” He looked over the counter down toward Harry and a smile crossed his face. It was a growing look of immense fascination. It weirded Harry out in a way that made him feel self conscious. “No way...Mum and Dad aren’t going to believe this—oh, they might actually be in the area today—lots of shopping before the start of term.” He looked back up to Hagrid, “Ron’s starting off at Hogwarts this year, you know.”
Hagrid offered a belly laugh, “I remember when yer mother and father were students themselves! Never a more fit pair I think…” Hagrid seemed to be lost in thought, then shook it off like a wet dog with a wet shower. “’Scuse me, think I’m getting lost in my own head. Business and all that to do!”
“Right,” Bill said. “Do you happen to have his key?”
"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid, and he started emptying his pockets onto the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the book Bill had in front of him. "Ah, here it is." said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.
"That seems to be in order,” He looked back down to Harry, smiling. “Really...wonderful it is.”
"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirty-one."
Bill grabbed for the letter and read the letter carefully.
"Excellent," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have Someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!" He called off to a goblin who was standing aside leaning on one of the pillars. He had a luxurious suit on that made him look like a tiny businessman that Harry’s Uncle Vernon might have pleasure in yelling at. That is, if he could even stand the fact that the goblin had ears that each looked like that of an elephant’s.
Once Hagrid had crammed all the dog biscuits back inside his pockets, he and Harry followed Griphook toward one of the doors leading off the hall.
"What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirty-one?" Harry asked.
"Can't tell yeh that," said Hagrid mysteriously. "Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore's trusted me. More'n my job's worth ter tell yeh that."
Griphook held the door open for them. Harry, who had expected more marble, was surprised. They were in a narrow stone passageway lit with flaming torches. It sloped steeply downward and there were little railway tracks on the floor. Griphook whistled and a small cart came hurtling up the tracks toward them. They climbed in—Hagrid with some difficulty—and were off.
At first they just hurtled through a maze of twisting passages. Harry tried to remember, left, right, right, left, middle fork, right, left, but it was impossible. The rattling cart seemed to know its own way, because Griphook wasn't steering.
They were immediately doused by a tide of rushing water—the source was a great pair of falls whose source Harry could not see through the pitch blackness. His glasses were knocked off his face by the rushing force. He had just enough time to grab them before their speed picked up as it fell even faster.
Harry's eyes stung as the cold air rushed past them, but he kept them wide open. Once, he thought he saw a burst of fire at the end of a passage and twisted around to see if it was a dragon, but too late—they plunged even deeper, passing an underground lake where huge stalactites and stalagmites grew from the ceiling and floor.
“I never know," Harry called to Hagrid over the noise of the cart, "what's the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?"
"Stalagmite's got an 'm' in it," said Hagrid. "An' don' ask me questions just now, I think I'm gonna be sick."
He did look very green, and when the cart stopped at last beside a small door in the passage wall, Hagrid got out and had to lean against the wall to stop his knees from trembling.
Griphook got out of the cart last and stepped up toward Harry’s vault, number 687. He muttered something under his breath and slotted the key into the lock, twisting and turning. The mechanical sounds echoed deep within the caverns as the vault slowly slid open. Harry gasped. Inside were mounds of gold coins. Columns of silver. Heaps of little bronze Knuts.
"All yours," smiled Hagrid. “Quite amazin’, innit?”
All Harry's—it was incredible. The Dursleys couldn't have known about this or they'd have had it from him faster than blinking. How often had they complained how much Harry cost them to keep? And all the time there had been a small fortune belonging to him, buried deep under London. It was like a dream come true.
Hagrid helped Harry pile some of it into a small moleskin bag the size of his head. The heft was unnatural in Harry’s hands—he had to hold the drawstring closed and keep the bottom supported, as the coins themselves sunk deep in the bag’s depths.
"The gold ones are Galleons," Hagrid explained. "Seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle, it's easy enough.”
“Easy enough…” Harry repeated, thinking it was not easy at all. “That’s not what I’d necessarily call easy. Why did they choose those numbers?”
“They?” Hagrid asked. Turning on him curiously. “W’dya mean they?”
“Whoever decided the amounts, I guess,” Harry said, sheepishly.
Hagrid shrugged. “Dunno, long before my time.”
“Seventeen’s one of them prime numbers. Twenny-nine too. Magic folk of yours decided the valuables should be special like that.”
“Ah, bugger off,” Hagrid shoved his arm in front of him. “Don’t mind that, one, Harry. He is just a bit upset that goblin-kind before him took lot with wizards and the rest of the magical world back then—made unified agreements ta money and the sort of that.”
“Plenty of reason,” Griphook said, and then remembered he was on the job and offered a very toothy grin—Harry shuddered at how sharp his teeth actually were. It reminded him of a shark.
“Lead the way,” Hagrid said, with no shared companionship. It was clear the tension in the air was thicker than the tons of rushing water outside the vault.
“The amount you got there should be enough fer a couple o' terms, we'll keep the rest safe for yeh. Just be smart in what you use it on—I’m sure plenty of people will be wantin’ to sell to yeh once we enter the main pavilion." He turned to Griphook. "Vault seven hundred and thirty-one now, please, and can we go more slowly?"
"One speed only," said Griphook, and his smile seemed genuine at the thought of the ensuing trip.
They were going even deeper now and gathering speed. The air became colder and colder as they hurtled round tight corners. They went rattling over an underground ravine, and Harry leaned over the side to try to see what was down at the dark bottom, but Hagrid groaned and pulled him back by the scruff of his neck.
When they arrived, Harry could see that vault seven hundred and thirty-one had no keyhole.
"Stand back," said Griphook importantly. He stroked the door gently with one of his long fingers and it simply melted away.
Harry stood back in amazement as the metal seemed to wear away as if it hadn’t been there at all. “How’d that…?”
"If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there," said Griphook. “Quite a talent that wizard kind wouldn’t understand.”
Hagrid gruffed, “Any Gringotts employee’s got that access,” he said. “Otherwise Dumbledore’d not have access to the school’s vault.”
"How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" Harry asked, trying to dodge the point of their obvious contention.
"About once every ten years. At least, we try to be punctual about it, but you know...lots of vaults to oversee." said Griphook with a rather nasty grin.
Something really extraordinary had to be inside this top security vault, Harry was sure, and he leaned forward eagerly, expecting to see fabulous jewels at the very least—but at first he thought it was empty. Then he noticed a grubby little package wrapped up in brown paper lying on the floor. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat. Harry longed to know what it was, but knew better than to ask.
"Come on, back in this infernal cart, and don't talk to me on the way back, it's best if I keep me mouth shut," said Hagrid, his queasiness overcoming everything else. Harry could see that Griphook had yet again been smiling.
One wild cart ride later they stood blinking in the sunlight outside Gringotts. Once they were clear of Gringotts’ property Hagrid had come close to Harry, whispering, “Don’t let that feller there color your interpretation of goblin kind. Plenty of them have buck with Wizards as I’m sure Wizards have in return, but on the whole there’s many different kind of folks out there with many different kinds of feelings. Lots of em out there, but they’re not all grumps like Griphook back there.”
Harry figured something like this must be true, but he couldn’t help but feel there was a lot to their interaction that Harry hadn’t had knowledge of—but felt responsible for. He shook his head in agreement and his focus returned back to the sack of money held tightly between his hand. No matter what had happened, not even the tension in the depths of Gringotts could dampen the excitement that exploded in Harry’s chest now that he held all this gold in his possession. He didn't have to know how many Galleons there were to a pound to know that he was holding more money than he'd had in his whole life—more money than even Dudley had ever had—or would have, for that matter, if the rest of the gold in that vault was to be believed.
“Right!” Hagrid exclaimed, bringing his hand to his head, “Got sidestepped...I’m sorry Harry. Just forgot you didn’t know anything about yer Mom and Dad’s world that I felt...well, didn’t want ya the get a rotten feeling when many of the people here’re nicer than a Kneazle.” He was looking kind of flustered now, but Harry understood his point.
“Well, maybe we should take a look at the list and see what order we should get things...I don’t know where anything is so maybe….?” Harry started, and then Hagrid took lead.
"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, nodding toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. Harry saw the storefront across the street and noticed the elegant dress-clothes set up in front of the window—but it had looked like the clothes were wearing themselves. They seemed to greet each other as a pinstripe glove held a maroon top hat to a long dress which bowed to a curtsy.
"Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts. Just tell ‘em yer starting off at Hogwarts and you’ll be more than fine. You should be able to find a solid robe as well as a trunk ta keep all yer materials in." He did still look a bit sick, so Harry entered Madam Malkin's shop alone, feeling nervous.
Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. Her dress looked sort of similar to the one that was being worn by itself outside, but he could see clear customizations that allowed it a stunning tie that looked to change colors the longer he stared at it.
"Hogwarts, dear?" she said, when Harry started to speak. "Got the lot here, don’t worry yourself a speck—another young man being fitted up just now, in fact. "
Harry felt like he was being sized up from top to bottom without Madame Malkin even having taken her eyes off of her work—it was as if she had eyes in the back of her head.
In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. The second witch seemed to be showing off the same kind of top hat that Harry had seen out front—but the boy was taking no liking to it whatsoever.
Madam Malkin stood Harry on a stool next to him, slipped a long robe over his head, and began to pin it to the right length. The deep black looked rather ominous the first second he got to seeing it on him, but the longer it stayed the more he liked it. He hadn’t had his own clothes before—everything wherever possible had always been a hand-me-down, and the worst kind of fit where it had not been trimmed to absolute shreds.
"Hello," said the boy, his voice dripping with haughty arrogance as he addressed the newcomer. His sharp gray eyes flicked briefly towards the other boy before returning to their forward gaze, a subtle indication of his disdainful indifference. “Hogwarts, too?” The question hung in the air like a veiled accusation, laced with an underlying sense of superiority that seemed to emanate from every pore of his being.
As the second witch stepped in to take another measurement, the boy's posture remained rigid, his demeanor cool and composed. It was as if he were conducting an assessment of his own, silently evaluating the newcomers with a keen eye for any sign of weakness or vulnerability. There was a calculated precision to his words, a deliberate choice of tone that conveyed a sense of entitlement and privilege, as if he were accustomed to being the center of attention wherever he went.
Despite the polite greeting, there was an unmistakable edge to his voice, a subtle hint of mockery that belied his outward civility. It was clear that beneath the facade of politeness, the boy was probing for information, seeking to discern the status and background of his fellow travelers with a shrewdness that bordered on ruthlessness.
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"Yes," said Harry, his response cautious, as if wary of lingering too long on any one subject.
"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," the other boy remarked, his tone laced with boredom and indifference. Each word seemed to roll off his tongue in a languid drawl, betraying an air of privilege and entitlement that hung heavily around him like a cloak. As he spoke, the boy exuded an aura of nonchalance, as if the mere act of shopping for school supplies was beneath him. “Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own," he continued, his voice tinged with annoyance at the perceived injustice of the situation. It was clear that he viewed himself as above the rules, entitled to whatever his heart desired, regardless of age or authority.
His words dripping with the confidence of someone accustomed to getting their way. And as he spoke of his plans to smuggle it into Hogwarts, there was a hint of mischief in his eyes, a rebellious spark that hinted at the lengths he would go to defy convention and assert his dominance. Harry was strongly reminded of Dudley.
"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.
"No," said Harry.
"Play Quidditch at all?"
"No," Harry said again. He had heard of Quidditch on his list of school supplies, but he didn’t have the foggiest of what kind of game it could be.
"I do—Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"
"No," said Harry, feeling more stupid by the minute.
"Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"
"Mmm," said Harry, not knowing how to respond. It was clear this boy had lives more experience about everything he was seeing.
"I say, look at that man!" said the boy suddenly, nodding toward the front window. Hagrid was standing there, grinning at Harry and pointing at two large ice creams to show he couldn't come in.
"That's Hagrid," said Harry, pleased to know something the boy didn't. "He works at Hogwarts."
"Oh," said the boy, "I've heard of him. He's a sort of servant, isn't he?"
"He's the gamekeeper," said Harry, defensively. He was liking the boy less and less every second.
"Yes, exactly. I heard he's a sort of savage—lives in a hut on the school grounds and every now and then he gets drunk, tries to do magic, and ends up setting fire to his bed."
"I think he's brilliant," said Harry coldly.
"Do you?" said the boy, with a slight sneer. "Why is he with you? Where are your parents?"
"They're dead," said Harry shortly. He didn't feel much like going into the matter with this boy.
"Oh, sorry," said the other, not sounding sorry at all. "But they were our kind, weren't they?"
"They were a witch and wizard, if that's what you mean."
"I really don't think they should let the other sort in, do you? They're just not the same, they've never been brought up to know our ways. Some of them have never even heard of Hogwarts until they get the letter, imagine. I think they should keep it in the old wizarding families. What's your surname, anyway?"
But before Harry could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and Harry, not sorry for an excuse to stop talking to the boy, hopped down from the footstool.
“I’d like a trunk as well, ma’am,” Harry said, and she nodded and pointed over to the other corner of the shop.
"Well, I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," said the drawling boy.
He paid for his goods and left the shop without an answer to the boy.
Harry was rather quiet as he ate the ice cream Hagrid had bought him (chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts).
"What's up?" said Hagrid.
"Nothing," Harry lied. They stopped to buy parchment and quills. Harry cheered up a bit when he found a bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote. When they had left the shop, he said, "Hagrid, what's Quidditch?"
"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know—not knowin' about Quidditch!"
"Don't make me feel worse," said Harry. He told Hagrid about the pale boy in Madam Malkin's. "—and he said people from Muggle families shouldn't even be allowed in."
"Yer not from a Muggle family. If he'd known who yeh were—he's grown up knowin' yer name if his parents are wizardin' folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh. Anyway, what does he know about it, some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in 'em in a long line O’ Muggles—look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!"
"So what is Quidditch?"
"It's our sport. Wizard sport. It's like—like soccer in the Muggle world—everyone follows Quidditch—played up in the air on broomsticks and there's four balls—sorta hard ter explain the rules, but you’ll be learnin’ it at Hogwarts."
"And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?"
"School houses. There's four of em. Slytherin and Hufflepuff, then there’s Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. Each of ‘em set by a group of core values, they are. There’s a bit of a running thought that Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but—"
"I bet I'm in Hufflepuff," said Harry gloomily.
"Oh don’t you with that," said Hagrid. “It’s not ta that point. Plenty of folks like the qualities of Hufflepuff. Loyalty and honor and the like. Gryffindor’s about the courageous and brave—gallant and such. Ravenclaw kind like their knowledge and wisdom.”
“And what about Slytherin?”
Hagrid was uneasy when asked the question, as if there was something he was holding back. “Lot of people get the wrong idea about Slytherin, but they’re a cunning bunch. Passionate, more like it. Lot of good, but also…”
“What is it?” Harry asked.
“You-Know-Who was one."
“Vol-, sorry—You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?"
"Years an' years ago," said Hagrid.
Harry had complicated thoughts in his head. Was it a coincidence that that boy’s wanting to be a Slytherin just so matched with this new information? He didn’t think he liked Slytherin much at all if that were the case. Harry looked up to Hagrid and saw he was looking up at the sky, almost to avoid looking at Harry directly. There still seemed to be something he wasn’t saying, and that thought was disturbing enough.
He figured that thinking anymore on it without basis would only lead to him feeling worse about the subject.
“Up next is…” Harry began looking down to the letter. “Looks like it’s schoolbooks?”
“Right, right,” Hagrid said, nodding. “Should be right over ‘ere.” Hagrid lead Harry down the street and took a left at the crossing to find a shop called Flourish and Blotts.
Inside, they found the shelves were stacked to the ceiling with books as large as paving stones bound in leather; books the size of postage stamps in covers of silk; books full of peculiar symbols and a few books with nothing in them at all. Even Dudley, who never read anything, would have been wild to get his hands on some of these. Hagrid almost had to drag Harry away from Curses and Counter Curses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Vindictus Viridian.
"I was trying to find out how to curse Dudley."
"I'm not sayin' that's not a good idea, but yer not ter use magic in the Muggle world except in very special circumstances," said Hagrid. “Ministry’s got eyes on magic being used by underaged wizards and it leads to all sorts of uncomfortable situations. An' anyway, yeh couldn't work any of them curses yet, yeh'll need a lot more study before yeh get ter that level."
Hagrid wouldn't let Harry buy a solid gold cauldron, either ("It says pewter on yer list"), but they got a nice set of scales for weighing potion ingredients and a collapsible brass telescope. Then they visited the Apothecary, which was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell, a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Barrels of slimy stuff stood on the floor; jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders lined the walls; bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws hung from the ceiling. While Hagrid asked the man behind the counter for a supply of some basic potion ingredients for Harry, Harry himself examined silver unicorn horns at twenty-one Galleons each and minuscule, glittery-black beetle eyes (five Knuts a scoop).
Next, they made their way to Scribbulus Writing Implements, where shelves were stocked with quills of all shapes and sizes, inkwells in every color of the rainbow, and rolls of parchment neatly stacked in piles. Harry selected a set of quills and a bottle of ink, while Hagrid made sure to grab an extra roll of parchment for good measure.
With their writing supplies in hand, they moved on to Gladrags Wizardwear, where racks of robes and cloaks filled the spacious store. Harry tried on several cloaks before settling on one with silver fastenings that shimmered in the sunlight, providing warmth and style for the coming winter months.
Next up was Obscurus Books, a small but cozy shop tucked away in a quiet corner of Diagon Alley. Here, they found a pair of dragon hide gloves, sturdy and protective, perfect for handling magical creatures and dangerous substances in class.
Outside, Hagrid checked Harry's list again. "Just yer wand left—A yeah, an' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."
Harry felt himself go red. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at—an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."
Twenty minutes later, they left Eeylops Owl Emporium, which had been dark and full of rustling and flickering, jewel-bright eyes. Harry now carried a large cage that held a beautiful snowy owl, fast asleep with her head under her wing. He couldn't stop stammering his thanks, sounding just like Professor Quirrell.
"Don' mention it," said Hagrid gruffly. "Don' expect you've had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just Ollivander’s left now—only place fer wands, Ollivander’s, and yeh gotta have the best wand."
A magic wand...this was what Harry had been really looking forward to. Everything up until now were things that would be important for the coming school year, but a wand was something he would have now. It would be a tangible piece of proof that all of this was more than just a dream.
The last shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivander’s: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the dusty window.
A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop as they stepped inside. It was a tiny place, empty except for a single, spindly chair that Hagrid sat on to wait. Harry felt strangely as though he had entered a very strict library; he swallowed a lot of new questions that had just occurred to him and looked instead at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling. For some reason, the back of his neck prickled. The very dust and silence in here seemed to tingle with some secret magic.
"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. Harry jumped. Hagrid must have jumped, too, because there was a loud crunching noise and he got quickly off the spindly chair.
An old man was standing before them, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.
"Hello," said Harry awkwardly.
"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."
Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. Harry wished he would blink. Those silvery eyes were a bit creepy. "Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."
Mr. Ollivander had come so close that he and Harry were almost nose to nose. Harry could see himself reflected in those misty eyes.
"And that's where..."
Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger.
"I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he said softly. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands...well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do..."
He shook his head and then, to Harry's relief, spotted Hagrid.
"Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! How nice to see you again...Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it?"
"It was, sir, yes," said Hagrid.
"Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?" said Mr. Ollivander, suddenly stern.
"Er—yes, they did, yes," said Hagrid, shuffling his feet. "Definitely snapped," he added brightly. Harry noticed he gripped his pink umbrella very tightly as he spoke.
"Hmm," said Mr. Ollivander, giving Hagrid a piercing look. "Well, now—Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"
"Er—well, I'm right-handed," said Harry.
"Hold out your arm. That's it." He measured Harry from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit and round his head. As he measured, he said, "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."
Harry suddenly realized that the tape measure, which was measuring between his nostrils, was doing this on its own. Mr. Ollivander was flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.
"That will do," he said, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. just take it and give it a wave."
Harry took the wand and (feeling foolish) waved it around a bit, but Mr. Ollivander snatched it out of his hand almost at once.
"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try—"
Harry tried—but he had hardly raised the wand when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander.
"No, no-here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."
Harry tried. And tried. He had no idea what Mr. Ollivander was waiting for. The pile of tried wands was mounting higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the happier he seemed to become.
"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now–yes, why not—unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."
Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr. Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well...how curious...how very curious..."
He put Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, still muttering, "Curious...curious..”
"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"
Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother, why, its brother gave you that scar."
Harry swallowed.
"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember...I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter...After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."
Harry shivered. He wasn't sure he liked Mr. Ollivander too much. He paid seven gold Galleons for his wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed them from his shop.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Harry and Hagrid made their way back down Diagon Alley, back through the wall, back through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. Harry didn't speak at all as they walked down the road; he didn't even notice how much people were gawking at them on the Underground, laden as they were with all their funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on Harry's lap. Up another escalator, out into Paddington station; Harry only realized where they were when Hagrid tapped him on the shoulder.
"Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," he said.
He bought Harry a hamburger and they sat down on plastic seats to eat them. Harry kept looking around. Everything looked so strange, somehow.
"You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," said Hagrid.
Harry wasn't sure he could explain. He'd just had the best birthday of his life—and yet—he chewed his hamburger, trying to find the words.
"Everyone thinks I'm special," he said at last. "All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander...but I don't know anything about magic at all. How can they expect great things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol-, sorry—I mean, the night my parents died."
Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows he wore a very kind smile.
"Don' you worry, Harry. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you'll be just fine. just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts—I did—still do, 'smatter of fact. With time things’ll start to make sense. Oh, an’ keep that there, in the bag close to yer owl. Don’t want those Dursleys snatching your gold away. Keep it safe.”
“How long do I have to stay with them?” Harry asked.
“School starts on the First of September, so you’ve got a month left.”
Harry’s shoulders drooped to hear that he’d have to spend another month with his aunt and uncle. It was almost too cruel to have such broad horizons and then to immediately lose them to the doldrums of his old life.
“Don’t worry yerself too much about it, Harry,” Hagrid said, a soft tone to his voice. He then handed Harry another envelope. “Yeh’ve got the instructions with yer letter there. They should have your ticket to the Hogwarts Express. Just show up and everything will work out. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find me...”
With a heavy heart, Hagrid guided Harry onto the train that would bear him back to the unwelcoming embrace of the Dursleys. As the door closed behind him, enveloping him in an eerie silence, Harry couldn't help but feel the weight of his solitude pressing down upon him. The fading light of the setting sun cast long shadows across the empty compartment, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts and the unsettling realization that he was truly on his own once more.
Despite the bustling platform outside, bustling with families bidding farewell to their loved ones, the inside of the train felt like a desolate void, devoid of warmth or companionship. The other passengers, lost in their own worlds, paid no heed to Harry's presence, their indifference serving as a stark reminder of his isolation.
As the train lurched into motion, Harry's gaze remained fixed on the figure of Hagrid standing on the platform, a solitary sentinel amidst the throng of departing students. With a pang of longing, Harry strained to catch one last glimpse of his friend, rising from his seat and pressing his nose against the cold glass of the window in a futile attempt to prolong their farewell. But in the blink of an eye, Hagrid vanished from view, swallowed up by the darkness of the tunnel as the train hurtled onward, carrying Harry further and further away,
He sat down and silently minded his trip back. He looked at the snowy white owl that sit peacefully in the cage next to him, he began to ponder over what he could call her.