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Chapter Text

BANG! CRACK!

The front door of the Dursleys’ house had been blown open with a loud crash.

The living room was in a state of absolute chaos. Among the remnants of shattered vases, food stains, and random objects scattered across the floor, two figures entered the house, each in a distinct manner but both with worried expressions.

The first was a tall, stern-looking woman with thin-framed glasses and a long emerald-green robe. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she wore a pointed black hat on her head. Her expression was a mix of surprise and concern as she took in the desolate scene.

Beside her stood a man—more like a wardrobe in size—over three meters tall, with a mane of long, wild black hair and a beard that covered most of his face. He wore a large, shaggy overcoat, his imposing size contrasting with the gentleness in his dark eyes.

Harry, in the midst of an uncontrolled crying fit, was at the center of the turmoil, barely noticing the visitors’ arrival. The chaos around him reflected his inner torment.

Plant pots flew through the air, the breakfast table had been hurled against the patio, and the living room sofa changed colors as if it were alive. The room was in complete disarray, and Harry was at the center of it all, his life seemingly falling apart before his eyes.

Lying on the floor, now curled up in a fetal position with his arms covering his head and his knees pressed against his face, Harry desperately tried to shield himself. He didn’t want to see what was happening; the only sound he could make out was muffled voices calling his name, voices he couldn’t identify or understand. His mind was clouded with fear and confusion.

The woman stepped forward carefully, her eyes focused on the boy on the floor and alert to the objects flying toward her.

She effortlessly stopped anything that threatened to hit her with a flick of her wand, creating magical shields with absolute precision and skill, all without saying a word.

The woman approached with firm steps but without any sign of threat. Her gaze, though stern, carried genuine concern.

“Mr. Potter—Harry. Harry, please, look at me.”

Beside her, the enormous man, whose presence seemed to fill the entire space, crouched down next to the boy. His thick arms formed a protective barrier as small objects continued to fly through the air, hitting him without him seeming to notice.

“Easy there, little one,” he murmured, his deep voice soothing. “We’re here to help.”

But Harry kept his eyes shut, his arms wrapped around himself as he rocked back and forth. His entire body trembled. He didn’t know who these people were, but a part of him was certain he would be punished for what was happening. He always was.

The woman knelt beside him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a careful, almost hesitant touch.

“There’s no need to be afraid. We’re here for you.”

The man noticed the terror on Harry’s face and backed away slightly, trying not to appear so intimidating.

“Tha’s right,” he said, nodding. “Ain’t none o’ this yer fault. An’ yeh’re not alone.”

Harry hesitated.

A part of him wanted to believe it, but it was hard. Big, authoritative people had never been kind to him before. Still, something about those voices felt different. Slowly, his body stopped trembling, and the invisible force that had dominated the room began to weaken.

The chandeliers stopped flickering. The objects floating in the air fell one by one. The charged atmosphere dissipated.

Harry lifted his head hesitantly, his face still wet with tears, and met the eyes of the two strangers. There was something in them—not just concern, but understanding. As if they knew exactly how he felt.

“W-w-who are y-you?” The question came out between sobs, his voice faltering.

The woman pursed her lips, her expression growing even softer. There was something in her gaze that Harry didn’t understand—a kind of silent regret.

“I am Professor McGonagall, and this is Mr. Hagrid. We’re here to speak with you and deliver your invitation. May we talk?” Her voice, though gentle, still held a note of firmness.

Hagrid smiled warmly.

“Tha’s right, Harry,” he said. “We’ve come ter deliver a letter, tha’s all. Don’ mean ter scare yeh. Jus’ need yeh ter listen ter us, alright?”

Harry wiped his face with his sleeves, trying to hold back the tears, and nodded slowly.

Hagrid’s smile widened. With a careful gesture, he extended his enormous hand to help him up.

Harry hesitated before accepting it, but in the next moment, he was practically lifted off the ground in one pull. His feet barely touched the floor before he lost his balance.

“Oops—” Hagrid quickly grabbed his shoulders, preventing him from falling. “Blimey, yeh’re lighter than I thought yeh’d be.”

McGonagall noticed it too. The two exchanged a loaded glance, but neither made any comment.

Hagrid cleared his throat, a slight tone of guilt in his voice.

“Erm... sorry, Harry. Shouldn’ta pulled so hard. Yeh alright?”

Harry shook his head, trying to compose himself.

“I think so... I’m fine... I... I—” His voice faltered. He still didn’t know what to say.

Everything felt like a blur of chaos and confusion.

Then his eyes swept across the room, and his stomach sank.

The house was completely destroyed.

Torn wallpaper, peeling paint, overturned furniture, debris scattered everywhere. The appliances, or what was left of them, were broken as if a hurricane had passed through. The kitchen? Unrecognizable.

His chest tightened. His body grew tense.

He knew what would happen very soon. He would probably get the worst beating of his life.

His legs began to tremble as the adrenaline started to fade, and he lowered his head, his eyes flickering to the two adults before him. They knew. He saw it in their faces.

McGonagall offered him a sincere smile. A smile Harry wasn’t sure he should trust—adults were rarely kind to him for no reason.

“Can someone explain what’s going on here?!” Vernon Dursley hissed through his teeth, fury and confusion mixed in his voice.

McGonagall kept her gaze fixed and imposing on him, as if examining a particularly unpleasant creature under a microscope.

Vernon froze in place, snapping his mouth shut but trying to maintain his patriarchal stance. After all, these bizarre people had invaded his home! However, the subtle tremor in his mustache betrayed that his confidence was far from unshakable.

“I would also like to understand, Mr. Dursley,” said McGonagall, her voice sharp as a blade.

She took a step forward, and Vernon, who was still sitting on the floor, instinctively pressed his back against the wall.

“What exactly did you do to leave your nephew in such a deplorable state?” she asked.

A heavy silence fell. Petunia exchanged a nervous glance with her husband, swallowing hard. Her face was pale, her lips tight, as if she already expected a reprimand.

“W-We kept him as we were told, w-we took care of him the way we were asked.”

Harry, still trembling, looked at them with hurt and disbelief.

“You... you hate me.”

McGonagall turned to him, ignoring the Dursleys’ mutterings. With a delicate motion, she bent down and picked up Harry’s broken glasses from the floor.

“What happened, Harry? Can you tell us?” she asked, her tone surprisingly gentler than he expected.

Harry hesitated, fighting the lump in his throat.

“I... I got a letter two days ago. Uncle Vernon got furious and tore it up. He said he didn’t want ‘that freakish stuff’ in this house. The next day, another letter arrived, and he tore it up again. Today, I didn’t see any more letters, and they started telling me that no one cared about me, that I would never go to... Hogwarts... I think that was the name. And then... you showed up.”

He didn’t need to go into more detail.

McGonagall and Hagrid exchanged another glance. The professor straightened her shoulders and turned to the Dursleys, her face as hard as granite.

“Mr. Potter,” she said formally. “After receiving no response to our letters, we decided to deliver yours in person. It’s standard procedure for the institution, something that should have been communicated to you.”

The Dursleys shrank as McGonagall shot them a piercing glare. Then she turned to Hagrid, who wasn’t paying attention to her, instead glaring at the Dursleys with a dangerous look.

“Rubeus, please?”

“Eh? Ah, righ’—righ’, Professor... it’s ‘ere somewhere... ah, yeah!”

With surprising delicacy for someone of his size, Hagrid rummaged through the inner pockets of his enormous moleskin coat. He pulled out a parchment envelope—identical to the ones Harry had seen before—and handed it to the boy with an encouraging smile.

“I reckon yeh’ve been waitin’ fer this, haven’t yeh?”

Harry’s eyes shone with emotion as he took the letter, his hands still trembling. Even with his eyes watery, a small smile appeared on his face.

“It—it was this, thank you,” he said, holding the envelope as if it were a true treasure.

“Oh, no need fer thanks! I’d’ve delivered this even if I had t’ go 'round the world,” Hagrid said with a light laugh.

While Harry examined the letter with a mix of awe and anxiety, the Dursleys reacted in the complete opposite way.

Vernon and Petunia looked on with pure disdain, as if they had just lost an important battle, while Dudley just blinked, confused, not understanding anything.

“So... you’re from there? From Hogwarts?” Harry asked hesitantly, curiosity beginning to outweigh his fear.

McGonagall nodded.

“Exactly,” she replied politely. “I don’t know if you managed to read any of the letters, but this one contains the same information. If you’d like, you can open it.”

They gave him time to read the letter carefully, examining every detail.

The Dursleys began to fidget on the floor, Vernon started muttering, but when Hagrid cast another glance at them, it made them freeze and stay silent.

Harry, who was reading the letter quietly to himself, looked up, curious and hesitant.

“Ma’am, I don’t think I know what this is... what is Hogwarts?”

“Hogwarts, Mr. Potter, is the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,” McGonagall replied, raising her chin with a solemn air. “It’s where all young witches and wizards in Britain learn to use magic. This letter is your official invitation.”

“Magic... it’s... it’s real? It actually exists?” Harry asked, as if it were something unreal, a concept too distant to be true.

“O' course it exists!” exclaimed Hagrid, a wide smile lighting up his bearded face. “Yer a wizard, Harry!”

Harry blinked several times, trying to absorb that information.

“Me? A wizard?”

“Just like your parents,” McGonagall added, her voice softening as she mentioned Lily and James. “They also had magical abilities. And now it’s your turn to learn to control yours.”

Hagrid nodded solemnly, a nostalgic glint in his eyes.

“James an’ Lily were good wizards. Very dear... they fought bravely t’ the end.”

Harry lowered his head, thoughtful. The words echoed in his mind.

“I... I wish I could’ve known them. But they died in a car crash, didn’t they?”

The silence that followed was thick as smoke. McGonagall and Hagrid turned to the Dursleys at the same time, their looks incredulous.

“A car crash?!” McGonagall exclaimed, her voice laden with indignation.

“Is that what yeh told 'im?” bellowed Hagrid, his enormous hands clenched into fists.

Petunia raised her chin, crossing her arms with disdain.

“What did you expect me to say?”

“The truth would’ve been a good start!” McGonagall shot back, fury evident in every word.

“We did what we thought was best! We don’t understand any of your nonsense! What do you think he would’ve asked if he knew?”

“It was his right to know!” McGonagall said, controlling her anger. “This should never have been hidden from him! And saying you didn’t understand is a poor excuse—you knew how things worked, Mrs. Dursley!”

Hagrid took a threatening step forward, his massive frame casting a shadow over the Dursleys, who shrank back.

“This is an abomination, an insult!” he roared. “They died as heroes! An’ that’s what he should’ve known from the start!”

Harry looked from one to the other, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Heroes? My parents... were heroes?”

McGonagall took a deep breath, regaining some of her composure.

“Exactly, Harry,” she said softly. “Your parents fought against one of the darkest wizards our world has ever known. They gave their lives to protect you.”

Harry’s world spun. He turned slowly to Petunia, disbelief etched on his face.

“So... you’ve been lying to me all this time?” he said, his voice trembling with shock. “If my parents didn’t die in a car crash, what else is a lie? My dad... he wasn’t a drunk, was he? And my mum? Was she really as insufferable as you always said?”

Petunia’s silence was all the confirmation he needed.

Harry clenched his jaw and tightened the hand that wasn’t holding the letter, his anger and indignation boiling over.

McGonagall pressed her lips together, her face slightly red with anger, while Hagrid let out a low, threatening growl, like a bear about to roar.

“Professor,” said Hagrid, his deep voice restrained. “I reckon that’s enough. We should go.”

McGonagall nodded, casting one last icy glare at Petunia, as if her mere presence were an affront.

“Yes, you’re right, Rubeus,” she said, her voice firm but with a lingering trace of indignation.

With a precise flick of her wand, a silver flash sparked at the tip and spread through the room like an invisible wave. The broken glass tinkled in the air before snapping perfectly back into place. The table righted itself with a faint creak, the marks on the walls vanished as if they had never existed, and the plates and dishes returned to their original positions, the food magically rearranged on the pristine tablecloth.

In a matter of seconds, the chaos was gone, as if no magical hurricane had passed through.

The Dursleys, dumbfounded, could barely process what they were seeing, but Harry, despite his confusion, felt a wave of relief and surprise. Everything began to return to its place—the broken cabinet was restored, the lights reignited, and the appliances looked as good as new, as if none of it had ever happened. The window glass was repaired as if it had never been broken.

McGonagall took a deep breath.

“I’ll have to alert the Ministry about this incident, as I’ve used magic here. I’ll send an owl.”

Hagrid agreed. “Best t’ warn 'em before they come 'ere an’ make things worse.”

She turned to Harry, her expression softening.

“Now, Mr. Potter, as a formality, I am obliged to ask. Do you wish to attend the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?”

“Yes!” Harry replied quickly, a mix of nervousness and excitement in his voice. “I want to go—but I don’t know how...”

“If you wish to go,” McGonagall smiled gently, “Mr. Hagrid and I can take you today to buy your supplies. And then we’ll figure out how you’ll get there. What do you say?”

Harry’s face lit up, hearing the coolest invitation he had ever received in his life.

“I’d love to!” he said, his gratitude evident.

“Excellent. In that case, go and get changed—we’ll wait for you here,” she instructed.

Harry darted toward the cupboard under the stairs, disappearing inside before McGonagall or Hagrid had time to react. The two exchanged perplexed glances.

“Why did he go into the cupboard?” McGonagall asked, her brow furrowed as she turned to the Dursleys.

Vernon opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, trying to come up with an excuse.

“Erm... you see, we—”

“Where is his room?” McGonagall interrupted, her voice firm and impatient.

Petunia exchanged another series of nervous glances with her husband, never having done so much of that in such a short time. Dudley just stood there, motionless, holding what looked like the remains of a half-melted chocolate bar he had found on the floor moments earlier.

“I’ll ask again. Where is his room?” McGonagall repeated, her tone now icy.

Petunia opened her mouth, but it was Vernon who let out a muffled grunt, trying to explain.

“Er... well, technically, he... stays... there,” he said, reluctantly pointing to the cupboard door.

McGonagall narrowed her eyes. “There? You’re telling me he sleeps in that cupboard?”

“Well... yes,” Petunia stammered, “but only because there wasn’t any other room—”

“Another room? You have spare rooms in this house! I checked myself before bringing him here!” McGonagall exclaimed, her voice now filled with an indignation that even made Dudley take a step back. “And this is what you do? Shove a boy into a cupboard like he’s an old pair of shoes?”

“I... I knew this would happen! I always knew! You—” Vernon tried to interrupt, but McGonagall, with a flick of her wand, cast a Silencing Charm so quickly he barely had time to react.

Petunia’s eyes widened, and she grabbed her husband’s arm, while Dudley stumbled backward, looking at McGonagall as if she were a predator about to strike.

“I warned Albus about you,” McGonagall continued. “I warned him this was a reckless choice. And look at the result: treating a boy, an orphan, in such a barbaric and inhumane way. You should be ashamed!”

Hagrid leaned slightly toward her, his arms crossed.

“If yeh want, Professor,” he murmured, “I can teach 'em a lesson... jus' a quick one.”

McGonagall looked at him incredulously.

“Obviously not, Rubeus!” she exasperated, as if the mere suggestion were unthinkable.

Hagrid raised his hands innocently, as if he hadn’t suggested anything out of the ordinary.

“Alright, alright...”

She pursed her lips and looked back at Vernon and Petunia.

“Though, honestly, they deserve it—if it weren’t completely unethical, unprofessional, and a crime of assault against Muggles.” McGonagall took a deep breath.

The Dursleys swallowed hard.

While this conversation was happening and Harry was getting dressed, he only heard muffled sounds of conversation that suggested Vernon and Petunia were in trouble with the professor and the large man. He didn’t know them, but for them to yell at his aunt and uncle on his behalf, they were already trustworthy in his eyes.

He just hoped he wouldn’t have trouble with the Dursleys after all this.

A short while later, the cupboard door clicked open, revealing Harry, dressed in clothes so large he seemed to be swimming in them. He blinked at the light, his nervous green eyes landing on the professor and the gentle giant.

McGonagall waved her wand again. Harry’s clothes began to shrink and adjust, transforming into something simple but clean and well-fitted. They were still Dudley’s old clothes, but at least they fit him now.

“Wow! Thank you, Professor!” Harry said, genuinely surprised, his eyes wide with gratitude.

He didn’t even fully understand how it worked, but he already loved magic.

McGonagall softened her expression for a moment and nodded.

“Let’s go, Mr. Potter. There’s nothing more for you here right now.”

As they left the Dursleys behind and stepped outside, Hagrid had to duck to pass through the doorway, as he had knocked it down with his strength. He positioned it back in place, and McGonagall glanced around the neighborhood, making sure no one was watching before repairing it with another subtle flick of her wand.

Hagrid cleared his throat to get Harry’s attention and, with a shy smile, pulled something from his enormous coat—it was a squashed box.

“I almost forgot, Harry,” Hagrid said, looking a bit embarrassed. “Today’s a special day, ain’t it? Yer birthday. I made this fer yeh... well, I came on me motorbike—and I think I sat on it—but it should still be as delicious as it was meant t’ be!”

Harry took the box carefully and opened it. Inside was a simple, squashed cake with pink icing and poorly written green letters:

Happie Birdae Harrye.

He looked at the cake, feeling a lump in his throat. This time, he didn’t cry. Instead, he gave another bright smile.

Someone cared enough about him to remember his birthday, and that alone made this the best day of his life.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Hagrid gave a warm laugh. “Yer welcome, Harry. Yeh deserve it”“

And with that, they left Privet Drive, for the first time, with a spark of hope.

The sensation was instantaneous. Harry felt as if he were being pulled by an invisible hook behind his navel, squeezed from all sides as he was forced through something akin to a narrow tube. Professor McGonagall had described Apparition as “uncomfortable,” but that was an understatement. It was suffocating and bizarre in a way he had never experienced before.

They had landed in a quiet alley, the distant sound of London traffic echoing in the background. The ground beneath Harry’s feet seemed to sway as if he were on a ship at sea. He staggered, leaning against the nearby brick wall, feeling a growing wave of nausea. If he had eaten anything for breakfast, he was sure he would’ve lost it right then and there.

“Are you alright, Mr. Potter?” asked McGonagall.

“Yes... just—well, that was really strange,” he said, swallowing hard, trying to sound steady.

“Strange? Uncomfortable, more like!” exclaimed Hagrid, wrinkling his nose as if he had bitten into a lemon. “Tha’s why I prefer me flyin’ motorbike fer these things. At least wi' it, I know what t’ expect.”

“Flying motorbike?” Harry blinked, curiosity battling the nausea.

“Oh, aye, like a regular motorbike, only it flies. An’ fast!” Hagrid replied enthusiastically, his eyes lighting up at the memory.

Then his expression darkened, and he looked at Harry with a touch of melancholy.

“It’s the one I brought yeh t’ yer aunt an’ uncle’s house on... if only I’d known better,” he murmured the last part so quietly that Harry didn’t catch it.

“So you knew me back then?” Harry asked, curious, as the three of them began walking through the streets.

“Of course I did! I remember it like it was yesterday. Yeh fit in the palm o' me hand,” Hagrid said, extending his enormous hand as if he could still hold baby Harry.

Harry tried to picture it and ended up chuckling softly. Hagrid seemed genuinely affectionate, like an uncle probably would be.

As they walked, Harry noticed that McGonagall’s old-fashioned robes and Hagrid’s colossal size didn’t seem to attract any attention from the people on the streets. It was as if no one paid them any mind, and when they did glance their way, they simply shook their heads and seemed to remember something very important, quickening their pace to get away from them.

“Just out of curiosity—and no offense—but your clothes aren’t exactly normal for city folks... and they seem to be ignoring us on purpose?” Harry asked, frowning as he watched a man walk past Hagrid without even hesitating.

McGonagall nodded without breaking stride.

“No need to worry about offense, Mr. Potter. Our worlds are completely different, and questions like these are normal.”

“Aye, I know someone me size ain’t seen every day,” Hagrid chuckled. “But yeh get used t’ it over time. I don’t come 'ere often anyway.”

“But why are they ignoring us?”

“There’s a small enchantment on our clothes helping us stay discreet called the Muggle-Repelling Charm,” McGonagall explained didactically. “It makes Muggles ignore us and remember they have something urgent and much better to do. I cast it on us before we left.”

“Muggles?”

“That’s what we call non-magical people.”

Harry nodded, accepting the explanation. It was clear to him that understanding all of this would take longer than he expected.

“You know, I also remember when you were little,” McGonagall said, her voice warmed by a distant memory. “Your parents were so happy. It was impossible not to like you—always laughing, always curious.”

Harry looked at her, his green eyes shining with cautious hope.

“So they loved me?”

McGonagall pursed her lips as her eyes took on a melancholic glint. It was a question that, in her mind, Harry should never have had to ask. Finally, she inclined her head and gave a gentle smile.

“They loved you as if nothing else mattered, Harry. You were their world.”

Harry felt a warmth spread through him, something he rarely experienced. He didn’t respond, just kept his eyes fixed on the ground, trying to process the words.

“They loved me...” he thought with a happy smile.

Finally, they arrived at a narrow, dimly lit street. In front of them stood an old, run-down pub that looked like it was about to collapse. The façade was dirty and covered in signs that read “CLOSED” in faded letters.

The place was called the “Leaky Cauldron.”

“Is this it?” Harry asked, looking around with a raised eyebrow. “The place is closed.”

“Not everything is as it seems, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall replied politely.

“It’ll take some gettin' used t', but yeh’ll get the hang o' it sooner or later,” Hagrid added. “A closed place means an open place fer us in the Muggle world—at least wi' the Leaky Cauldron 'ere.”

Harry decided not to ask any more questions. He realized that if he tried to understand every strange detail of that day, he’d probably lose his mind before nightfall. And so, with Hagrid by his side and McGonagall leading the way, he followed along.

As soon as they stepped through the door, the old pub revealed itself to be a bustling inn, filled with lively voices and the clinking of glasses. The place was teeming with witches and wizards dressed in eccentric attire.

Long, flowing robes, pointy hats with crooked brims—some looking like pajamas, in Harry’s opinion. There were scruffy-looking men in crumpled, mismatched suits, while the women wore embroidered cloaks and wide-sleeved dresses, somewhat faded by time. This probably wasn’t the place for the upper crust of their society, though it was, in its own way, welcoming.

There was a peculiar smell of a drink permeating the place that Harry didn’t recognize.

“If they dress differently, they must drink different things,” he reflected, accepting his own explanation.

The large fireplace crackled in the corner, spreading a pleasant warmth throughout the hall.

Harry was surprised. Looking at his clothes, he felt as if he were at a costume party without the right outfit.

At the back of the bar, a bald, wrinkled man with few teeth was drying a dirty glass with a grimy cloth, but his face radiated genuine friendliness.

Hagrid approached the counter, but before they could pass through the back door, the barman spotted them.

“Hagrid! Pleasure to see you!” The man grinned from ear to ear. “The usual?”

“Not today, Tom—not right now, at least. I’m on Hogwarts business,” Hagrid replied with a proud smile, casting a meaningful look at Harry.

The barman’s eyes widened as he noticed the scar on the boy’s forehead, barely hidden beneath his hair. Harry had the habit of hiding it to avoid bullying at school, but sometimes it showed when his hair moved too much.

“Merlin’s beard! Is that—can it be? Bless my soul. You’re Harry Potter?”

Harry froze. The chatter in the inn ceased instantly. All eyes turned to him.

“Yes, that’s me, sir,” Harry replied, feeling his face heat up under the attention.

Everything fell silent, and Harry thought he was in big trouble.

But Tom grinned broadly as he extended his hand to shake Harry’s enthusiastically.

“Good, good—what an honor! Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back!”

“Uh... thank you?” Harry said more as a question than a statement, with a smile and a confused look at the attention.

Within seconds, other patrons began to stand up, murmuring his name, and soon they were surrounding him. Everyone greeted him.

“Is it really you? Harry Potter?”

“Merlin, it’s him!”

“It’s an honor to meet you, young man!”

“Pleasure to meet you!”

“Hey! Harry Potter is here!”

Harry, confused and stunned but smiling, began shaking the hands extended to him, still not understanding why there was so much commotion.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you all too,” he replied.

McGonagall, with pursed lips, waited patiently for the commotion to die down. She noticed a colleague approaching and nodded.

“Professor Quirrell, what a pleasant surprise.”

The man walking toward her wore a huge purple turban with a matching robe, walking with a slight hesitation.

“N-nice to s-see you again, P-professor McGonagall,” he stuttered, visibly nervous.

Harry observed the professor with curiosity. The man seemed uncomfortable, as if he were constantly on edge. Hagrid smiled upon seeing him, greeting him warmly.

“Professor Quirrell! How’re yeh?”

“F-f-fine, Rubeus.”

McGonagall gestured to introduce the professor to Harry.

“This is Professor Quirrell, Harry. He will be your Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor,” she said formally.

Harry nodded and extended his hand to shake Quirrell’s.

“Hello, Professor, nice to meet you.”

Quirrell looked at Harry’s hand for a second, hesitating before finally shaking it.

“This guy is weird,” Harry thought, but he figured maybe he was the odd one here, dressed wrong and clueless about who these people were.

“The p-pleasure is mine, Mr. P-P-Potter,” Quirrell greeted with a faltering smile and a limp handshake.

“Defense Against the Dark Arts? What’s that?”

“Well, Harry,” Hagrid began. “Jus' like in the Muggle world, there’s bad people an' creatures in the wizardin' world. At Hogwarts, Professor Quirrell’ll teach yeh how t’ defend yerself against 'em. Ain’t that right, Quirinus?”

Quirrell jumped when Hagrid gave him a pat on the back, nearly sending him forward with the sheer force, but he quickly nodded.

“Y-yes, of course! It w-will be an honor to t-teach—I l-love teaching.”

“Well, we must be on our way,” McGonagall interjected. “We have much to do today. Again, it was a pleasure seeing you, Quirinus. Have a good day.”

“Y-you too,” Quirrell said, disappearing into the crowd.

“Follow me, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall’s voice was firm, leaving no room for hesitation.

Harry hurried to keep up with her as they crossed the Leaky Cauldron. The professor led them to a stone courtyard at the back of the pub, stopping in front of what appeared to be an ordinary brick wall.

With a precise flick of her wand, she tapped specific bricks. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a gentle tremor, the stones began to shift like puzzle pieces, moving apart until they formed a wide arch, revealing a secret passage.

Harry’s eyes widened. On the other side, a bustling, colorful street unfolded before him.

“Welcome t’ Diagon Alley, Harry!” Hagrid exclaimed, giving him a pat on the back that nearly made him stumble. “Where yeh can find everythin' yeh need... an' some things yeh didn’t even know yeh needed.”

What unfolded before Harry was unlike anything he had ever seen. Diagon Alley stretched ahead in a winding path, its crooked, cramped buildings seeming to vie for every inch of space. The shop fronts were vibrant, some adorned with glowing golden signs, others covered in moss and magical lanterns that flickered softly even in the daylight.

The air was filled with a mix of strange and exotic smells—mysterious herbs, caramelized sweets, and... parchment? Harry looked around and spotted a wizard restocking a small florist shop. He was scribbling something on a parchment while pots filled with exotic plants shifted slightly, as if breathing.

The buzz of animated conversations filled the space. Laughter echoed, and witches and wizards of all ages hurried by, carrying bags full of curious objects. Some wizards sold their own wares on the streets, in boxes that levitated with spells and shouted low prices and promotions as they moved through the crowds.

“Ostrich and peacock feathers! You can only get them here!”

“Inks in every color you can imagine—if you think it doesn’t exist, we’ve got it!”

The vendors called out loudly with their various products.

“Now that the start o' the Hogwarts term’s approachin’, the Alley gets like this,” Hagrid said to Harry.

“Is Hogwarts the only school around here?” Harry asked.

McGonagall nodded.

“Indeed, in Britain, Hogwarts is the only school—and one of the most prestigious in the world. There are others, of course. Beauxbatons in France and Durmstrang in Norway are just two examples.”

Harry noticed some of the attire the people wore here, which was much more refined than at the Leaky Cauldron. Some wizards paraded in impeccable outfits—well-tailored robes, flowing dresses, and wide-brimmed hats—with an air of sophistication. In contrast, others emerged from narrow, shadowy alleys, wearing tattered and disheveled clothes, with no concern for appearance.

Above their heads, owls flew in every direction, carrying letters and packages tied to their feet.

The shop windows gleamed with fascinating items. In one, cages displayed owls of all sizes and colors, while in another, plump frogs hopped about carelessly. Further ahead, Harry saw stacks of steaming cauldrons next to shelves crammed with enormous books, some so old they looked ready to crumble into dust.

And then, in a glass display, he spotted a row of jars containing... things. Things floating in viscous liquids, twisted and pale. Harry decided not to ask what they were.

“I hope the new editions of your academic books at Flourish and Blotts have come out this year,” McGonagall commented. “There are some interpretive errors in one of the books I use for teaching. I’ve sent letters requesting corrections for two years straight.”

“But Professor, I don’t have any money,” Harry said worriedly. How could he go to school without money?

“Tha’s why we’re makin’ a quick stop at Gringotts first,” Hagrid replied.

“Gringotts?” Harry frowned. It wasn’t a name he’d heard before in reference to a bank.

“The wizardin' bank, Harry,” Hagrid explained, pointing with his enormous finger to a grand, slightly crooked building that stood out at the end of the street. “The safest place t’ keep yer Galleons, if yeh ask me. Well, aside from Hogwarts, o' course.”

“Certain enchantments at Hogwarts are so ancient that even we don’t fully understand how they work.” said McGonagall, adjusting her glasses. “Unfortunately, that knowledge was lost over time.”

At one end of the street, with its marble-white and crooked architecture like everything else in the alley, a large sign read for all to see:

Gringotts Wizarding Bank

The three entered the building, and Harry heard all the noise from outside muffle and be replaced by the sounds of scribbling, papers, and stamps, along with some whispers and low conversations.

Harry moved closer to Hagrid, startled when he saw small creatures with long fingers, pointed noses, and ears, some with dark, slanted eyes, dressed in formal attire.

“What are they, Hagrid?” he whispered.

“Goblins,” Hagrid replied in a tone that mixed respect and discomfort. “Best not t’ mess with 'em, Harry. They’re a bit... complicated, if yeh know what I mean. Stick close t’ me.”

McGonagall, who was listening to the conversation, pursed her lips as if she found Hagrid’s explanation insufficient.

“They’re magical creatures, Harry,” she said in a professorial tone. “Intelligent, talented, and extremely proud. They run Gringotts and handle financial matters in the wizarding world. But I’ll give you an important piece of advice: never try to cheat a goblin.”

“Not that I want to cheat anyone, but why’s that?” Harry asked, curious but somewhat apprehensive.

McGonagall gave him a serious look.

“Because, in your History of Magic studies, you’ll learn that there have been many rebellions and wars between wizards and goblins. Most of those disputes happened because someone tried to take advantage of them. And goblins never forget an offense, Mr. Potter. There’s also an unspoken tension that many wizards consider themselves superior to them, which doesn’t make coexistence beyond neutrality easy between our two worlds.”

At the end of the corridor, at a larger and more important-looking desk, McGonagall stood in front of a bald goblin with a grumpy expression.

“Hello, we’d like to access vault 687, please,” she said formally.

The goblin didn’t even look up from the paperwork he was reading, completely uninterested.

“Key?” he asked bluntly.

She looked at Hagrid, who was distracted by something a goblin was carrying—a large, lead-gray egg in a reinforced cage with multiple locks.

McGonagall cleared her throat softly. “Rubeus?”

“Hm? Oh, right,” Hagrid approached and pulled a long key from an inner pocket of his coat. “Here it is.”

The goblin quickly examined it and frowned. He slowly looked at Harry, nodded silently, and returned to his paperwork.

“Mr. Griphook will take you to the vault,” he replied in a monotone voice.

While they waited, Harry approached Hagrid.

“What was that goblin carrying in the cart? An egg?”

Hagrid’s eyes lit up for a moment, and he smiled.

“Well, yeh see, Harry, some places in the bank are so important that they use dragons t’ guard the entrances,” Hagrid explained. “Apparently, that one was a new security addition somewhere important.”

“Dragons, that’s so cool... wait, Dragons?!” Harry’s eyes widened, suddenly excited.

“Tha’s right, magnificent creatures, each more beautiful than the last!” Hagrid said.

“Dragons exist? Like in the stories? Big, with wings, and breathing fire?”

“Of course!” Hagrid confirmed, his eyes shining. “I’ve never read those Muggle stories, but if yeh’re talkin' like that, they must’ve been inspired by the ones we know.

Then—cutting the subject short—another goblin with black hair and completely black eyes approached the trio.

“I am Mr. Griphook, and I will take you to the vault. Please follow me.”

They walked to a large, thick circular metal door, which Griphook opened with a key.

After passing through the large door, Harry felt the sound of the environment shift to a silence with the hiss of air in the darkness of the place. It felt like he was entering an abandoned mine when he saw a cart on tracks.

What gave him a sinking feeling was seeing that the tracks were suspended, and it was impossible to tell how deep they went because of the darkness, in case they fell.

None of them seemed worried, and Harry simply followed them without questions.

“If they’re not worried about dying, I shouldn’t be either,” he thought.

Hagrid, who almost occupied the entire back seat alone, had his large legs awkwardly folded. Griphook, with sharp eyes, held a lever beside him, preparing the cart for the dizzying descent.

Without warning, the cart shot forward rapidly, plunging down the winding tracks, speeding through underground tunnels at a breakneck pace. The biting wind made Harry’s hair fly back, standing on end as if he had just stepped out of a storm. He had never been on a roller coaster, but he was sure this experience was even better than any he had heard of. The walls of the caverns buzzed around them as they passed vaults embedded in the rock, appearing and disappearing in the blink of an eye.

When they finally stopped in front of a gigantic vault, Harry could barely contain his excitement. He was still recovering from the ride, laughing a little and trying to fix his messy hair.

Griphook, with an indifferent expression, pulled a silver key from his robes and approached a massive iron door. He turned it in the heavy lock, which opened with a deep, metallic sound. The door moved slowly, revealing the inside of the vault, and what Harry saw left him speechless.

Mountains of gleaming gold coins sparkled under the dim light. Chests overflowing with jewels and artifacts shone as if freshly polished. Harry blinked, marveling at the glow emanating from the room. He had never seen so much wealth in his life.

“Wow!” Harry exclaimed, his mouth agape in astonishment. “Who owns all this?”

“You do, Harry,” McGonagall replied matter-of-factly.

He looked incredulously at McGonagall and Hagrid.

“Me? But... this can’t be mine, can it?”

“Of course it is,” Hagrid said with a warm smile. “Yer parents wouldn’t’ve left yeh with nothin’! On the contrary, they left yeh well-prepared.”

Harry felt a lump in his throat. He had no idea his parents had left anything for him, much less a fortune of this size.

“How much should I take to pay for all the supplies?” he asked, still a bit dazed.

They briefly discussed how much Harry would need to take—a ridiculous amount compared to the immense treasure before him. When he entered the vault, he was surprised to see that his wealth wasn’t just piled up there. There were several heavy, locked doors leading to other chambers, where even more golden coins and treasures gleamed in the flickering torchlight.

After they took what they needed, Griphook closed the enormous door with a heavy clang, locking all that wealth back inside the vault.

McGonagall then pulled another key from her robes.

“We need to access vault 713 as well, Mr. Griphook.”

The goblin nodded and, without wasting time, led them back to the cart. Once again, they descended even deeper, and Harry noticed that as they went to lower levels, the atmosphere around them felt different. The place grew colder and seemed more dangerous, or more protected.

As they wound their way through the depths, Harry couldn’t contain his curiosity. What could be stored in such an inaccessible place?

The cart finally stopped in front of a large open courtyard. The door was even more imposing than the previous one and stood a considerable distance from the tracks. In the background, waterfalls could be seen, and bats flew in swarms.

“Mr. Griphook,” Harry called as they walked toward it. “Are all the bank’s vaults here?”

“Yes, all of Gringotts’ vaults are in these caverns,” he explained. “The lower the level, the more secure the vaults.”

“What happens if someone falls off the carts?”

“No one has ever fallen off the carts accidentally, but if someone tries to steal something and falls, they’ll end up straight in the waters of the bank’s depths, which is the last security measure to stop criminals.”

“And how do you know if someone’s down there?”

The goblin gave a smile, showing his sharp teeth.

“We don’t need to. The dragon sharks take care of the cleaning for us.”

Harry swallowed hard. This was definitely the craziest bank he had ever been in. He had gone to the bank once with Uncle Vernon, and waiting a few minutes in line didn’t seem so bad anymore.

Vault 713 had an even more intimidating door, as if it guarded an important secret.

“Can anyone with a key open these vaults?” Harry asked.

“No,” Griphook replied as he turned the key with precision, giving it several twists. “If someone who isn’t a goblin tries to open this vault, they’ll be sucked inside and trapped there.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“And how often do you check if someone’s in there?”

“Ah... about every ten years or so,” Griphook said with unsettling calm.

“Oh,” was all Harry could reply, stunned at the idea of someone being sucked into a vault and left there for a decade.

When the door finally opened, Vault 713 revealed itself to be much smaller than Harry’s parents’ gold-filled vault. There were no mountains of wealth, just a small, carefully wrapped bag. The room seemed disproportionately empty, as if that single object were more valuable than all the treasures in the world.

McGonagall stepped in with firm, precise steps, picked up the package, and quickly tucked it into her robes.

“What’s that, Professor?” Harry asked, intrigued.

McGonagall gave him a stern look, though not without kindness.

“Hogwarts business, Mr. Potter. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

Harry nodded, asking no further questions about it.

With the package secure and some “Galleons,” as they called the wizarding currency, the three left Gringotts Bank and headed back into the bustling streets of Diagon Alley.

As Hagrid mentioned that he needed to attend to some matters, promising to return later, McGonagall seized the opportunity to make a request.

“Rubeus, before you go, send a message to the Ministry about this morning’s events. It’ll save time if they can resolve it as soon as possible.”

She reached into her robes and pulled out a piece of parchment, which immediately floated in the air beside a quill. With a slight flick of her wand, the quill began to scribble on the paper, jotting down word for word what she dictated—a straightforward and objective account of what had happened, accompanied by a formal request for the matter to be handled with utmost efficiency.

“All right, I’ll take this. See yeh later!” said Hagrid, grabbing the parchment and disappearing into the crowd, his massive frame quickly blending into the bustle of Diagon Alley, though it took a while for him to fully vanish due to his size, which was twice that of most people.

With Hagrid gone, Harry was left in McGonagall’s care. The professor, maintaining her usual air of authority, guided him from shop to shop to gather the necessary supplies for Hogwarts.

At each stop, McGonagall explained the subjects he would study throughout the year. Her tone was always clear and informative, but there was a special glint in her eyes when she reached the topic of Transfiguration.

“It’s one of the most complex and fascinating branches of magic,” she said as they exited Flourish and Blotts—the best bookstore in Diagon Alley, according to the professor—loaded with heavy volumes, which she had shrunk to fit inside the cauldron Harry had also purchased. “Transfiguration allows you to alter the form and nature of an object, and, with sufficient skill, even that of a living being.”

Harry stared at her, fascinated. “So... it’s like turning a cup into a rat?”

McGonagall’s lips curved slightly, almost a smile.

“Exactly. Although, ideally, the rat shouldn’t retain the cup’s handle as a tail.”

Harry laughed, but inwardly, he was impressed.

In addition to Transfiguration, McGonagall explained other subjects Harry would take: Charms, Potions, History of Magic, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Astronomy, and Herbology. Each one seemed fascinating in its own way, but the professor’s expression when discussing Transfiguration left Harry particularly eager for that class, perhaps precisely because she taught it and was so passionate about it.

“Besides these subjects, as a first-year, you’ll also have flying lessons,” said McGonagall as they walked between shops.

“Flying? We can fly?” Harry exclaimed, surprised, clutching his cauldron full of supplies close to his chest.

“Yes, on broomsticks, of course. But you won’t be allowed your own broom until second year. Until then, you’ll use the school brooms for lessons.”

As they passed a broom shop, Harry saw some children with their faces pressed against the window, mesmerised by a particular broom.

“Look!” one of them exclaimed. “A Nimbus 2000! I can’t believe it’s been released!”

“The fastest broom in the world!” commented another boy. “I’d win any game with that. Robert wouldn’t stand a chance with his Comet!”

“You could have the best broom in the world, Edgar, but you’d still be a terrible Chaser,” teased another, sparking laughter among them.

McGonagall smiled faintly at the scene as they weaved through the crowd.

“What’s Quidditch?” Harry asked.

The professor’s eyes lit up.

“Ah, it’s the most famous sport in the wizarding world. Seven players on each side fly on their brooms, each with unique objectives that make them win together. Hogwarts also has teams. Each house has its own, and at the end of the year, the winning house takes home the Quidditch Cup.”

“Houses? What houses?”

“Hogwarts has four distinct houses, and students are sorted into them based on their personalities. Generally, the houses are: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. I, for example, was a Gryffindor during my time as a student and am now the head of that house.”

Harry nodded. “Quidditch sounds amazing, completely different from the football I know... Has your house—Gryffindor—won many cups?”

At that moment, McGonagall’s face hardened slightly, and her tone became more reserved.

“We’ve won many, yes. But in recent years, it’s been... complicated due to various factors.”

They continued their shopping, acquiring a telescope, sets of glass phials for potions, and a set of brass scales.

Until Harry found himself in a clothing shop for the first time in his life, buying clothes for himself. At Madam Malkin’s, he tried on the Hogwarts uniform with the attentive help of the proprietor, who adjusted every detail to ensure the robes fit perfectly.

“Stand still, dear, just a moment,” she said, pulling at the sleeve of the robe to measure the length. “You’ll see, it’ll be perfect.”

When she finished measuring him for his uniform pieces, he saw McGonagall beckoning him.

“Harry, come here a moment.”

“Yes, Professor?” He walked over to her, curious.

She held a small, square package, wrapped in vibrant red paper with an elegant silver ribbon that shimmered softly in the shop’s light. Her eyes met Harry’s.

“I know it’s not much,” she began, her voice slightly softer, “but it’s from the heart. Happy birthday.”

Harry stood still for a moment, surprise etched on his face. His eyes widened in astonishment, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

“A present... for me?” he asked, his voice incredulous, his eyes shining with a mix of joy and confusion.

“Of course,” McGonagall replied, a small smile curving her lips. “It’s my gift to you. As a Hogwarts student, I’m sure this will come in very handy. Trust me.”

With slightly trembling hands, Harry took the package with reverent care. He unwrapped it slowly, savouring the moment. When he finally removed the lid of the box, his eyes lit up at the contents.

It was a black scarf, simple in appearance but incredibly elegant. He touched it gently, immediately noticing the softness of the fabric against his fingers. As he unrolled it, he realised it was long and thick—longer than his own height, made of a material that exuded quality.

“Wow... thank you, Professor!” Harry exclaimed, a wide smile lighting up his face. He held the scarf against his chest, almost as if hugging an old friend.

“I hope it serves you well,” said McGonagall, her eyes watching Harry with affection. “When you’re sorted into your house, the scarf will adapt to its colours. And believe me, in Scotland, you’ll find something like this essential, especially during winter, during midnight Astronomy lessons.”

He had never received a new present before, something just for him, so personal, so thoughtful. Harry would wear this gift with great pride.

After storing the scarf with his purchases and continuing to try on the rest of his clothes, a blond boy with cold eyes was in the shop with his mother. He scrutinised the clothes with evident disdain, dismissing any piece he deemed inferior.

“This is ridiculous. I don’t even know how anyone could wear this,” the boy said to his mother, who nodded in agreement.

Harry and McGonagall ignored him, leaving the shop after thanking the proprietor.

“Now, all that’s left is your wand,” McGonagall commented as they walked, checking the list of supplies once more with precision.

“And where do I buy one?”

“At Ollivander’s, of course. All witches and wizards have bought theirs there for centuries. The Ollivander family has a tradition of being masters in the art of wandmaking,” she replied, leading him to an old, modest-looking shop.

As they entered, the sound of a bell echoed through the narrow, cluttered shop. The faint, sweet scent of incense hung in the air. Suddenly, an elderly man appeared from behind the counter, a curious expression in his eyes.

“What a surprise!” he said with a smile as he adjusted some boxes. “If it isn’t Minerva McGonagall in the flesh! It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”

“Yes, Garrick, it has been a long time,” replied McGonagall, adjusting her glasses.

“And who might you be, young man?”

“Harry Potter, sir.”

Ollivander’s eyes widened slightly, and he began moving around the shop with peculiar energy, picking up some boxes.

“Ah, yes—yes... I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Potter, for many years now.”

“Expecting me?”

"Your parents reserved a few wands for you here when you were just a baby. They've been kept here, waiting for the day you'd come to claim them," Ollivander explained as he brought several boxes to the counter.

Harry was astonished. The idea that his parents had planned so much for him warmed his heart, especially considering that the Dursleys rarely spoke of them, and when they did, it was with disdain.

“Remember when you came to choose your wand, Minerva?” Ollivander asked casually from the back, with a chuckle.

“Oh, of course, how could I forget? Your father took his time finding mine, as I recall. I nearly destroyed the shop in the process.”

Harry heard more laughter from the back before Ollivander approached the counter with some boxes.

“I was the one handing him the wands to give to you to try,” Ollivander said. “Back then, it was hard to know what would suit each person. You were one of my test customers.”

She raised an amused eyebrow. “Was it you? I’d never have guessed.”

“Well, let’s see if I don’t make the same mistake with Mr Potter here,” Ollivander commented, returning with a box in hand. “Now, let’s see which wand chooses you.”

“The wand chooses me?” Harry took one from the box Ollivander offered.

“Of course, every wand must choose its wizard. Let’s see if this is the one.”

Harry looked at the wand in his hand, uncertain. “And how do I do that?”

“Just give it a little wave—like this,” Ollivander demonstrated with a gesture.

Harry tried. Everyone jumped when a glass jar exploded behind the counter.

“No, definitely not a thestral tail core for you,” Ollivander said calmly, handing him another wand.

Harry took it in his hand and gave it a different wave. The moment he did, a powerful burst of flames shot from the tip of the wand. Harry instinctively aimed it upward and dropped it in shock.

The professor’s expression was one of genuine surprise, and she looked at Ollivander, who shared the same expression before clearing his throat.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do that,” Harry said, alarmed.

“We know you didn’t, don’t worry about it, Mr Potter,” his professor said, still surprised by what he had managed to do.

“Well, I admit you seem to have potential, young man, that’s for sure, if you have the right wand in your hands...” He paused, frowning thoughtfully before resuming his peculiar behaviour.

“Unless...” he murmured, heading back into the depths of the shop.

It took some time before he returned with an older, battered box, pulling out a different, slightly more rudimentary wand.

Ollivander looked at the wand and then at Harry before handing it over with a curious expression.

“Holly, supple, eleven inches... try this one, Mr Potter.”

When Harry took that wand, he felt a connection like never before. His body surged with energy, and he felt as though that wand was the right one, the perfect one, as if he were the only one capable of wielding its power. The three of them felt a breeze swirl around Harry and the wand, that feeling of connection flying out the window as Ollivander looked intrigued.

“Curious... very curious...” Ollivander murmured, observing Harry with interest.

“What’s curious, Garrick?” asked McGonagall, suspicious.

“Ah, Minerva, many things are curious in my line of work,” Ollivander replied with a small, enigmatic smile. “This wand, besides being a rare combination of holly and phoenix feather, has a unique peculiarity.”

“And what exactly is that peculiarity?” pressed McGonagall, frowning.

“The feather, my dear, came from a very special phoenix... Fawkes, Albus Dumbledore’s phoenix, as you know. There are only two wands in the world that possess feathers from him.”

Harry tilted his head, curious. “And where’s the other one?”

“The other, Mr Potter... belonged to You-Know-Who.”

McGonagall paled slightly, and Harry frowned, confused.

“You-Know-Who? Who’s You-Know-Who?”

Harry chuckled lightly, feeling a bit foolish for a moment, as if he were speaking in riddles.

McGonagall sighed and looked at Harry with a sad expression.

“He’s the wizard who murdered your parents, Harry.”

The smile faded, and Harry felt a knot in his stomach as he looked at the wand in his hands.

Ollivander, noticing his reaction, leaned in with an experienced gaze.

“The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter, but it’s the wizard who decides how to use it,” he explained. “May this wand serve you well. Something tells me it will play an important role for you.”

Harry swallowed hard and nodded, still thoughtful. This wasn’t the wand that had killed his parents. It wasn’t a piece of dark magic tied to a murderer. It was his now—and he would prove he could do good with it, that he wouldn’t be like that man, even if his wand had any connection to his.

“How much... how much do I owe you?” Harry asked quietly.

Ollivander inclined his head slightly, his silvery eyes gleaming again.

“Seven Galleons, please.”

When he left the shop accompanied by McGonagall, he spotted Hagrid waiting outside with a broad smile and a large cage in his hands. Inside, a snowy owl with amber eyes watched him curiously.

“Ah, there yeh are!” said Hagrid, waving. “Got everythin' yeh needed, Harry?”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall helped me with everything,” Harry replied, smiling slightly at the professor, who nodded in approval.

“What a magnificent owl, Rubeus. A new addition to Hogwarts’ perch or a personal assistant?” asked McGonagall with interest.

Hagrid smiled, scratching his beard.

“Well, neither, actually. It’s a gift. Happy birthday, Harry!” He lifted the cage so Harry could see the owl better, who hooted softly.

Harry’s eyes widened in surprise, and then his face lit up with a radiant smile.

“Really? She’s for me?” He reached out, gently touching the owl’s soft head through the cage.

Two presents in one day? This was by far the best birthday of his life.

“Yes,” confirmed Hagrid with a twinkle in his eye. “I saw 'er at Eeylops Owl Emporium an' couldn’t resist. She seemed t’ be waitin' fer yeh. Beautiful, ain’t she?

Harry agreed, and the owl hooted, puffing out her chest proudly.

“She’s beautiful—isn’t she a girl?—do you have a name yet?” Harry asked, marvelling.

The owl hooted in response.

Hagrid shrugged. “Nothin' beyond ‘snowy owl’ for now. Thought yeh might give 'er a good name.”

Harry looked at the owl, thoughtful. After a moment of contemplation, he smiled and said:

“Hedwig—her name is Hedwig.”

The owl hooted again, nipping lightly at Harry’s finger as if approving of his choice. She then settled in the cage, clearly satisfied.

“An excellent name, Mr Potter,” commented McGonagall, her gaze softening for a moment.

At that moment, Harry’s stomach growled loudly. He realised he hadn’t eaten since the events of the morning, and hunger now hit him hard.

“Let’s head t’ the Leaky Cauldron fer lunch,” suggested Hagrid, casting a concerned look at Harry. “Yeh must be starvin'. A good stew’ll do yeh good—and don’t ferget, yeh’ve still got cake fer dessert! What d'ye say, Minerva?”

“You’ll have to lunch without me,” replied McGonagall, adjusting her hat as she looked around. “Did you manage to send the letter alerting the Ministry?”

“Oh, yes. I took care o' it while yeh were finishin' up the rest o' the shoppin’,” said Hagrid with a satisfied nod.

McGonagall nodded, seeming pleased.

“Good. I still have a few matters to attend to.” She said, “I’ll meet you later at the Leaky Cauldron. Take care.”

Harry and Hagrid waved in agreement as the professor walked away, disappearing into the crowd of Diagon Alley with determined steps.

“Why do you need to alert the government about what happened?” asked Harry, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

“Well,” began Hagrid, scratching his beard as if pondering the best way to explain, “it’s not exactly the government yeh know, Harry. It’s the Ministry o' Magic, which regulates everythin' in our world. See, they’re quite strict when it comes t' underage magic.”

“So... what happened earlier was a problem?” asked Harry, feeling slightly guilty.

“Ah, don’t yeh worry 'bout that,” said Hagrid with a reassuring smile. “It didn’t cause any trouble fer us. Everythin's sorted. It’s jus' protocol, yeh see? In fact, yeh brought happiness—I’m jus' happy t’ see yeh again, an' so is the professor, yeh can be sure o' that. Yeh’ve grown into a fine young man.”

Harry blushed a little at the compliment and gave a shy smile.

“Thanks, Hagrid.”

Hagrid let out a warm laugh, his massive shoulder shaking as they continued walking.

“Come on. Let’s make sure yeh get a good meal. I bet after today, yeh’ll need yer strength.”

The three of them—Hedwig now joining the group—made their way back to the cozy inn. Harry, following Hagrid’s advice, ordered a stew that came with plenty of meat and vegetables. Hagrid, on the other hand, ordered a huge tankard of butterbeer, sighing contentedly after taking a deep sip.
Harry also fed his new friend some treats, which she promptly accepted.

“Ahh... nothin' like a cold butterbeer after a mornin' like that,” said Hagrid, leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed in pure satisfaction.

But Harry was still lost in his thoughts. What Ollivander had said about the connection between his wand and You-Know-Who’s wouldn’t leave his mind.
Finally, unable to contain his curiosity, he leaned forward.

“Hagrid... today, while I was buying my wand… I found out who killed my parents—You-Know-Who—who is he?” he asked hesitantly.

The giant wizard nearly choked on his drink, surprised by the bluntness of the question. He cleared his throat.

Well... he was a dark wizard, Harry. One o' the worst there ever was. Cruel, ruthless... an' powerful. No one likes t' talk 'bout it, but his name was...” Hagrid hesitated, lowering his voice even further. “Voldemort.”

Harry blinked.

“Voldemort?” he repeated, frowning.

What kind of name was that? It sounded like something out of a bad band.

“Shhh!” Hagrid shot a nervous glance around, as if expecting Voldemort himself to leap out of the shadows. “That name isn’t said out loud, Harry. Plenty o' people died jus' fer sayin' it. Even now, years later, most wizards are still scared o' him—and fer good reason.”

Harry swallowed hard. “But he’s dead, right?”

Hagrid scratched his shaggy beard, his face somber.

“Some say he is,” he murmured thoughtfully. “But I reckon he lost his powers that night... the night yeh defeated him. Became too weak t' carry on. But dead?”

Hagrid shook his head slowly.

“I don’t think he’d go down that easy.” He said.

A shiver ran down Harry’s spine.

“And I—I defeated him? How? And why did he kill my parents?”

Hagrid let out a long sigh. The kind of sigh someone gives when they know that question is coming... but would give anything not to have to answer it.

“Yer parents... they were extraordinary people. Very brave, yeh know? They fought against evil—against You-Know-Who fer a while. He hated anyone who stood up t' him. No one knows exactly why he chose yeh, but... he wanted t' wipe out yer whole family. Tried t' kill yeh too, but he couldn’t. No one understands why he wanted t' do it, or what happened t' him after—I mean, they found his robes in yer room an' his wand too, but nothin' else.”

“So that’s why everyone looks at me so strangely?” Harry asked, his voice quieter now, as he noticed some wizards around them casting curious glances his way. “Because they think I... I defeated him?”

Hagrid nodded slowly, his small, bright eyes showing a mix of pride and sadness.

“Yeah. When the wizardin' world found out he’d been defeated, it was like a huge weight had been lifted off everyone. Celebrations everywhere, fireworks, pubs givin' out free drinks an' the like. An' then, when they found out it was you who did it an'... well, they started seein' yeh as a sort o' symbol o' hope.”

“Is that why I have this scar? Because he tried to kill me?” Harry pointed to it.

Hagrid nodded slowly.

“Yeh didn’t have it before, but after everythin' that happened, it appeared,” Hagrid confirmed. “So yeah, I reckon it’s got somethin' t' do with it.”

Harry fell silent, trying to process what he’d just heard. It was a lot to take in all at once. He was just Harry, the boy who lived in the cupboard under the stairs... how could he be all that Hagrid said? His thoughts tangled with questions and confused memories.

For a moment, he thought he might be dreaming—this was too much information for one day. He pinched his arm, and it hurt a little.

“It’s not a dream... this really happened,” he thought, still somewhat in shock.

After a few minutes of silence, while Harry now ate his dessert cake—which was incredibly good, despite its destroyed appearance—Hagrid decided to strike up conversation again, lighter this time.

“Yeh know, I can jus' picture yeh lovin' Hogwarts, Harry. There’s not a witch or wizard who doesn’t fall fer that place. It’s magical—literally!” He let out a booming laugh.

Harry smiled, still a little shy.

“Professor McGonagall mentioned there are four houses, but she didn’t really explain how they work. She said it’s about personality... how does that work, exactly?”

Hagrid made a face that conveyed experience on the subject, given how simple it was to explain.

“Ah, that’s easy. Each house has its qualities, see?” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Let me tell yeh about the Ravenclaws. They’re the clever ones, always with their noses in a book. Dedicated, love learnin'... but”—Hagrid gave a conspiratorial look—”Between yeh an' me, some can be a bit stuck-up. Yeh know the type who looks at yeh like they’re the king or queen o' wisdom? Yeah, that’s them.”

Harry laughed.

“I don’t think I’d fit in that house. I’m not clever at all.”

“Nonsense, Harry!” Hagrid retorted, waving one of his massive hands. “Yer clever in yer own way, yeh just need to figure it out. But anyway, if that one doesn’t suit yeh, there are others. Hufflepuff’s another house. Most people think they’re a bunch o' duffers, but—”

“I think I’d fit in there, then,” Harry joked, laughing.

“Nah, yeh’re not a Hufflepuff, yeh’re no duffer! I’d know if yeh were!” Hagrid said with conviction. “They’re good folk, always on the right side, but not as sharp as the Ravenclaws or as brave as the Gryffindors. Still, they’re the kind o' people yeh’d want as friends, for sure... unlike the Slytherins.”

Harry straightened in his chair.

“So Slytherins aren’t nice?”

Hagrid drummed his fingers on the table, his face growing more serious.

“Well, not all Slytherins are bad, but I’ll be honest: the house has a reputation. They value ambition and know how to get what they want, but sometimes... well, sometimes that means steppin' on others. An' that’s why so many dark wizards came from there. It’s like a magnet for trouble, that house.”

Harry swallowed hard. He was sure he didn’t want to end up in Slytherin.

“What about Gryffindor?” he asked eagerly. “Professor McGonagall said she was part of it. What’s special about them?”

Hagrid’s face lit up with a proud smile.

“Ah, Gryffindor. Good people, Harry. Brave, loyal, always ready to help. Fun, too.” He paused, his gaze softening. “Yer parents were Gryffindors, yeh know? Both of 'em. An' they were amazin' wizards.”

Harry felt a comforting warmth spread through his chest. If he hadn’t already known which house he wanted, now there was no doubt.

“And how do I get into it?”

“That’s the Sortin' Hat’s job,” Hagrid explained. “On the first day, yeh put on the hat, an' it takes a look at who yeh are—inside, I mean. What yeh value, what’s in yer heart. It knows where yeh fit best. But, if yeh want me opinion, Harry, I bet yeh’ll be a Gryffindor. It’s in yer blood.”

Hagrid gave him a proud smile, and Harry couldn’t help but feel a little more confident. If his parents had been Gryffindors, he’d do everything to follow in their footsteps.

They continued talking about the castle, the towers, the dungeons, the ghosts... until Hagrid started talking about what lay beyond Hogwarts’ walls.

“I’ve always found the Forbidden Forest quite fascinatin', if yeh know how to handle it, o' course.”

“Forbidden Forest?” Harry repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Ah, yes,” Hagrid replied, his eyes gleaming. “I’m there to keep students from gettin' into trouble. But there are incredible creatures in there. Just never go in without permission!”

“If it’s called forbidden,” Harry thought, “why on earth would I have a reason to go in, and I really wouldn’t go without permission?”

As they talked, the thought of facing the Dursleys still weighed on Harry, but he was so absorbed in the conversation with Hagrid that, for a few moments, he managed to push that dark cloud away.

“But, Hagrid, dragons... aren’t they dangerous? I mean, they breathe fire, have sharp teeth, and are huge, right?”

“Ah, yes, huge they are!” Hagrid said with a grin from ear to ear, his eyes shining as if he were talking about old friends. “Breathe fire, have sharp teeth... all true. But, Harry, dragons are misunderstood creatures! They’re fascinatin', fantastic, I tell yeh! Yeh just need to know how to handle 'em. Now, of course, if yeh don’t know what yer doin'... well, that can be a problem.”

Hagrid shook his head, as if recalling some personal experience.

“I’ve always wanted a dragon. In fact, when I was little, I dreamed o' havin' one to take care o'. Who knows, maybe one day, eh?” He winked at Harry conspiratorially.

“Have you ever—have you ever seen a dragon up close?” Harry asked, surprised.

“Back in my school days, I saw a baby dragon once. Beautiful thing, with scales shinin' like silver. Of course, it grew too fast, the little blighter. Got too big to keep around, so they sent it back to a reserve.”

“I don’t think I’d have the courage to get close to one,” Harry admitted honestly.

“I reckon yeh would,” Hagrid replied confidently. “Yeh’ve got plenty o’ courage, Harry. Yeh just need t’ learn how t’ talk t’ ’em, how t’ understand their needs. They can be fierce, but they can also be loyal when yeh earn their trust. A bit like some people, I suppose.”

“Are there people who talk to dragons?”

Hagrid shook his head.

“Not in the way yer thinkin'. Yeh can talk to one jus' like yeh would a cat, an' it'll understand yeh, but tha's 'bout it.”

“And has anyone ever tamed one?”

“Oh no,” Hagrid said, shaking his head and taking another sip from his tankard. “Definitely not. They're creatures that can't be tamed like others. They're wild by nature, yeh see? They don' bow to any wizard willingly.”

How Hagrid intended to have a dragon if they couldn’t be tamed, Harry had no idea, but he didn’t press the matter.

The conversation went back and forth, with Hagrid alternating between funny and fascinating stories about what he’d seen in the forest, each one more extraordinary than the last.

“Ah, and the unicorns,” Hagrid began, his eyes gleaming.

“Unicorns?” Harry repeated, incredulous and surprised. “So they really exist?”

“Oh, yeah, majestic creatures, white as snow, with a sorta silvery glow. They're so pure, Harry, that jus' bein' near 'em makes ya feel... different. Lighter, in a way.”

“Are there unicorns at Hogwarts? Will we get to see them?” Harry adjusted in his chair with anticipation.

“I doubt yeh’ll see one normally, ‘less they wanna be seen,” Hagrid replied, dampening his excitement. “They live deep in the heart o’ the Forbidden Forest, an’ they’re right shy. I’ve only seen 'em up close once, when I was helpin’ heal one that got itself hurt in a thornbush. Poor thing was limpin’, but it accepted me help. Luckily, I had some dittany with me an’ helped the poor bloke.”

Hagrid also talked about the centaurs, protectors of the forest who don’t like mixing with wizards, hippogriffs that are incredibly friendly if you treat them with respect, and so on.

Despite everything, Harry’s mind kept returning to one specific thought:

“What if the Dursleys don’t let me keep Hedwig?”

Finally, McGonagall reappeared, her expression stern, but her eyes showed a slight softness as she saw Harry chatting animatedly with Hagrid.

“Sorry for the delay,” she said, giving Hagrid a brief glance, who simply smiled as if he knew he’d distracted the boy enough. “I believe it’s time for you to return to your aunt and uncle.”

The mention of going back made Harry’s stomach clench, and he visibly deflated.

“I—I can take Hedwig with me, right?” he asked hesitantly, looking at the cage as if it were his only safe haven.

McGonagall was silent for a moment, considering.

“Technically, you must follow the rules of your aunt and uncle’s house, Harry,” she said practically. “But Hedwig is your companion now. She’s not just an owl; she’s a link to your new world. I’m sure if we explain things properly to them, she’ll be able to stay with you.”

Hagrid nodded. “If that Dursley makes too much of a fuss, send me an owl. I’ll come over an’ have a word with ’im meself. Then we’ll see what ’e’s got to say!”

Hagrid laughed, but there was a touch of seriousness in his voice.

McGonagall didn’t laugh at the joke, but she didn’t make any disapproving comments either.

The Apparition was more bearable this time, but Harry still felt that slight numbness as his feet touched the ground. He stumbled slightly but managed to stay upright, blinking to adjust to the familiar scene before him. They were back on Privet Drive, almost in front of number 4, the Dursleys’ house. The weight of reality crashed over him like a cold wave.

Since Harry had eaten lunch, he felt a slight urge to vomit upon being teleported, but he managed to hold it in.

His stomach churned with nerves. His heart beat faster as his eyes fixed on the front door of the house. What awaited him inside? Dark thoughts filled his mind. He wondered if he’d eaten enough to endure the time he’d likely spend being punished for the events of that morning.

And Hedwig? At least she had the food he’d saved in his pocket.

But the worst-case scenario wasn’t just hunger. Harry knew the consequences could be much more severe. He’d thrown his uncle Vernon against the wall, and now the man certainly wouldn’t let him off lightly.

McGonagall, noticing the fear in his eyes, spoke up.

“Don’t worry, Mr Potter, I was delayed for a reason,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I want you to know, if they harm you in any way—even the slightest bit, anything that bothers or threatens you—don’t hesitate to call for me.”

Harry looked at her, uncertain. “But how do I do that?”

McGonagall pulled a small bronze coin from her pocket, resembling a Galleon.

“Hold this coin and say my name: Minerva McGonagall. I’ll come to you without delay. Understood?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. And remember, this is a secret. Don’t tell anyone; keep it to yourself, all right?”

“Understood.” He tucked the object into his pocket, feeling the slight weight of the coin against the fabric of his trousers. Somehow, it gave him a small sense of security.

McGonagall knocked on the door. It didn’t take long for it to open, revealing the petrified faces of Petunia and Vernon.

The terror in their eyes was evident.

Vernon, in particular, looked paler than usual, his eyes wide as he saw McGonagall and Hagrid standing beside Harry.

“Hello again,” said McGonagall, her voice cold and sharp. “I’ve brought your nephew, as agreed.”

“O-of course...” stammered Vernon, his voice almost disappearing.

Harry noticed the tremor in his uncle’s voice and wondered if McGonagall had said something to them earlier when she’d returned alone to handle her business.

Whatever it was, it had worked.

McGonagall then turned to Harry, her expression softening as she looked at the boy. But she maintained a professional demeanour.

“This is where Hagrid and I bid you farewell, Mr. Potter.”

Harry’s heart sank. The magical day he’d just experienced was coming to an end, and the grim reality of the Dursleys awaited him once more. He knew it wouldn’t be for long, but the return was still bitter.

“Don’ be sad, Harry, we’ll see each other again soon, won’ we?” Hagrid gave a friendly wink.

Harry smiled, despite the lump in his throat.

“Yes, Hagrid.”

“Good. Then we’ll see yeh at Hogwarts. Happy birthday again!” said Hagrid with a broad smile.

“It was lovely to see you, Mr Potter. Don’t forget to study a bit of the Transfiguration book, all right?” McGonagall added, already saying her goodbyes.

Harry nodded. “Definitely, Professor. And thank you... for everything.”

McGonagall turned back to the Dursleys, her expression now stern and imposing once more.

“Harry, you may go to your new room. All right?” Her voice carried a strange satisfaction, almost as if she wanted to give the boy a small victory.

“I have a room? Not—not the cupboard?”

She pressed her lips together, remembering that detail.

“No, Mr Potter. From what I understand, your new room is ready.” She said with a pointed look at Petunia, staring her down. “It’s your cousin’s second bedroom. I need to have a final word with your aunt and uncle before I leave. So this is where we part ways.”

Harry’s heart leapt with relief.

“All right. It was nice meeting you. See you later!” He said goodbye with more cheer in his voice.

As he climbed the stairs, Harry noticed Vernon’s hard expression as he saw Hedwig, but the man didn’t say a word. Harry guessed that fear still outweighed his uncle’s hatred for animals.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he heard, even if muffled, the conversation happening at the front door. Hedwig, who had been softly hooting, also fell silent, as if wanting to listen.

“I hope I don’t have to come back here,” said McGonagall, her voice cutting. “If Harry feels even the slightest bit bothered by any barbaric behaviour on your part, I will return. And next time, I won’t be so polite. I’m being courteous out of respect for your sister, Mrs Dursley, something you seem to lack. Am I clear?”

“Y-yes,” Petunia replied, her voice trembling.

“Good. Remember to take him to King’s Cross Station, Platform 9¾, before 11:00 in the morning. And don’t be late. Goodbye.”

And then he heard the door close, signalling his cue to inspect his new room.

Harry allowed himself a small smile. Perhaps, for the first time, he felt that things might change after all.

Harry’s new room, formerly Dudley’s second bedroom, was small and modest. A simple bed against the wall, a worn wardrobe, and an old desk. In the corner, a dusty trunk held broken toys and books that clearly had never been touched by his cousin.

It wasn’t much, but compared to the old cupboard under the stairs, it felt like a palace.

Harry let out a relieved sigh. It was a big step forward, even if temporary. It was only a month until Hogwarts, and this room would be his refuge until then. He knelt beside his trunk and pulled out his wand—the most precious thing he owned now. Though he couldn’t use it yet, just holding the polished handle and feeling the subtle energy it emitted made him feel safer. Without a second thought, he searched for a place to hide it and found a spot carefully behind the wardrobe, where Vernon would never find it.

Books, cauldrons, and uniforms could be replaced, but his wand was unique, and he wouldn’t take any risks.

Hedwig, in her cage, hooted softly, shifting from side to side, clearly impatient at being confined.

“Easy, girl. I’ll let you out in a moment,” Harry said gently, walking over to the window.

He opened the window and the cage, allowing the cool night breeze to fill the room. Hedwig hopped onto Harry’s arm with a light flutter of wings, and he felt the unexpected weight of the owl. She was heavier than he’d imagined, but he didn’t comment—he didn’t want to offend her.

With a smile, he offered her a treat, which she promptly accepted. As he stroked her soft feathers, Hedwig responded with gentle nibbles on his fingers and even his ear, drawing soft laughter from Harry.

“I know what it’s like to be locked up,” he said quietly. “I won’t leave you like that.”

With a gentle motion, he extended his arm toward the window. Hedwig hesitated for a moment, feeling the evening breeze, and then gracefully flew off into the horizon.

He’d barely had time to settle in when he heard the faint creak of the door. His aunt, Petunia, entered the room. Harry’s heart skipped a beat, and he turned slowly, feeling a chill down his spine. Petunia looked nervous, her face tense and unable to meet her nephew’s eyes.

She cleared her throat before speaking.

“I just came to inform you,” she began in a distant tone, “that, starting today, until your... departure for school,” she said with disdain, “you no longer need to clean the house or worry about breakfast. I’ll call you when meals are ready.”

Harry nodded, surprised by the sudden change in tone.

“All right,” he replied calmly.

Petunia didn’t wait any longer. With one last nervous glance, she closed the door, leaving Harry alone again in the silence of the room.

“Could’ve been worse,” he murmured to himself, turning his attention to the trunk with his new books. He picked up the Transfiguration book, flipping through its pages for the first time.

The following days at the Dursleys’ house were, to Harry’s surprise, strangely peaceful. Not that his life there was a bed of roses, but there was something different in the air—and this time, it wasn’t a bad omen.

Except for the occasion when Dudley, upon spotting Hedwig for the first time, decided it would be a brilliant idea to throw his pet turtle out the window as a form of protest. Harry, without saying a word, picked up the poor creature and discreetly took it to a hole in the fence that led to the park near the house. There, he carefully placed it, hoping that—far from Dudley’s clutches—it would at least have a chance to survive.

Each morning, he was woken by soft knocks on the door. When he went downstairs for breakfast, a plate of scrambled eggs awaited him, which was a feast compared to the bread and water he was used to.

Meals still unfolded with an air of indifference, as if Harry were a ghostly figure no one dared to confront. The elephant in the room—the supernatural events and veiled threats—was never mentioned, and Harry, for his part, took advantage of the temporary peace.

He knew it wouldn’t last forever, but for now, he was content.

His only true friend—Hedwig—also seemed to enjoy the calm. Harry let her fly freely through the bedroom window, caring for her with dedication.

When he wasn’t secluded in his refuge, Harry ventured into the garden, enjoying the fresh air. It was a modest space, with neatly trimmed grass and a small shed where gardening tools were stored.

Sitting on a wooden bench, Harry lost himself in his new books, absorbing everything he could.

Charms was, without a doubt, the subject that intrigued him the most. It seemed to be one of the most straightforward disciplines—simple, yet no less difficult and incredibly useful. After all, it was the foundation for almost everything in the wizarding world, from making objects levitate to conjuring fire with a simple flick of a wand.

“Even though I nearly set Ollivander’s shop on fire...” Harry thought gloomily.

Potions, on the other hand, seemed like a distant cousin of cooking—mixing ingredients, following precise instructions, waiting for reactions. But unlike the Dursleys’ kitchen, where the slightest mistake resulted in grumbles and critical looks from his aunt and uncle, here no one would scold him if a potion went slightly wrong... or so he hoped.

“Nothing could be worse than Uncle Vernon complaining about the lunch steak...” he muttered, glancing through the window into the living room, where his uncle was watching a football match, his mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust.

But not everything was so exciting.

Transfiguration, which Professor McGonagall had presented with such enthusiasm, seemed like an indecipherable enigma. The book was full of complex explanations, formulas, and rules that confused him more than they helped. After a few frustrating attempts to understand the concepts, Harry ended up pushing the volume to the corner of his desk, promising himself he’d try again... later.

History of Magic was a complete disappointment. At first, Harry thought he’d learn about thrilling wizarding wars and legendary figures like Uric the Oddball. But after a few pages filled with lifeless dates and facts, he realised the book was practically a bound sleeping potion. With a yawn, he closed the volume and decided he’d only open it again in case of extreme necessity.

The same happened with Herbology and Astronomy. Though he was curious about what the classes would be like, the tedious and technical descriptions made him feel as if he were watching grass grow... or staring at stars, waiting uselessly for something exciting to happen.

The days passed quickly. Between reading and frustrating attempts to practice his handwriting with a quill and ink—a suggestion from McGonagall that turned out to be much harder than he’d imagined—Harry kept himself busy.

His first attempts were disastrous, with ink smudges all over the parchment and fingers stained black. But little by little, he got the hang of it, managing to write without turning the paper into a chaotic blot. With luck, he wouldn’t embarrass himself when it came time to actually use a quill for note-taking.

And so, the days of strange tranquillity dragged on.

Then, that morning, there were three loud knocks on his bedroom door, making it shake.

It wasn’t Aunt Petunia.