The moment Harry stepped fully into the Leaky Cauldron, conversation died like someone had cast a silencing charm over the entire establishment.
Every face turned toward him with the synchronized precision of sunflowers following the sun, and Harry felt the weight of dozens of stares settling on his shoulders like an invisible cloak. The silence stretched for several heartbeats, thick with anticipation and something that felt dangerously close to reverence.
Then someone whispered, "Blimey. Is that—? It can't be—"
"Harry Potter," breathed a witch near the bar, her voice carrying the kind of awe usually reserved for religious experiences or particularly impressive magic tricks.
And suddenly the silence shattered like a dropped crystal.
The pub erupted into motion. Chairs scraped against floor, glasses clinked as they were hastily set down, and what seemed like half the establishment surged toward Harry with the enthusiasm of fans spotting their favorite celebrity at a coffee shop.
"Mr. Potter! Harry Potter!"
"Can't believe it's really you!"
"Been wondering when you'd show up in our world proper!"
A wizard with a purple top hat shouldered through the crowd, his hand extended and his face split by a grin that suggested Christmas had arrived early. "Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter! Can't tell you how honored I am to meet you! Read about you in *Witch Weekly* just last month—article about famous wizards we never see in public. And here you are!"
Harry found his hand being pumped with the vigor of someone operating a well handle, while his enhanced memory frantically cross-referenced faces and names from the books. Doris Crockford—he remembered her from the original scene, though she seemed considerably more enthusiastic in person than she had on the page.
"Please to meet you," Harry managed, trying to project the kind of polite interest that wouldn't encourage more invasive questions while not seeming rude to people who were clearly excited to meet him.
But politeness, it turned out, was interpreted as encouragement.
"Dedalus Diggle," announced a small man in a violet top hat, practically bouncing on his toes as he waited his turn. "We've met before, of course, though you wouldn't remember—you were barely more than a baby then. Bowed to you once in a shop in Tottenham Court Road. Always knew you were special, even then!"
Harry shook his hand, filing away the information while trying to process the surreal experience of being treated like some sort of celebrity for something he'd done as an infant and couldn't remember. It was flattering and overwhelming in equal measure.
"Bartender wants to buy you a drink!" called Tom the barman from behind the bar, raising a glass in salute. "On the house for the famous Harry Potter!"
"That's very kind," Harry said, raising his voice to carry across the increasingly excited crowd, "but I'm only eleven. Probably a bit young for whatever you're serving."
This caused a ripple of laughter through the crowd, the kind of indulgent chuckling that suggested they found his adherence to drinking age laws charmingly naive.
"Butterbeer then!" called someone from the back. "Can't go wrong with butterbeer!"
"Got some lovely pumpkin juice!" added another voice.
Harry felt a gentle but insistent hand on his shoulder and looked up to find Hagrid carefully positioning himself between Harry and the increasingly enthusiastic crowd.
"Now, now," Hagrid said with good-natured authority, his massive presence causing the crowd to take an automatic step back. "Give the lad some breathing room, eh? First time in Diagon Alley, this is. Plenty of time for introductions after he's got his school supplies sorted."
But the crowd wasn't ready to disperse quite yet. A witch with elaborate silver hair swept forward, her robes rustling with the kind of theatrical drama that suggested she'd practiced the movement.
"Madam Rosmerta," she announced, offering Harry a curtsy that belonged in a historical drama. "I run the Three Broomsticks up in Hogsmeade. You simply must visit once you're at Hogwarts—we'd be honored to serve the Boy Who Lived!"
"I'll keep that in mind," Harry said, wondering exactly how many people knew his schedule better than he did.
More hands reached out to shake his, more names were announced with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and Harry found himself caught in what felt like a receiving line at a wedding he hadn't known he was attending.
Then, cutting through the general excitement like a cold knife, came a voice that made Harry's enhanced memory snap to attention with the force of a bear trap.
"P-P-Potter? C-could it really be?"
The crowd parted to reveal a pale young man in a purple turban, his hands clasped nervously in front of him and his entire demeanor radiating the kind of anxious energy that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else in the world. He moved through the crowd with quick, jerky steps, like a bird that expected to be chased away at any moment.
Harry felt every muscle in his body tense as recognition crashed over him like a wave of ice water.
Professor Quirinus Quirrell. Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts. Stuttering, nervous wreck of a man who jumped at his own shadow.
And currently serving as a living host to Lord Voldemort, who was literally attached to the back of his head beneath that innocent-looking turban.
Harry's enhanced memory provided perfect recall of every detail: how Quirrell had been possessed after encountering Voldemort in the Albanian forests, how he'd spent the entire school year trying to steal the Philosopher's Stone, how he'd nearly killed Harry in the end before being destroyed by his mother's protective magic.
And here he was, standing three feet away, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.
"Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid boomed cheerfully, apparently delighted to see a familiar face. "Didn't expect to run into you here! Harry, this is Professor Quirrell—he'll be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts this year."
"Oh, h-how wonderful to meet you, Mr. P-Potter," Quirrell stammered, extending a trembling hand that Harry had absolutely no choice but to shake, despite every instinct screaming warnings. "Such an honor! I've read so much about you, of course. The Boy Who Lived! Quite f-famous, you are."
The moment their hands touched, Harry felt it—a cold that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the presence of something fundamentally wrong. It lasted only a second before Quirrell quickly pulled his hand away, but it was enough to confirm what Harry's enhanced memory already knew.
Voldemort was right there, inches away, hidden beneath a purple turban and a stammering performance worthy of a theatrical award.
"Nice to meet you, Professor," Harry managed, his voice steady despite the adrenaline now flooding his system. "I look forward to your classes."
"Oh yes, well, we'll be c-covering very basic material, of course," Quirrell said, his nervous laugh sounding genuinely anxious rather than performed. "Nothing too advanced for f-first years. Wouldn't want anyone to get hurt, after all. Very important to stay s-safe when dealing with Dark creatures and such."
*How ironic,* Harry thought, watching Quirrell's nervous fidgeting with new understanding. *Safety advice from someone who's literally carrying the darkest wizard in history on the back of his head.*
"What sort of Dark creatures?" Harry asked, genuinely curious to see how Quirrell would handle the question.
"Oh, well, there are many d-dangerous things in the world," Quirrell said, his stutter becoming more pronounced. "Vampires, werewolves, dark wizards who—" He caught himself, his pale face going even paler. "But we won't be dealing with anything too f-frightening in first year, of course! Just theory, mostly. Very safe theory."
"Professor Quirrell's being modest," Hagrid interjected. "Brilliant man, he is. Knows more about the Dark Arts than most Aurors, I'd wager. Where was it you encountered those vampires again? Romania?"
"Albania," Quirrell corrected quickly, then looked like he wished he hadn't spoken. "But really, it was nothing dramatic. Just a bit of field research. Academic interest only, you understand."
*Albania.* Where he'd encountered Voldemort. Harry filed that confirmation away along with everything else, maintaining his expression of polite interest while his mind raced through implications.
"Sounds fascinating," Harry said. "I'm sure your classes will be very educational."
"Oh, I do hope so," Quirrell said, wringing his hands. "Though I must say, teaching is quite different from field research. Much more... challenging in its own way. So many young minds to shape, so much responsibility..."
He trailed off, his nervous energy making him shift from foot to foot like someone standing on hot coals. Harry couldn't help but wonder how much of the nervousness was genuine—certainly having Voldemort attached to your head would be stressful for anyone—and how much was carefully crafted performance.
"Well," Hagrid said cheerfully, apparently oblivious to any undercurrents of tension, "I'm sure you'll do fine, Professor. Harry here's got quite a bit of natural talent, from what I can tell. Should make your job easier."
"Oh yes, I'm sure Mr. Potter will be an excellent student," Quirrell said, his pale eyes fixed on Harry with an intensity that didn't match his stammering demeanor. "Such potential. Such... interesting possibilities."
There was something in his tone that made Harry's skin crawl, though he doubted anyone else caught it. To the casual observer, it probably sounded like a teacher expressing enthusiasm for a promising student. But Harry could hear the undercurrent of something else—calculation, perhaps, or hunger.
*He knows,* Harry realized. *Voldemort knows exactly who I am and what I represent. This whole encounter isn't coincidence.*
## Entering Diagon Alley 2021
After extricating themselves from the crowd and Quirrell's unsettling attention, Hagrid led Harry to the back of the pub, to a small, enclosed courtyard surrounded by brick walls that looked old enough to have been built by the Romans.
"Here we are," Hagrid said, pulling out his pink umbrella with the air of someone about to perform a particularly impressive magic trick. "Now, pay attention, Harry—you'll need to remember this for next time."
He approached what appeared to be a completely ordinary brick wall and began tapping specific bricks with the tip of his umbrella, counting under his breath.
"Three up... two across... right, there we go."
The brick he'd tapped wiggled slightly, as if it had suddenly remembered it wasn't supposed to be solid. Then it began to move, sliding inward and creating a small hole that rapidly expanded as the surrounding bricks rearranged themselves with the fluid grace of a puzzle solving itself.
Within seconds, what had been a solid brick wall had transformed into an archway large enough for several people to walk through side by side. And beyond that archway...
Harry's enhanced memory had prepared him for Diagon Alley. He'd read the descriptions, visualized the scenes, could recall every detail of how the magical shopping district had been brought to life on the page.
None of that had prepared him for the reality of Diagon Alley 2021.
The alley stretched out before them like something from a dream that had decided to take up permanent residence in the waking world. Cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic curved away in a gentle arc, lined on both sides by shops that looked like they'd been designed by architects who'd thrown conventional wisdom out the window and decided to embrace pure imagination instead.
Buildings leaned against each other at impossible angles, their upper stories jutting out over the street in ways that defied gravity and probably several building codes. Signs hung from ornate brackets, some of them moving, others glowing with their own internal light, and a few that seemed to be having animated conversations with passersby.
But it was the differences from what Harry had expected that caught his attention most sharply.
This wasn't the Diagon Alley of 1991 that he'd read about. This was 2021, and thirty years of magical progress were evident everywhere he looked.
Street lamps that had once held simple magical flames now contained what appeared to be captured starlight, casting a warm, steady glow that adjusted its intensity automatically based on the ambient light. Shop windows that had once relied on static displays now featured moving advertisements that beckoned to potential customers with the enthusiasm of carnival barkers.
A sign for "Whizzing Worms" writhed and twisted in the window of the magical joke shop, while across the street, the display at "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions" featured robes that modeled themselves, strutting and posing for the benefit of window shoppers.
But perhaps most notably, there were people everywhere.
The Diagon Alley of the books had always seemed pleasantly busy but manageable. This version was absolutely teeming with activity. Witches and wizards of all ages moved through the street in streams that flowed around each other with the practiced efficiency of people who'd learned to navigate crowds. Children darted between adult legs with the fearless confidence of youth, while elderly wizards moved at more sedate paces, often pausing to examine shop displays or greet friends.
"Blimey," Harry breathed, stepping through the archway onto the cobblestones. "It's... there are so many people."
"Oh aye, it's gotten busier over the years," Hagrid said, following him through and carefully avoiding several small children who were playing what appeared to be a magical version of tag. "Wizarding population's been growing, and more people means more shopping. Plus, they've opened up some new shops in the past few years—specialty places that draw customers from all over Europe."
Harry looked around with wondering eyes, his enhanced memory automatically cataloging the differences. There was Ollivanders, looking exactly as ancient and mysterious as he'd expected. Flourish and Blotts appeared to have expanded, its windows now featuring what looked like interactive book displays where characters from various texts were acting out scenes for potential readers.
But there were also shops he didn't recognize. "Magician's Mobile Networks" proudly advertised "Enchanted Communication for the Modern Wizard," while "Potters & Paraphernalia" seemed to specialize in magical home goods that updated themselves according to the latest trends.
"Is that—" Harry pointed to a shop whose sign read "Digital Divination: Scrying for the 21st Century." "Do wizards have computers now?"
Hagrid chuckled, his beard rustling in the warm summer breeze. "Not computers exactly, but something like them. Magical innovation, that is. Some of the younger wizards have been experimenting with combining magic and Muggle technology. Results are... interesting, though not always practical."
They began walking down the alley, Harry's head swiveling back and forth as he tried to take in everything at once. The sounds were as fascinating as the sights—conversations in dozens of languages (some of which didn't sound entirely human), the calls of shop owners advertising their wares, and underlying it all, a kind of harmonic hum that Harry gradually realized was the sound of magic itself, the combined effect of hundreds of spells operating simultaneously.
"Where should we start?" Harry asked, though his enhanced memory already knew the traditional first stop.
"First stop, Gringotts," Hagrid announced, gesturing toward the end of the alley where a gleaming white building rose above the surrounding shops like a marble monument to financial security.
But as they approached, Harry realized that this wasn't quite the Gringotts he remembered from the books.
The basic structure was the same—white marble, imposing columns, bronze doors—but the differences were immediately apparent. What had once been a relatively modest bank building had been expanded and modernized in ways that somehow managed to maintain its classical dignity while embracing thoroughly contemporary efficiency.
The bronze doors, while still bearing the famous warning poem, now opened automatically with a soft *whoosh* of magically conditioned air. Inside, the marble hall stretched even higher than Harry had imagined, but it was the technology that caught his attention.
Floating crystal displays showed current exchange rates between wizard and Muggle currencies, updating in real-time. Queue management systems that looked like a cross between airport check-in and magical innovation directed customers to appropriate service areas. And behind the long counter, goblins worked with what appeared to be a combination of traditional ledgers and devices that could only be described as magical computers.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Hagrid said, noting Harry's wide-eyed expression. "Goblins have always been good with innovation. While wizards were debating whether indoor plumbing was too Muggle-influenced, goblins were already figuring out how to improve their security systems and customer service."
A goblin behind the nearest counter looked up from what appeared to be a crystal tablet displaying scrolling financial data. Unlike the wizards in Diagon Alley, who seemed to view technological progress with suspicion, this goblin was clearly comfortable with the blend of magic and efficiency.
"Next in line," the goblin called in a crisp, professional tone that carried across the marble hall.
"That's us," Hagrid said, approaching the counter with Harry in tow. "Good morning. Harry Potter needs to access his vault."
The goblin's expression didn't change, but Harry caught the slight widening of his dark eyes. "Harry Potter. Yes, of course. I'll need some form of identification."
Harry blinked. "I... don't have any identification. The Dursleys never got me a passport or anything like that."
The goblin nodded as if this was perfectly normal. "Standard procedure for wizard-raised children who've been living in the Muggle world. We'll use magical verification instead." He pulled out what looked like a crystal wand connected to his desk by a thin silver chain. "May I?"
At Harry's nod, the goblin pointed the device at him. It hummed softly for a moment, then projected a soft green light.
"Harry James Potter," the goblin read from his screen. "Born 31 July 2010. Parents: James Potter and Lily Potter née Evans, deceased. Magical guardian: Albus Dumbledore. Current muggle guardians: Vernon and Petunia Dursley." He looked up. "Everything appears to be in order. I'm Griphook, and I'll be handling your account today."
"Thank you," Harry said, filing away the efficiency of the magical ID system. "I need to withdraw some money for school supplies."
"Of course. First year at Hogwarts?" At Harry's nod, Griphook made a note on his crystal tablet. "Standard school shopping allowance should be sufficient. Shall we say... two hundred Galleons?"
Harry had no frame of reference for whether that was reasonable, but Hagrid nodded approvingly.
"That should cover everything nicely," Hagrid confirmed. "Books, robes, cauldron, wand, maybe a bit extra for odds and ends."
"Excellent. This way, please."
Griphook led them away from the main counter area toward what appeared to be a bank of lifts—though these were clearly not standard Muggle elevators. The doors were carved with intricate patterns that seemed to move when Harry wasn't looking directly at them, and instead of buttons, there was a crystal panel that Griphook touched with one long finger.
"The vault levels have been redesigned over the past decade," Griphook explained as they waited. "Much more efficient than the old cart system, though we still maintain those for customers who prefer the traditional experience."
"Cart system?" Harry asked.
"Oh, you'd have loved it," Hagrid chuckled. "Wild ride through tunnels that went down for miles, twisting and turning like a roller coaster built by someone with a twisted sense of humor. Quite thrilling, but took forever to get anywhere."
The lift doors opened with a soft chime, revealing an interior that was larger than the exterior suggested—another casual application of magic that Harry was beginning to realize was commonplace in the wizarding world.
"Vault 687," Griphook said to the lift, which hummed acknowledgment and began to descend with smooth efficiency.
As they traveled down, Harry could see through the transparent walls that they were passing level after level of vaults, each one protected by multiple layers of security that ranged from the traditional (enormous locks, magical seals) to the cutting-edge (what appeared to be magical scanners and crystalline barrier systems).
"Impressive security," Harry observed.
"The finest in the wizarding world," Griphook said with unmistakable pride. "We've had exactly zero successful vault robberies in over a thousand years of operation. Some have tried, of course, but..." He smiled, showing sharp teeth. "Our security measures are quite thorough."
The lift slowed and stopped at what appeared to be a mid-level floor—not the deepest vaults, Harry noted, but certainly well-protected. The doors opened onto a corridor lined with vault doors that looked like they could withstand a direct hit from a dragon.
"Vault 687," Griphook announced, stopping in front of a door that was distinguished from its neighbors by the elaborate Potter family crest carved into the bronze. "Your key, if you please."
"Key?" Harry looked at Hagrid, who was patting his pockets with increasing urgency.
"Right, key, of course I've got..." Hagrid's search produced the usual collection of impossible items before finally yielding a small golden key that caught the magical lighting and seemed to glow with its own inner warmth. "Here we are. Dumbledore gave it to me for safekeeping."
Griphook accepted the key and inserted it into the vault door's lock. The mechanism that followed was like watching a complex puzzle solve itself—tumblers turned, magical seals dissolved, and finally the heavy door swung open with a soft *click*.
Harry's first glimpse of his family's wealth left him speechless.
The vault stretched back further than he could see, and every surface that wasn't already covered was piled high with gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts. But it wasn't just the money—there were artifacts, jewelry, books, and items he couldn't begin to identify, all organized with the kind of systematic precision that suggested centuries of careful accumulation.
"This is..." Harry started, then stopped, overwhelmed by the implications.
"Your inheritance," Griphook said matter-of-factly. "The Potter family has been banking with Gringotts for over six centuries. Quite a successful lineage, financially speaking."
Hagrid whistled low. "Knew James came from money, but this is... this is substantial."
Harry stepped into the vault, his enhanced memory providing context that Harry Potter's original memories couldn't. This wasn't just wealth—this was generational security, the kind of financial foundation that meant he'd never have to worry about basic needs, never have to depend on anyone's charity or goodwill for survival.
*The Dursleys kept me in a cupboard,* he thought with something between amazement and anger, *while I had access to more money than they'll see in their entire lives.*
"Take your time," Griphook said. "Though I should mention that our new vault access system does track withdrawal times for security purposes."
"Right, of course." Harry began filling a leather pouch with coins, trying to estimate what two hundred Galleons might look like while simultaneously processing the reality of his financial situation.
As he worked, his eyes fell on something that made him freeze: a section of the vault that contained not just gold, but books, scrolls, and what appeared to be magical artifacts marked with the Potter family crest.
"Griphook," Harry said slowly, "what's in that section over there?"
The goblin followed his gaze. "Family heirloom collection. Books, magical implements, research notes, that sort of thing. Standard for old families—they tend to accumulate knowledge along with wealth."
*Potter family magic,* Harry realized. *Spells, research, maybe even information about things like blood protection and soul magic.*
He filed that information away for future reference. Once he was established at Hogwarts and had a better understanding of how to access his vault independently, he'd definitely be returning to explore that collection more thoroughly.
"Found everything you need?" Hagrid asked, watching as Harry secured the pouch of coins.
"For now," Harry said, taking one last look around the vault. "Though I have a feeling I'll be back."
"Most customers return regularly," Griphook noted, beginning the process of resealing the vault. "Particularly students—education expenses tend to be ongoing."
As they finished securing the vault, Griphook turned to Hagrid with professional courtesy. "Was there anything else you needed assistance with today, Mr. Hagrid?"
Hagrid shifted uncomfortably, his massive frame somehow managing to look sheepish despite taking up most of the corridor. "Well, as a matter of fact..." He reached into his coat with the careful deliberation of someone handling something extremely important and produced a sealed letter bearing the Hogwarts crest. The wax seal glowed with a faint golden light that marked it as official correspondence from the school's headmaster.
"From Professor Dumbledore," Hagrid said, offering the letter to Griphook with visible reluctance. "Official Hogwarts business."
Harry's enhanced memory supplied the context immediately, and he had to work to keep his expression neutral. This was it—Dumbledore's authorization for Hagrid to collect the Philosopher's Stone from the Flamel vault and transport it to Hogwarts, supposedly for safekeeping but really as bait for a trap designed to test Harry's worthiness.
Griphook accepted the letter and broke the seal with practiced efficiency. As he unfolded the parchment, Harry caught a glimpse of Dumbledore's distinctive handwriting—elegant, flowing script that managed to convey authority and warmth simultaneously.
The goblin's expression remained professionally neutral as he read, but Harry noticed the slight tightening around his eyes that suggested the contents were significant.
"Vault 713," Griphook said finally, refolding the letter. "High security. This will require special authorization protocols."
"Is there a problem?" Hagrid asked, his voice carrying a note of anxiety that Harry suspected wasn't entirely feigned. Carrying out secret missions for Dumbledore was probably stressful under the best of circumstances.
"No problem," Griphook assured him, though he was already signaling to another goblin who'd appeared at the far end of the corridor. "Simply procedure. Vault 713 has been under special protection for some time—any access requires dual authorization and enhanced security protocols."
The second goblin approached with quick, efficient steps. He was older than Griphook, his dark suit impeccably tailored and his manner suggesting considerable authority within the bank's hierarchy.
"This is Director Ragnok," Griphook said by way of introduction. "He handles all high-security vault transactions personally."
Director Ragnok examined Dumbledore's letter with the kind of attention usually reserved for legal documents and potentially explosive artifacts. His long fingers traced the edges of the parchment, and Harry caught the faint glow of what was probably authentication magic.
"Everything appears to be in order," Ragnok said finally. "Though I must note that this is the third request for access to vault 713 in the past month. Most unusual for a vault that typically sees activity perhaps once per decade."
Harry's enhanced memory supplied the probable explanation: various parties were already moving pieces into position for whatever game Dumbledore was orchestrating. The Ministry might have been checking on the Stone's security, Voldemort could have been gathering intelligence, or there might have been other players Harry didn't know about yet.
"Dumbledore mentioned there might be increased interest," Hagrid said carefully. "Security concerns and such. Better to move certain items to a more... controlled environment."
"Quite," Ragnok agreed, though his tone suggested he had opinions about wizards who created security headaches for Gringotts. "This way, please. Mr. Potter, you're welcome to accompany us or wait in our customer lounge—this shouldn't take long."
Harry found himself facing an interesting decision. Accompanying them would give him a chance to see the Philosopher's Stone in person and possibly learn more about the security measures surrounding it. On the other hand, it might also put him in closer proximity to whatever protective enchantments Dumbledore and the Flamels had placed on the artifact.
*Besides,* he thought, *showing too much curiosity about vault 713 might raise questions I'm not ready to answer.*
"I'll wait in the lounge," Harry said. "This seems like official business."
"Probably for the best," Hagrid agreed, looking relieved. "Won't be long, I promise. Then we can get on with the proper shopping."
Ragnok gestured to a nearby goblin wearing the blue and silver uniform of customer service. "Gornuk will show you to the lounge. Please help yourself to refreshments—Gringotts prides itself on customer comfort."
As Harry was led away down a different corridor, he caught a glimpse of Hagrid and the two goblins entering a lift that immediately began descending much deeper than the level where his family vault was located. The doors closed with a soft chime that somehow managed to sound ominous.
The customer lounge turned out to be surprisingly comfortable—a spacious room decorated in warm tones that managed to be both elegant and welcoming. Comfortable chairs were arranged in conversation groups, magical paintings on the walls depicted peaceful landscapes that actually moved with gentle breezes, and a sidebar offered an array of refreshments that included several things Harry didn't recognize but which smelled delicious.
*This is definitely different from the Gringotts in the books,* Harry mused, settling into a chair that automatically adjusted to his size and posture. *Customer service wasn't exactly their priority in the original stories.*
He'd just selected what appeared to be a magical equivalent of hot chocolate—the cup was warm to the touch and the liquid inside swirled with tiny, edible stars—when another customer entered the lounge.
It was a witch who appeared to be in her thirties, with short auburn hair and robes that managed to be both practical and stylish. She moved with the confident stride of someone comfortable in their own skin, and when she spotted Harry, her expression shifted to one of polite recognition.
"You're Harry Potter," she said, approaching with a friendly smile. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I wanted to introduce myself. Dr. Miranda Clearwater—I run a private magical healing practice here in London."
"Nice to meet you," Harry said, standing and extending his hand in greeting.
Miranda shook his hand. "Are you starting this year?"
"First year," Harry confirmed. "Just collected some money for school shopping."
"How exciting. And rather overwhelming, I'd imagine—suddenly discovering you're part of a whole world you never knew existed." Miranda's tone was warm but not condescending. "If you don't mind me saying, you seem to be handling it remarkably well."
*If only you knew,* Harry thought wryly. "I've had good guides. Hagrid's been very helpful."
"Hagrid's wonderful—a bit unconventional, perhaps, but he has one of the kindest hearts in the wizarding world." Miranda settled into a nearby chair. "I don't suppose anyone's talked to you about magical health and wellness? It's not typically covered in first-year orientation, but it's rather important."
Harry's interest was piqued. "What do you mean?"
"Well, magic interacts with human physiology in complex ways," Miranda explained, her manner shifting into what was clearly a professional mode. "Most wizard-born children grow up learning to manage their magical development naturally, but Muggle-raised students sometimes need additional support. Accidental magic, emotional regulation, magical exhaustion—there are considerations most people don't think about."
This was information Harry definitely hadn't encountered in the books, and his enhanced memory was already filing it away for future reference. "What kind of support?"
"Oh, nothing dramatic. Simple techniques for managing magical surges, understanding how emotional state affects spellcasting, recognizing the signs of magical burnout." Miranda smiled. "I actually specialize in working with Muggle-raised students—it's something of a professional interest of mine."
"That sounds incredibly useful," Harry said sincerely. "Is it common for Muggle-raised students to have problems?"
"Not problems, exactly, but... adjustments. The magical world has a tendency to assume everyone arrives with the same baseline knowledge, which simply isn't true." Miranda reached into her robes and produced a small card. "My practice information. Feel free to contact me if you ever have questions—no charge for students, it's part of my community service."
Harry accepted the card gratefully. Having access to a magical healthcare professional who understood the unique challenges of Muggle-raised students could prove invaluable, especially given his current situation with the Horcrux and his future plans for dealing with it.
"Thank you," he said. "This is exactly the kind of thing I didn't know I should be thinking about."
"Most people don't," Miranda agreed. "The wizarding world is wonderfully magical, but it's not always great at practical education. We tend to assume magic just sorts itself out, which... well, it usually does, but not always efficiently."
Their conversation was interrupted by the return of Hagrid, who appeared in the lounge doorway looking considerably more relaxed than when he'd left. His mission, whatever exactly it had entailed, had apparently been completed successfully.
"All sorted," he announced cheerfully. "Sorry to keep yeh waiting, Harry. Ready for some proper shopping?"
"Absolutely," Harry said, standing and pocketing Miranda's card. "Dr. Clearwater, thank you for the information. I'll definitely be in touch."
"Please do. And Harry?" Miranda's expression grew slightly more serious. "Take care of yourself. Starting at Hogwarts is exciting, but it's also a significant transition. Don't hesitate to ask for help if you need it."
As they left Gringotts and emerged back onto the bustling cobblestones of Diagon Alley, Harry found himself reflecting on the encounter. In the original stories, Harry had faced his challenges largely alone, with minimal adult support and very little understanding of how magic actually worked on a practical level. Having access to someone like Dr. Clearwater could make a significant difference in how well he navigated the complexities of magical life.
*Plus,* he thought, *if I'm going to be dealing with a Horcrux for the next year, having a magical healthcare professional in my corner might be extremely valuable.*
"Right then," Hagrid said, consulting his mental list. "What shall we tackle first? Robes? Books? Or shall we get the most important bit sorted straightaway?"
"The most important bit?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
Hagrid's grin was answer enough. "Yer wand, of course. Can't do much magic without a proper wand, and Ollivander's is just down the way. Been looking forward to this myself—always interesting to see what wand chooses which wizard."
Harry looked down the alley toward the narrow, shabby shop with the faded gold letters spelling "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C." Even from this distance, he could feel something—a subtle pull, like a compass needle finding magnetic north.
*My wand,* he thought with growing excitement. *Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple. Brother to Voldemort's wand.*
Though given that this was 2021 rather than 1991, he supposed there was always the possibility that things might have changed. Maybe Ollivander had new stock. Maybe the wand that had originally chosen Harry Potter would choose differently this time.
Only one way to find out.
"Let's go get my wand," Harry said, and together they began making their way through the crowd toward the most important purchase of his magical education.
Behind them, if Harry had looked back, he might have caught a glimpse of Director Ragnok watching from a window of Gringotts, his expression thoughtful as he observed the Boy Who Lived walking away with a small wrapped package that hadn't been there when they'd entered the bank.
But Harry was focused on the future, not the past, and the future was waiting for him in a dusty wand shop run by an old man with silver eyes who remembered every wand he'd ever sold.
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Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
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