The shop that had been calling to Harry since he'd first glimpsed it was, quite frankly, a testament to the magical world's complicated relationship with the concept of "maintenance."
Ollivanders looked exactly like what you'd expect from a business that had been operating for over two thousand years and had decided that if something wasn't completely broken, there was no point in fixing it. The faded gold lettering above the door had probably been bright and impressive sometime around the Norman Conquest, and the narrow windows were so dusty that Harry wondered if Mr. Ollivander had to feel his way around by memory.
A single wand lay on a faded purple cushion in the window display, and even through the grimy glass, Harry could feel it radiating the kind of quiet power that suggested it was probably worth more than most people's houses.
"Right then," Hagrid said, his voice carrying the reverence of someone approaching a sacred site. "Here we are. Ollivanders—finest wandmaker in Britain, probably in the world. Every witch and wizard in this country's got one of his wands, and he remembers every single one."
"Every single one?" Harry asked, though his enhanced memory already knew the answer. "How is that even possible?"
"Magic," Hagrid said with the kind of simple certainty that suggested this explained everything. "Plus, I think the man's got a memory like you wouldn't believe. Sharp as a tack, old Ollivander is, even if he does tend to be a bit... intense about his work."
They approached the door, which bore a small sign reading "Please Enter Quietly - Wands Are Sensitive to Disturbance." Harry reached for the handle, noting that it was made of some kind of metal that felt warm to the touch and seemed to hum with contained energy.
The moment they stepped inside, Harry understood why the sign advised quiet entry.
The shop was absolutely packed with thousands upon thousands of narrow boxes, stacked from floor to ceiling with the organized precision of someone who knew exactly where everything was despite appearances suggesting complete chaos. The air itself felt thick with magic—not overwhelming, but present in the way that the ocean was present when you stood on the shore. It was the accumulated magical resonance of countless wands, each one a unique blend of wood and magical core, all of them waiting patiently for the right wizard to claim them.
And it was absolutely, completely silent.
Not just quiet—silent in the way that libraries aspired to be silent, in the way that cathedrals were silent, in the way that places of deep magic had always been silent since the beginning of time.
"Good afternoon," said a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
Harry looked around but saw no one. Hagrid had removed his massive bulk carefully between two precariously balanced stacks of wand boxes, clearly familiar with the shop's layout and the importance of not knocking anything over.
Then, from behind the counter, a man rose like a pale ghost materializing from the shadows.
Mr. Ollivander was exactly as Harry's enhanced memory had prepared him to expect, yet somehow more unsettling in person. He was old—not just elderly, but old in the way that suggested he'd been around long enough to witness history being made and occasionally helped make some of it himself. His hair was white and wispy, his frame thin to the point of being ethereal, and his eyes...
His eyes were silver, and they seemed to see everything. Not just Harry's face, but through it, around it, into places that most people didn't know existed.
"Hagrid," Mr. Ollivander said, and his voice carried warmth that transformed his entire appearance. "How lovely to see you again. Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn't it? Good wand for a man of your... practical interests."
"That's right," Hagrid said, though he sounded slightly nervous. "Still using it, I am. Well, what's left of it."
Ollivander's expression suggested he knew exactly what had happened to Hagrid's wand but was too polite to mention the circumstances. Instead, he turned those penetrating silver eyes toward Harry, and the temperature in the shop seemed to drop several degrees.
"And you," Ollivander said softly, "must be Mr. Potter."
It wasn't a question. Harry had the distinct impression that Ollivander had been expecting him, possibly for years.
"Yes, sir," Harry said, finding his voice smaller than usual in the presence of so much focused attention.
"I wondered when I'd be seeing you, Mr. Potter." Ollivander moved around the counter with the fluid grace of someone who'd spent decades navigating narrow spaces filled with delicate items. "It seems only yesterday that your mother and father were in here buying their first wands. Only yesterday..."
He stopped directly in front of Harry, close enough that Harry could smell the scent of wood polish and something that might have been starlight.
"Your father, now, he favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration." Ollivander's gaze grew distant, as if he was seeing through time itself. "Your mother, on the other hand, preferred willow. Ten and a quarter inches. Swishy. Nice wand for charm work."
"You remember them," Harry said, and it came out as a statement rather than a question.
"I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter." Ollivander's voice carried the weight of absolute truth. "Every single wand. The wood, the core, the length, the flexibility. But more than that—I remember who chose whom. Because you see, Mr. Potter, the wand chooses the wizard. Not the other way around."
He began moving through the shop, his pale hands trailing along the boxes as if he was reading them through touch alone. "Now, let's see... which wand will choose Harry Potter?"
What followed was an experience that Harry's enhanced memory had prepared him for intellectually but which was still surprising in its intensity.
Ollivander would select a wand, hand it to Harry with the kind of ceremonial care usually reserved for religious artifacts, and Harry would give it a tentative wave. The results ranged from "absolutely nothing" to "nearly setting the shop on fire."
"Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Quite flexible." Harry waved it, and a stack of boxes promptly exploded in a shower of cardboard and dust. "No, no, definitely not."
"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Rather rigid." This time, Harry managed to turn a display case into what appeared to be cottage cheese. "Interesting, but wrong."
"Cedar and unicorn hair. Ten inches. Springy." The wand shot silver sparks in all directions, one of which embedded itself in the ceiling where it continued to glow like a tiny star. "Getting warmer, but still not quite right."
The process continued with Ollivander becoming more animated with each failed match, as if Harry's inability to connect with various wands was providing him with valuable diagnostic information. He muttered to himself as he selected each new option, occasionally pausing to examine Harry with those unsettling silver eyes.
"Curious," Ollivander murmured after the fifteenth unsuccessful attempt had resulted in what appeared to be a small tornado in the corner of the shop. "Very curious indeed."
"Is something wrong?" Harry asked, setting down a wand that had tried to turn him into what looked suspiciously like a flowering plant.
"Wrong? Oh no, Mr. Potter. Not wrong. Curious." Ollivander's expression had shifted into something between fascination and scientific excitement. "You see, most wizards find a compatible wand within the first three or four attempts. The magic recognizes magic, so to speak. But you..."
He trailed off, moving deeper into the shop where the boxes were older and covered with more dust.
"You're proving remarkably... selective. Or perhaps," his voice carried a note of growing excitement, "perhaps you're meant for something quite particular."
Ollivander disappeared behind a towering stack of boxes, and Harry could hear him rummaging through storage that sounded like it hadn't been disturbed in years. Hagrid shifted nervously, his massive frame somehow managing to look small in the presence of so much concentrated magical energy.
"Don't worry," Hagrid whispered. "This is normal. Well, mostly normal. Some wizards are just pickier than others."
"Here we are," Ollivander's voice carried from the depths of the shop, followed by the sound of something being carefully extracted from long-term storage. "I wonder..."
He emerged holding a box that was visibly different from the others—older, made of what appeared to be polished mahogany rather than simple cardboard, and bearing brass fittings that had aged to a warm patina. The box itself seemed to hum with contained energy.
"Holly and phoenix feather," Ollivander announced, his voice carrying the kind of reverence usually reserved for discussing legendary artifacts. "Eleven inches. Nice and supple."
He opened the box with ceremonial care, revealing a wand that made every other wand Harry had tried seem like crude imitations. The holly wood seemed to glow with its own inner light, and the moment Ollivander lifted it from its velvet cushion, Harry felt something in his chest respond like a tuning fork struck by a master musician.
"Well, go on," Ollivander said, extending the wand toward Harry. "Take it."
The moment Harry's fingers closed around the holly wood, everything changed.
Warmth spread from his palm up through his arm and throughout his entire body—not heat, but the kind of deep, comfortable warmth that came from coming home after a long journey. The wand felt like it had been made specifically for his hand, perfectly balanced, perfectly weighted, perfectly right.
Almost without conscious thought, Harry raised the wand and gave it a gentle wave.
Golden sparks shot from the tip in a fountain of light that filled the shop with dancing radiance. But these weren't the harsh, chaotic sparks that the failed wands had produced—these were controlled, beautiful, moving in patterns that seemed to respond to Harry's emotional state.
The sparks swirled around the shop, touching damaged displays and instantly repairing them, settling the dust that had been stirred up by previous magical mishaps, and finally fading into a gentle golden glow that lingered in the air like morning sunlight.
The silence that followed was profound.
"Oh, bravo!" Ollivander exclaimed, clapping his hands together with genuine delight. "Yes, indeed. Oh, very good. Very good indeed."
"It's perfect," Harry breathed, staring at the wand in his hand with something approaching awe. "It feels like... like it's part of me."
"As well it should, Mr. Potter. As well it should." Ollivander's expression had shifted to one of intense satisfaction mixed with something that might have been anticipation. "Holly and phoenix feather. A most unusual combination—holly is protective, loyal, but also capable of overcoming hostility. And phoenix feather, of course, is the rarest of cores. Phoenix feathers can perform the widest range of magic, though they may take longer than other cores to reveal their full potential."
He paused, his silver eyes fixed on Harry with uncomfortable intensity.
"It is curious, however, that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar."
Harry's enhanced memory had prepared him for this revelation, but hearing it spoken aloud in Ollivander's matter-of-fact tone still sent a chill down his spine. The connection between his wand and Voldemort's was one of the most significant elements of his magical destiny, and one that would have profound implications for everything that was to come.
"Its brother?" Harry asked, though he already knew the answer.
"Oh yes, thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious how these things happen. The phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother gave you that scar."
Ollivander's gaze drifted to Harry's forehead, where the lightning bolt scar was hidden beneath his unruly fringe.
"The wizard who owned that wand did great things. Terrible, yes, but great."
"You mean Voldemort," Harry said quietly, the name falling into the silence of the shop like a stone dropped into still water.
The effect was immediate. Hagrid flinched as if he'd been slapped, and even Ollivander's composed expression flickered slightly. But the old wandmaker recovered quickly, his silver eyes studying Harry with renewed interest.
"Few people your age would speak that name so readily," Ollivander observed. "Most wizards still refer to him as 'You-Know-Who' or 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.'"
"Names only have the power we give them," Harry said, unconsciously channeling both his enhanced memory of Dumbledore's wisdom and Harry Smith's adult perspective on fear and language. "Besides, he's gone, isn't he? Has been for ten years."
"Gone, yes," Ollivander agreed, though something in his tone suggested the matter wasn't quite so simple. "But magic like that... magic that powerful leaves echoes, Mr. Potter. Traces. And wands remember everything."
He moved to wrap Harry's new wand in soft cloth, his movements careful and ritualistic. "Seven Galleons, if you please."
Harry fumbled for his money pouch, still processing the implications of everything he'd just learned. The connection between his wand and Voldemort's was even more significant than the books had suggested—not just a symbolic link, but a literal magical connection that Ollivander seemed to think had ongoing implications.
"Mr. Ollivander," Harry said as he counted out the gold coins, "when you say the wands are brothers, what exactly does that mean? Magically speaking?"
Ollivander's eyebrows rose slightly, as if he was surprised by the sophistication of the question. "An astute inquiry, Mr. Potter. Wands that share core materials from the same magical creature have certain... resonances. They understand each other in ways that other wands do not. In the hands of enemies, such wands can produce unusual effects."
"What kind of effects?"
"That, Mr. Potter, is something I hope you never have occasion to discover." Ollivander's voice carried a note of genuine concern. "But should the occasion arise... well, let us simply say that brother wands have their own ways of resolving conflicts."
He finished wrapping the wand and handed it to Harry with the kind of ceremony usually reserved for crowning monarchs. "Take good care of it, Mr. Potter. I suspect great things are expected of you. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, but great."
As they prepared to leave the shop, Ollivander called after them one final time.
"Mr. Potter?"
Harry turned back, his new wand secure in his hand.
"I shall be very interested to see what you accomplish with that wand. Very interested indeed."
There was something in the old wandmaker's tone that suggested he already had theories about what Harry might accomplish, and Harry wasn't entirely sure he wanted to know what those theories involved.
"Right then," Hagrid said once they were back on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley, his voice carrying relief at having successfully navigated what was clearly an intense experience. "Got yer wand sorted. How does it feel?"
Harry gave his new wand an experimental wave, watching as tiny golden sparks danced from the tip in response to his emotional state. "It feels right," he said simply. "Like it's been waiting for me."
"That's exactly how it's supposed to feel," Hagrid said with satisfaction. "Now then, what shall we tackle next? Books? Robes? Or are yeh getting hungry? All this shopping works up quite an appetite, and I know a place that does excellent fish and chips..."
Harry was about to respond when he became aware of something that made his enhanced memory snap to attention with urgent intensity.
They were being watched.
Not the casual observation of curious shoppers or the benign interest of people recognizing the famous Harry Potter. This was focused, predatory attention—the kind of surveillance that suggested someone was gathering information for purposes that probably weren't in Harry's best interests.
Without making it obvious, Harry let his gaze drift across the crowd, looking for the source of the unwanted attention. There—standing in the doorway of a shop that appeared to sell questionable-looking magical artifacts, partially concealed by the shadows—was a figure in a dark cloak whose face was hidden by a deep hood.
The figure was watching Harry with the kind of intense focus that suggested they'd been following his movements through Diagon Alley, and when Harry's eyes found them, they stepped back deeper into the shadows without breaking their surveillance.
*Definitely not good,* Harry thought, his hand unconsciously tightening around his new wand. *Either Death Eaters keeping tabs on the Boy Who Lived, or someone else with an unhealthy interest in my activities.*
"Hagrid," Harry said quietly, not looking away from the crowd, "is it normal for people to follow famous wizards around Diagon Alley?"
Hagrid's expression immediately shifted to alert concern. "Follow? Who's following yeh?"
"Don't look directly," Harry murmured, "but there's someone in a dark cloak watching us from the doorway of that shop selling the skull collection. They've been tracking our movements."
Hagrid's response was immediate and decisive. Without seeming to look in the direction Harry had indicated, the half-giant casually moved to position himself between Harry and the potential threat while simultaneously scanning the crowd for additional dangers.
"Right," Hagrid said, his voice carrying the kind of calm authority that suggested he'd dealt with this sort of situation before. "Time to move along, I think. Plenty more shops to visit, and crowds can be unpredictable."
As they began walking deeper into Diagon Alley, Harry noticed that Hagrid was steering them toward more crowded areas where surveillance would be more difficult, while also keeping close to shops that were likely to have their own security measures.
"Is this the kind of thing that happens often?" Harry asked, forcing himself to maintain a casual pace despite every instinct telling him to look back and confirm whether they were still being followed.
"Sometimes," Hagrid said carefully. "You're famous, Harry, and famous people attract all sorts of attention. Most of it's harmless—people who just want to get a look at the Boy Who Lived, maybe tell their friends they saw you shopping. But..."
"But some of it isn't harmless," Harry finished.
"Some of it isn't harmless," Hagrid confirmed. "Yeh-Know-Who had followers, Harry. Most of them ended up in Azkaban after the war, or claimed they were under the Imperius Curse, but some... some might still be out there. And they might not be too happy about the boy who defeated their master walking around free and getting on with his life."
The implications hung in the air between them as they continued their progress through the alley. Harry's enhanced memory was already running through possibilities and contingencies, while simultaneously trying to determine whether their mysterious observer was still following them.
*Welcome to the wizarding world,* Harry thought with grim humor. *Where even shopping trips come with potential death threats.*
But he also felt a surge of something that might have been excitement. After eleven years of the Dursleys' systematic neglect and the crushing boredom of Privet Drive, even potentially dangerous attention felt like validation that his life had meaning, that he was part of something larger and more important than suburban mediocrity.
Besides, he had his wand now. Holly and phoenix feather, perfectly matched to his magical signature. He might only be eleven years old, but he wasn't helpless anymore.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, his daily check-in system was quietly running calculations, updating his status, and preparing tomorrow's reward selection based on his current circumstances and needs.
*364 days to go until I can safely remove this Horcrux,* Harry reminded himself. *Better make sure I survive long enough to claim that reward.*
The adventure, it seemed, was just getting started.
---
"Right then," Hagrid said as they approached a shop whose window display looked like someone had decided that fashion and magic should have more conversations, "this is where we sort out yer school clothes. Madam Malkin's—finest robes in Diagon Alley, and she does excellent work with measurements. Very precise, very professional."
The shop front was considerably more welcoming than Ollivanders had been. Large, clean windows displayed an array of robes that managed to be both practical and elegant, from simple black school robes to elaborate dress robes that sparkled with embedded charms. A sign in the window read "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions - Now Featuring Muggle-Inspired Casual Wear for Modern Wizarding Life."
"Muggle-inspired casual wear?" Harry asked, reading the sign with interest.
"Aye, that's new in the past few years," Hagrid explained. "Younger wizards have been wanting clothes that work in both worlds—look normal to Muggles, but with magical conveniences built in. Self-cleaning charms, temperature regulation, that sort of thing. Madam Malkin's been quite innovative about it."
Harry found this development fascinating. The rigidly separate magical and Muggle worlds of the books seemed to be evolving, with the younger generation finding ways to bridge the gap between the two societies.
Hagrid paused outside the shop door, his massive frame casting a shadow that covered most of the storefront. "Now, I'm afraid I can't come in with yeh—last time I tried, I knocked over three displays and got tangled in a rack of dress robes. Took four assistants and a cutting charm to get me free." He looked genuinely embarrassed by the memory. "Madam Malkin was very gracious about it, but I think we all agreed it was best if I stayed outside when possible."
"That's fine," Harry said. "How long do you think it'll take?"
"Oh, an hour or so, I'd guess. Getting proper measurements for school robes, plus if yeh want some of those casual clothes..." Hagrid's expression brightened considerably. "Which gives me time to pop over to the Magical Menagerie and pick up yer birthday present."
"Birthday present?" Harry asked, though his enhanced memory already knew what was coming and he could barely contain his excitement.
"Can't have a young wizard starting Hogwarts without a proper pet, can yeh?" Hagrid's grin was infectious. "The school allows owls, cats, or toads, and I've got a feeling about what might be right for yeh."
*Hedwig,* Harry thought with a surge of anticipation that was part Harry Potter's desperate need for companionship and part Harry Smith's knowledge of what was coming. *Beautiful, loyal, intelligent Hedwig.*
"Meet back here in an hour then?" Hagrid asked. "I'll be keeping an eye on the street, making sure nobody's taking too much interest in where yeh are."
The subtle reference to their mysterious observer made Harry glance around, but he didn't spot anyone obviously watching them. Either their follower had given up, or they'd gotten better at concealment.
"Sounds perfect," Harry said. "And Hagrid? Thank you. For the present, I mean."
"Don't mention it," Hagrid said warmly. "It's what friends do for each other."
The word 'friends' hit Harry harder than he'd expected. In both of his lives, he'd never really had anyone he could genuinely call a friend—the Dursleys had made sure of that for Harry Potter, while Harry Smith's college years had been more focused on survival than social connections. Hearing Hagrid use the term so casually, so genuinely, was both wonderful and slightly overwhelming.
"Right then, off with yeh," Hagrid said, giving Harry a gentle push toward the shop door. "Get yerself properly outfitted. Can't have yeh looking like yeh're wearing Dudley's hand-me-downs at Hogwarts."
The interior of Madam Malkin's was a revelation in organized efficiency mixed with creative chaos. Bolts of fabric in every conceivable color and texture were arranged along the walls, while mannequins displayed the current range of available styles. Some of the mannequins were modeling their clothes with obvious enthusiasm, turning and posing to show off the garments to best advantage.
The air hummed with the quiet magic of automated measurements, self-threading needles, and fabric that arranged itself according to the preferences of whoever was looking at it. It was like stepping into the workshop of someone who'd decided that the mundane task of making clothes should be as magical as possible.
"Welcome, dear!" called a cheerful voice from behind the counter. "You must be Mr. Potter—Rubeus sent word ahead that you'd be stopping by."
Madam Malkin herself was exactly what Harry might have expected from someone who'd spent decades making wizards look their best: squat, smiling, and wearing robes that displayed her craftsmanship while remaining practical for someone who spent their days handling pins, scissors, and occasionally temperamental magical fabric.
"Yes, ma'am," Harry said politely. "I need school robes for Hogwarts, and Hagrid mentioned you might have some of the newer casual wear as well?"
"Oh, absolutely!" Madam Malkin's face lit up with professional enthusiasm. "Full Hogwarts kit, plus some proper everyday clothes that'll work in both worlds. You'll be wanting the durability charms, I expect—growing boys are hard on their clothes, and magical education involves quite a bit of practical work."
She bustled over with measuring tapes that began moving on their own the moment she released them, circling Harry's arms, torso, and legs with practiced efficiency while she made notes on a self-writing quill.
"Now then," she said, consulting her notes, "standard Hogwarts requirements first. Three sets of plain work robes in black—I recommend the ones with the reinforced hems, they last much longer. One dress robe for formal occasions—simple black will do nicely for first year. Protective gloves, winter cloak with silver fastenings..."
The measuring continued with magical precision, the enchanted tapes somehow managing to get accurate measurements even while Harry stood still. It was like being gently embraced by extremely organized ribbons.
"You're quite thin, dear," Madam Malkin observed with the professional concern of someone who'd fitted thousands of young wizards over the years. "Not getting enough to eat, I'd wager. Don't worry—Hogwarts food will sort that right out. Best kitchens in magical Britain, they have."
While she worked, Harry found his attention drawn to the section of the shop displaying the "Muggle-Inspired Casual Wear." The clothes looked like normal Muggle clothing—jeans, t-shirts, jumpers, trainers—but he could sense the subtle magic woven into the fabric.
"What kind of magical features do those have?" Harry asked, nodding toward the display.
"Oh, all sorts of useful things," Madam Malkin said proudly. "Self-cleaning charms that activate overnight, so you never have to worry about laundry. Temperature regulation that keeps you comfortable in any weather. Durability enhancements that mean they'll last for years without wearing out. And the best part—they look completely normal to Muggle eyes, so you can wear them anywhere without attracting attention."
"That sounds incredibly practical," Harry said sincerely.
"It's been quite popular with the younger crowd," she confirmed. "Especially students who come from Muggle families or who want to be able to move between both worlds easily. Very convenient for holidays and such."
She began pulling bolts of black fabric from the shelves, fabric that seemed to shimmer with its own inner light. "Now, for your school robes, I always recommend the premium blend—dragon hide threading for durability, acromantula silk for comfort, and just a touch of unicorn hair for magical conductivity. It costs a bit more, but it'll last you through all seven years and then some."
"Acromantula silk?" Harry asked, his enhanced memory providing uncomfortable context about exactly what acromantulas were.
"Oh yes, wonderful material. Very strong, very comfortable against the skin. Don't worry—it's ethically sourced. The acromantulas in the Scottish Highlands have a lovely little cooperative arrangement with several textile merchants. They provide the silk in exchange for protection of their territory and a steady supply of their preferred foods."
Harry filed this away as another example of how the magical world had apparently evolved since the books. The acromantulas in Hagrid's stories had been portrayed as distinctly hostile to humans, but it seemed that some populations had found ways to coexist beneficially.
"That sounds... surprisingly civilized," he said.
"Oh, the magical world's changed quite a bit in recent years," Madam Malkin said, beginning to cut fabric with scissors that moved on their own and seemed to know exactly what they were doing. "More cooperation between species, more integration with Muggle innovations where they make sense. Not everyone's happy about it, mind you—some of the old families think we're losing our traditions—but I think it's wonderful. Progress is progress, after all."
The fitting process continued with magical efficiency. Robes assembled themselves around Harry while he stood on a small platform, adjusting their length and fit according to the measurements the enchanted tapes had taken. It was like being dressed by invisible, extremely competent servants.
"Now then," Madam Malkin said, "let's talk about everyday clothes. How many sets would you like, and what styles appeal to you?"
Harry considered this carefully. His entire wardrobe to this point had consisted of Dudley's cast-offs, which meant he had very little experience with choosing clothes that actually fit him properly, let alone clothes he might actually like to wear.
"I honestly don't know," he admitted. "I've never really had clothes that were actually mine before."
Madam Malkin's expression softened with understanding. "Ah, yes. Well, let's start with basics and see what feels right. Every young wizard needs clothes that help him feel confident and comfortable, especially when he's starting somewhere new."
She began pulling items from the casual wear section—jeans that would actually fit his slim frame, t-shirts in colors other than the beige and brown that seemed to dominate Dudley's wardrobe, a few jumpers that looked both practical and appealing.
"Try these on," she said, directing him toward a changing area that was probably larger inside than outside, because magic apparently applied to fitting rooms as well as everything else. "See what feels right."
Harry emerged from the changing room wearing properly fitted jeans and a dark green t-shirt, catching sight of himself in the shop's mirrors for the first time in clothes that were actually his size.
The difference was dramatic. Instead of looking like a scarecrow drowning in oversized fabric, he looked like... well, like a normal eleven-year-old boy. Thin, certainly, but not unhealthy. The green of the shirt brought out the color of his eyes, and the jeans actually fit his waist instead of requiring a belt to keep them from falling down.
"Oh, much better!" Madam Malkin said with satisfaction. "You look like a proper young wizard now. Confident. Ready to take on the world."
Harry stared at his reflection, trying to process the change. Such a simple thing—clothes that fit—but it made him feel fundamentally different. More substantial. More like a person whose opinions might matter.
"I'll take several sets of these," he said decisively. "And maybe some other colors as well?"
"Absolutely, dear. Let's get you properly outfitted."
The next half hour passed in a flurry of trying on clothes, selecting colors, and making decisions about styles and quantities. Madam Malkin proved to be an excellent advisor, helping Harry choose clothes that would work well together and suit both his personality and his circumstances.
By the time they were finished, Harry had acquired a wardrobe that was both practical and appealing: several sets of everyday clothes with all the magical conveniences built in, his complete Hogwarts uniform including the premium robes with their enhanced durability, and even a few nicer outfits for occasions when he might want to look particularly presentable.
"Now then," Madam Malkin said, beginning to package everything with the efficiency of someone who'd done this thousands of times, "delivery or taking it with you?"
"Taking it with me, I think," Harry said, though he was wondering how he was going to carry several sets of clothes plus his school robes through Diagon Alley.
"No problem at all," she said cheerfully, tapping the packages with her wand. "Featherweight charm—makes everything light as a feather but doesn't affect the structural integrity. And here's a proper bag to carry it all in."
The bag she handed him appeared to be a simple leather satchel, but Harry could sense the magic woven into it. Undetectable Extension Charm, his enhanced memory supplied—bigger inside than outside, standard equipment for anyone who needed to carry more than should physically fit.
"That's brilliant," Harry said, settling the bag's strap across his shoulder and marveling at how something that should weigh several stone felt like it weighed almost nothing.
"My pleasure, dear," Madam Malkin said warmly. "It's always lovely to see a young wizard properly outfitted for school. You're going to do wonderfully at Hogwarts, I just know it."
As Harry prepared to leave, she called after him one final time.
"Mr. Potter? Take care of yourself. And remember—good clothes don't make the wizard, but they certainly don't hurt when it comes to feeling confident about who you are."
Harry emerged from Madam Malkin's feeling like a completely different person than the one who'd entered. It wasn't just the clothes, though those certainly helped—it was the accumulated effect of the morning's experiences. His visit to Gringotts had shown him that he had financial security and family heritage. Getting his wand had connected him to his magical nature in a way that felt profound and right. And now, wearing clothes that actually fit and were actually his, he felt like he was finally becoming the person he was supposed to be.
*Harry Potter,* he thought, adjusting the strap of his magically enhanced bag. *Not the Boy Who Lived, not the Dursleys' unwanted burden, just... Harry Potter. A wizard, starting his education, making his own choices.*
Hagrid was waiting for him outside the shop, and he wasn't alone. Perched on his massive forearm was the most beautiful owl Harry had ever seen.
She was snowy white with intelligent amber eyes, her feathers so perfectly pristine they seemed to glow in the afternoon sunlight. She sat with the regal bearing of someone who was aware of her own magnificence and comfortable with the attention it attracted.
"Harry!" Hagrid called cheerfully as he spotted him. "Come meet yer birthday present!"
Harry approached slowly, not wanting to startle the magnificent bird. Up close, she was even more impressive—larger than he'd expected, with an air of intelligence that suggested she understood considerably more than most people gave owls credit for.
"She's beautiful," Harry breathed.
"She's a snowy owl," Hagrid said proudly. "Very intelligent breed, very loyal. The woman at the Menagerie said this one's special—been waiting for the right wizard, she has. Soon as I mentioned I was shopping for Harry Potter, she perked right up and started showing off."
As if to demonstrate, the owl spread her wings slightly and gave what could only be described as a dignified nod in Harry's direction.
"What's her name?" Harry asked.
"That's for you to decide," Hagrid said. "She's yer owl now. What do yeh think suits her?"
Harry studied the magnificent bird, his enhanced memory supplying the perfect name even as Harry Potter's instincts recognized the rightness of it.
"Hedwig," he said softly. "Her name is Hedwig."
The owl—Hedwig—gave a soft hoot that sounded distinctly approving, as if she'd been waiting her entire life for someone to call her by her proper name.
"Perfect," Hagrid said with satisfaction. "Hedwig it is. She comes with all the supplies yeh'll need—perch, food, care instructions. Very low maintenance, owls are. Feed her regularly, give her plenty of flight time, and she'll be the best companion yeh could ask for."
Harry extended his arm tentatively, and Hedwig stepped onto it with graceful precision. Her grip was firm but not painful, her weight familiar in a way that suggested this was exactly how things were supposed to be.
"Hello, Hedwig," Harry said quietly. "I'm Harry. I think we're going to be great friends."
Hedwig responded with another soft hoot and gently nibbled his ear with the kind of affection that suggested the feeling was mutual.
"Right then," Hagrid said, watching the bonding process with obvious pleasure. "That's sorted. Got yerself properly outfitted, got yer wand, got yer familiar. Starting to look like a proper wizard, you are."
Harry looked down at his new clothes, felt the comfortable weight of his wand in his pocket, and smiled as Hedwig settled more comfortably on his arm. For the first time in either of his lives, he felt like he belonged somewhere, like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.
"What's next?" he asked.
"Books," Hagrid said decisively. "Can't do magic without proper books to learn from. Flourish and Blotts should have everything on yer Hogwarts list."
As they began walking toward the bookshop, Harry caught sight of their reflection in a shop window—a giant man and a young wizard with his owl, walking through the magical heart of London like they owned the place. It was the kind of image that belonged in storybooks, the kind of scene that suggested adventures were just beginning.
*Day one of my new life,* Harry thought contentedly, feeling Hedwig's talons grip his arm as she adjusted her position. *And it's going better than I ever dared to hope.*
Behind them, if Harry had looked back, he might have noticed a figure in a dark cloak emerging from the shadows between shops, watching their progress with renewed interest before melting back into the crowd.
But Harry was focused on the future, on books and magic and the owl on his arm who seemed to understand that they were meant to be together. The past—both the recent past of his mysterious observer and the distant past of his previous life—could wait.
Right now, he was exactly where he belonged.
---
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