[I own nothing in the Harry Potter franchise. All such content belongs to J.K. Rowling.]
"Good Lord, is this – can this be –?"
"Yep. Looks jus' like his dad, don' he? Mark my words, Tom, yeh're lookin' at one o' the best students Hogwarts's ever seen."
You could probably hear a pin hit the floor at that moment, as the Leaky Cauldron went completely silent at the sight of Harry Potter.
"Bless my soul," said Tom the bartender, dropping his voice to a whisper. Then, with tears in his eyes, he rounded the bar and rushed past Rubeus Hagrid to shake Harry's hand. "Welcome back, Mr Potter, welcome back!"
Everything became a blur of meet-and-greets for Harry then. There were so many names and faces that by the time most of the crowd had finally dispersed, Harry could barely remember 'Dedalus Diggle', 'Doris Crockford', and some nervous-looking young man named 'Professor Quirrell'. Last but not least, however, was some heavy-jawed, curly-haired witch in magenta robes who stepped out of the corner.
"So, this is the Boy Who Lived, eh?" she said, eyeing Harry up and down in a sort of appraising manner. "You're a bit smaller and skinnier than I'd've expected, dear. Would you like some tea, biscuits, cake, or perhaps a peanut-butter-and-jam sandwich?"
"No thanks," said Hagrid, pulling Harry just about a foot or two away from the curly-haired woman. "We'd best be on our way, Harry. Got lots ter do, y'know?"
But the witch, whoever she was, hardly seemed to care for Hagrid's busy schedule. She introduced herself as "Rita Skeeter – reporter for the Daily Prophet" and requested a quick interview with Harry, much to Hagrid's part amusement, and part annoyance.
"Fer what?" Hagrid asked. "He's barely even a first-year. Jus' had his eleventh birthday yesterday, in case yeh didn't know."
Something about Hagrid's statement seemed to spark a near manic look on Rita Skeeter's face. "Oh, really? Well then, Harry, what did those Muggle relatives of yours buy you, hmm? Not new clothes, that's for sure. And how often do you even eat –"
"All righ', that's enough questions, that," said Hagrid, almost seizing Harry by the shoulder and steering him away. "Harry's go' nothin' ter say ter you unless it's a good, honest question."
"At the very least," said Skeeter, "how about giving Miss Skeeter a photograph, Harry?" And then she snapped her fingers, causing some paunchy man to step forward from Harry's left. He was carrying a large black camera, and took up position in the middle of the room – facing Harry and Skeeter. "This is Bozo, my photographer."
Bozo gave a sort of casual salute to Harry.
"So," Skeeter added, "how does it feel to take your first steps back into our world, Harry? Feeling excited? Confident? Anxious?" Her grin faded into a flat, stern expression. "Or confused as to why you were kept out of it in the first place, by Albus Dumbledore?"
"Wait, what?" Harry asked, and Hagrid grunted.
"Now wait jus' a second there –"
"And what house do you think you'll make at Hogwarts?" Skeeter asked. "There's Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin. Take your pick. Oh, and how do you feel about being led around by the gamekeeper instead of, say ... the Deputy Headmistress herself?"
"You've go' ten seconds ter take tha' photograph ..."
At that, Skeeter knelt down beside Harry, opened his fringe nice and wide (so as to show his scar), and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. Then she told him to smile as the camera flashed and emitted a puff of smoke.
"Ah, such a lovely picture with Diagon Alley behind us," Skeeter said, and when Hagrid began leading Harry away, Skeeter spoke rather loudly to her photographer. "Makes you wonder why he's so nervous, doesn't it? Hardly said a word ..."
Hagrid, meanwhile, grumbled something about Albus Dumbledore being a 'great man', and Rita Skeeter being little more than a 'nosy troublemaker', while leading Harry out into the small, walled courtyard behind the pub. Bemused, Harry didn't know what to do as Hagrid did some counting and tapping at the brick wall, which opened to reveal a large archway.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," said Hagrid, grinning as Harry's mouth fell open at the sight of the cobbled street ahead. "See tha' firs' shop over there? Whadda yeh think we use 'em cauldrons fer?"
Harry had seen these things before in children's books, though he wasn't sure if they worked the same way in real life. "Maybe to make magical drinks or something?"
Hagrid chuckled. "Potions, Harry. Better no' get it wrong in front o' Professor Snape – Potions master at Hogwarts."
There were far too many buildings for Harry to even count around here. He glimpsed an owl emporium, an apothecary (from which a nasty smell of rotten eggs emanated), a 'Quidditch' shop, a place selling 'robes for all occasions', a bookstore, a huge snowy-white building; and most importantly, an ice-cream parlour.
"Hagrid," Harry said as they passed the ice-cream shop, and approached the towering white building, "can we get some ice-cream?"
"Gotta take care of some Hogwarts business first, not ter mention gettin' you some money. Ah, here we are – Gringotts Wizarding Bank."
But Harry wasn't entirely interested in a simple bank at the moment. Sure, the place had a fancy poem engraved on its inner doors ("... yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," said Hagrid), and a vast marble hall inside, but Harry's thoughts were consumed by the ice-cream parlour outside.
"Morning," Hagrid said to a free goblin, while walking up to the long counter in the hall. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr Harry Potter's safe."
"You have his key, sir?" the goblin asked.
"Yeah, sure. Got it righ' here somewhere ..."
Minutes later saw Harry and Hagrid passing through the security-check stage and walking to one of the doors leading off the hall. Some goblin then took them deeper into the bank before whistling to summon a small cart up the tracks. Was this a bank or an underground theme park? The cart steered itself through a maze of tracks which went on and on until, finally, stopping at vault six hundred and eighty-seven.
The goblin unlocked the door, and a wave of green smoke came billowing out. And as the smoke cleared to reveal a sharp, metallic smell – Harry gasped at the sight of countless, gleaming columns of bronze, silver, and golden coins stacked inside his vault.
"All yours," said Hagrid. "The little bronze ones are Knuts, remember? Twenty-nine of 'em makes a silver Sickle, which needs seventeen ter make a gold Galleon."
All Harry could do was nod, and then he turned to face the goblin beside him. "Erm, how much money is in here?"
It took the goblin almost a minute to summon a piece of parchment, from which he read: "Eleven thousand, five hundred and fifty-seven Galleons, fifteen Sickles, and twenty-one Knuts in total." (The parchment basically showed 'G: 11,557. S: 15. K: 21'.) And then he gave a brief overview of Fleamont Potter's hair-care potion, Sleekeazy's, which had played a large role in shaping the Potters' wealth over the years.
"Wow, I didn't know –"
"Let's move on to more pressing matters, shall we?" the goblin said, gesturing for Harry and Hagrid to return to the cart, once the withdrawal had been done. "Vault seven hundred and thirteen next."
When was this cart-trip ever going to end? All Harry could think about was getting himself some ice-cream, as the cart now made its way even deeper into the bank. The air grew colder as Harry, Hagrid, and the goblin descended the tracks and hurtled round one tight corner after another. And then they went rattling over an underground ravine before, finally, stopping at vault seven hundred and thirteen.
It had no keyhole.
"Stand back," said the goblin. "Only a Gringotts goblin is permitted to touch these doors. Anyone else would be sucked in and trapped, and we only check for thieves about ... once every ten years, I think." He grinned in a nasty, tooth-baring manner. "And don't even bother with Disapparition or any other wand work in here."
"Dis-what?" Harry asked, scratching his chin while looking at Hagrid.
"Come an' go almost anywhere you want. Apparition's appearin', Disapparition's disappearin'. Wish I could try 'em."
So it was like 'teleportation' stuff, then, Harry figured. Wait, what was Hagrid even collecting so far down here? Harry ceased his daydreaming and tried to get a better look inside the vault, but all he could see was some grubby-looking package wrapped in brown paper.
"What's that?"
"Hogwarts business," Hagrid said, tucking the mysterious package deep within his coat. "Righ', time ter ride tha' infernal cart again. No talking ter me, OK?"
With the bank-trip over, and Harry now standing with a bag full of jingling money, Harry didn't know where to start. Well, actually he did. He was going to help himself to the biggest ice-cream cone that money could buy; far bigger than anything Dudley had ever had, that's for sure.
"Might as well get yer uniform first," said Hagrid, nodding towards Madam Malkin's store. "Listen, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a" – the corners of his mouth twitched – "'magical drink' in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts. Makes me sick ter me stomach."
As much as Harry couldn't wait to put on some wizarding robes, he'd much rather put something in his stomach first. Something sweet and cold, of course. "OK, but I want some ice-cream first," he said.
"No problem. Professor Dumbledore said yeh're free ter wander round the main street." And that was when a sudden, stern look came across Hagrid's face. "Which means no headin' off too far, especially not inter Knockturn Alley, you hear?"
"How come?"
"'Spose you could say there's all sorts o' nasty, dangerous folk down there," Hagrid said while walking away. "You keep safe, all right?"
Oh, Harry was definitely going to keep safe, all right. He'd keep those ice-creams nice and safe in his belly. So without further ado, he crossed the street and stepped into Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour. The parlour had a black-and-white chequered floor, a creamish theme, a long display-counter running along the right side of the room, and various tables scattered across the left – as well as outside.
"Erm, can I have two extra large, long-lasting chocolate ones, please?" Harry asked Mr Fortescue. For a moment, Harry wondered why he wasn't getting any special attention, and then he remembered having hidden his scar as much as possible behind his fringe.
"Eight Sickles and twenty Knuts," Fortescue said behind the counter, and Harry smiled. Not only were these ice-creams far better than the rubbish that Dudley and his gang often ate, but they also took much longer to melt outside – provided that one paid for the spell service. Harry wished that he could take them to number four, Privet Drive and see the look on his blond pig of a cousin's face right now (the Dursleys did manage to get off that island, right?).
Speaking of blond, Harry had just about finished his first ice-cream when he saw a snobbish-looking boy exit the robes store, opposite the ice-cream parlour. The boy had sleek, blond hair; an annoyingly arrogant, nose-in-the-air kind of look, and was carrying a bag of robes while walking towards the neighbouring bookstore. Then he stopped and stared as Hagrid came up the street, towards Harry.
"Ah, tha' hit the spot! Got yer robes yet?"
"Not yet," said Harry. "Why's that boy staring at you like he's in a zoo?"
"Huh? Oh, now I see." Hagrid narrowed his beetle-black eyes as a taller, long-haired version of the blond boy exited the bookstore, with a bulging bag in hand. "That there's Lucius Malfoy, school governor, which means the lad's his son. We'd best get a move on before they start trouble."
"Why?"
Harry's question made Hagrid stroke his beard, in thought. "Well, let's just say tha' those are the sort o' people who believe in 'blood purity' above all else. If yeh're neither rich nor a 'pure-blood', then yeh're no' gettin' their respect."
"Am I a pure-blood?"
"No, yeh're a half-blood. Yeh need at least yer parents and their parents ter be magical fer you to be called a pure-blood." Hagrid frowned. "But even so, people like the Malfoys have a more ... extreme view. That classification's no' good enough fer them."
Harry gave a slight sigh.
"Doesn't matter in the end, though," said Hagrid. "Professor Dumbledore's a half-blood, an' he's the greatest man there is. Best wizard, too."
"I wish I was a pure-blood," said Harry, and Hagrid snorted with a laugh.
"Now yeh're jus' being silly, Harry. Ter tell yeh the truth, a lot o' those sort are jus' a bunch o' hypocrites in the end. Some of 'em even went ter school with You-Know-Who himself, so they knew he was a half-blood." And before Harry could even express his amazement, Hagrid added: "Bes' keep tha' ter yerself, though. Don' go lookin' fer trouble."
"I'm not sure if I can finish this one," Harry said while looking at his unlicked, second ice-cream cone. "D'you want it?"
"Sure. Why not?"
Truth be told, Harry was well up to finishing that second cone. He just felt like giving it to Hagrid.
Next on the list was a trip to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, across the street. Here, Harry got his uniform sorted in less than five minutes, after which he exited the store and came across the scene of Hagrid speaking to the two Malfoys.
"... so what if I'm taking a student around Diagon Alley?" Hagrid asked Mr Malfoy, who had the same, arrogant expression as his son standing beside him on the pavement. Harry could tell that the Malfoys weren't keen on making a scene out in public. "If yeh've go' summat ter say, take it up with Professor Dumbledore, not me."
Mr Malfoy spoke in a cold, stern manner. "That will not be necessary, although I'm sure the rest of the governors would be interested to know that Dumbledore's methods are growing stranger by the day. One would expect the" – he wrinkled his nose a bit – "'newcomers' to be led around by someone from the Ministry or, at the very least, the Deputy Headmistress."
"Enjoy yer day," said Hagrid, to which Mr Malfoy turned on his heel and strode off down the road.
The Malfoy-boy, however, barged into Harry with his shoulder and muttered "See you at Hogwarts, Mudblood" before joining his father. They were then joined by a tall, blonde-haired woman who Harry reckoned was probably Mrs Malfoy (or perhaps she was Mr Malfoy's sister, Harry couldn't care less).
"Take my advice," said Hagrid, once the coast was clear, "an' don' mix with tha' lot. People like You-Know-Who an' the rest are why Slytherin's got such a bad reputation."
"That's one of the Hogwarts houses, right?" Harry asked, having remembered Rita Skeeter's words from that morning.
"Yep. An' there's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin."
"So you're saying that all Slytherins are bad, then?"
They were walking towards the front of Flourish and Blotts when Hagrid stopped. He paused for thought, and said, "Hmm, maybe not all of 'em. That's not what I meant." Then, when Harry told of the Malfoy-boy's barging comment, Hagrid went red in the face. "He said tha' ter yeh, eh? Well, joke's on them once Skeeter puts yeh on the front page. 'Course, I'm surprised Lucius and Narcissa didn't see yer dad in you, seeing as he was at school with 'em fer a bit."
"So what does 'Mudblood' mean anyway?"
"Never say tha' word. It's probably the worst thin' yeh can call a Muggle-born, which you obviously aren't."
Harry's trip to the bookstore went quite well. He ended up buying everything he needed for the year – and nothing more. Then came a trip to the cauldron shop, followed by the smelly apothecary, the owl emporium (where Harry got a beautiful, snowy white owl as his birthday present), and then, finally, they approached a small, shabby building on which Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC was written in peeling gold letters above the door.
"This is it," said Hagrid, whose broad grin matched the excitement Harry felt within himself. "Time ter get yeh wand. Nervous?"
"A little. What if they don't work for me?"
"The son o' Lily an' James Potter not gettin' a wand? Codswallop. I'd sooner eat me hat."
"But you don't have a hat."
"You know what I mean," Hagrid said, chortling as they stepped one after the other through the door. A tinkling bell rang somewhere deep within the store. The very dust and silence in this place seemed to tingle with some secret magic. And no sooner had Harry and Hagrid arrived than some elderly gentleman came up to the counter – his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of his shop.
"Good afternoon," Mr Ollivander said in a soft voice. "Ah yes. I wondered when I'd be seeing you, Harry Potter. It seems only yesterday your parents were in here themselves, purchasing their own wands ..."
Harry stood dead still before the counter. The topic of his parents once again brought a warm, fuzzy feeling to his chest – especially as Mr Ollivander spoke at length regarding Lily's and James's wands. But when the topic turned to the wand which gave Harry his scar, he felt his insides turn cold as ice. Fortunately, Mr Ollivander then acknowledged Hagrid before moving on to completing Harry's measurements.
"All right," Mr Ollivander said. "Let's put that owl somewhere safe, and then we'll see which of these wands will end up choosing you, Mr Potter."
The time had come to see whether or not Harry was as worthless as the Dursleys had often said. He waited for Mr Ollivander to store the sleeping owl in the back of the shop, and then he readied himself for the big test ahead. Surely Harry wouldn't need to perform some sort of magic, right?
"Here we are," said Mr Ollivander at the counter. "Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nice and flexible. Nine inches. Just give it a wave."
Nothing happened after Harry tried his first wand, after which he failed to produce anything of note with two subsequent wands.
"How about this one?" Mr Ollivander said, pushing a box containing a maple wand with a unicorn-hair core towards Harry. But try as he might, Harry simply could not find the 'right' wand.
"This is hopeless," said Harry. Hagrid disagreed.
"Jus' keep tryin'."
Next up was a vine and dragon-heartstring wand, ten and three-quarter inches, which gave little more than a feeble jerk upon being waved around by Harry. On and on it went until Harry chose to take a step back, and took a seat beside Hagrid in the corner. Perhaps he needed a quick rest?
"Yeh can't get tired from tryin' out wands or doin' magic," Hagrid said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. "Jus' keep tryin' and yeh'll find the righ' one soon enough. Mr Ollivander's never failed ter match a wizard with their wand."
"No, it's fine," said Harry. "Maybe I'll watch someone else get theirs instead. Might learn a thing or two."
Hagrid frowned. "But who knows how long it'll take 'till the next person shows up? This ain' exactly a pub, y'know." Then he looked at Mr Ollivander and said, "No offence, sir."
"None taken," said Mr Ollivander. "Let's give it ... ten minutes, perhaps. Today has been quite busy after all."
While Harry and Hagrid sat waiting for the next customer to show up, Mr Ollivander went about his business at the back of his store ("I'm no' waitin' more than ten minutes," Hagrid said). Then, about six minutes later the door opened to reveal two girls around Harry's age. One had black hair, greenish eyes, and a face that looked slightly like a pug, and the other had long blonde hair and blue eyes, and was grinning. They were followed by a tall, elegant-looking woman – whose black hair was tied in a bun, and a girl who was probably two to three years older than Harry. She had long black hair, blue eyes, and a well-defined face.
"Good afternoon, Mrs Parkinson," Mr Ollivander said as he arrived at his counter. "Two wands, I take it?"
"Correct," said Mrs Parkinson. "One for my daughter, Pansy," – she gestured to the pug-faced girl – "and the other's for Daphne over here." She gestured to the grinning girl. "She's my cousin Garrett's eldest."
"Hi," said Daphne, with a slight wave to Mr Ollivander. "Can I go first, sir?"
"No, I'm going first," said Pansy Parkinson. She nudged her way past Daphne (Parkinson?) and stood up straight in front of the counter. "Mr Ollivander, sir, I'm older than her by eleven days. And she got a Comet before me."
"What's that got to do with anything?" Daphne asked, but Mr Ollivander decided to let Pansy go first anyway. Pansy got measured and tried merely four wands until causing a bright blue spark with an ebony wand. It was ten-inches long, had a dragon-heartstring core, and was said to be 'swishy'. Daphne went up next and tried three different wands until eliciting a streak of red light with a twelve-inch walnut wand. It had a dragon-heartstring core and was said to be 'whippy'.
"Ha, ha, you're 'whippy'," said Pansy, and Daphne giggled.
"And you're swishy ... like a fishy!"
At that moment, Mr Ollivander's silvery eyes settled upon the third girl in the room. "How are things over in France? Beauxbatons treating you well?"
"Yes, sir."
"Thank you for the wands, Mr Ollivander," said Mrs Parkinson. "But we really need to get going."
The group said their goodbyes and exited the shop. Mr Ollivander turned to Harry and said, "Shall we continue?"
Harry agreed. And so he tried out a cedar wand with a dragon-heartstring core ... to no avail.
What if I'm not really a wizard? he thought, feeling his heart-rate increase in his chest.
"Hmm, I wonder now – yes, why not?" said Mr Ollivander, snatching away the cedar wand and bringing out another from the shelf. "Holly and phoenix feather – an unusual combination. Eleven inches. Nice and supple."
"What's unusual about it?" Harry asked. "Did no-one else get a phoenix one?"
"Jus' give it a try," Hagrid said from the corner. "I'd rather we not get interrupted again."
The moment Harry so much as touched his wand, he felt a sudden, soothing warmth in his fingers. Then he raised his wand and brought it down in a swish, sending out red and gold sparks that stuck to the wall. Hagrid cheered so loudly – and for so long – that he completely missed Mr Ollivander's soft, whispering remark about Harry's and Voldemort's wand cores coming from the same phoenix.
"What?"
"It's more of a curiosity than anything else," Mr Ollivander said. "Now, to answer your earlier question, Mr Potter, phoenix-feather cores are extremely rare, though not unheard of. In fact, of the eighteen wands I've sold to your year-group so far, only yourself, Susan Bones, and Parvati Patil had been chosen by a phoenix-feather wand."
"And their woods?" Harry asked. He was starting to like this whole wand-business thing, not to mention Mr Ollivander's uncanny memory. How in the world could Mr Ollivander remember every single wand he'd ever sold?
"Pine and elm, respectively."
"Not ter be rude or anythin'," Hagrid said while standing up from the spindly chair in the corner, "bu' we really need ter get goin', sir."
"Ah yes, of course." Mr Ollivander placed Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper. "Well, you're always welcome in my store, Harry Potter - and you too, Hagrid."
At long last, Harry's shopping trip was over. He paid the seven Galleons owed to Mr Ollivander, took his owl cage, and followed Hagrid out of the store. But just when it seemed like Harry's brief visit to the wizarding world was over, Hagrid stopped in his tracks and gave him a long, thoughtful look.
"Yeh sure ask a lot of questions, don't yeh?"
Harry shrugged, and Hagrid chuckled.
"Tell yeh what, how 'bout we go back ter –" He paused upon seeing a most strange-looking wizard limping up the road towards them. "Mad-Eye? Didn't expect ter see you here."
"Yeah, well, Dumbledore called and asked if I'd like to stretch my legs for a bit."
The wizard named Mad-Eye looked like he'd seen his share of battles over the years. He had a heavily scarred face, several inches of carved wooden leg – ending in a clawed foot, and a vivid, electric blue eye which was capable of moving independently from his normal, right one.
"Well, all righ', then," said Hagrid. "But if yeh're lookin' ter join us on a stroll, well ... I'm already done with Harry Potter's shoppin' trip. Oh, that reminds me ... Harry, meet Alastor Moody – better known as 'Mad-Eye'. He's an old friend o' me an' Dumbledore, and your parents too."
"I'd spend less time talking, and more time delivering that package of yours, if I were you," said Mad-Eye, fixing his strange eye on Hagrid's coat (could he, somehow, see through things?). "How can you be sure that I'm not an imposter looking to steal it, hmm?"
"Yeh wouldn'ta said so in the firs' place, or even know 'bout Hogwarts business."
"Don't be so sure." At that, Moody handed over a piece of parchment said to be written by Professor Dumbledore. "Go and check with Ollivander that this was indeed written by Dumbledore – and make it quick."
Hagrid grumbled something that sounded like "Ruddy paranoid", did as he was told, and returned from the wand shop barely a minute or two later. "All righ', it's clear. Now what?"
"You shouldn't have left Harry Potter, of all people, standing alone out here with a potential imposter," said Moody. "I could've done away with him. A first-class Portkey straight to the remaining Death Eaters out there."
For some reason, Harry wasn't at all terrified (or sure) of what Mad-Eye Moody had just said. It was quite fascinating to see Hagrid, who schooled Harry on the wizarding world, be schooled by a more veteran wizard.
"In any case," said Moody, "this should save you a long trip home. I'll take Harry from here." Then he gave Hagrid a rectangular box which had a bluish, glowing feather within.
"Guess I'll be seein' you at school, then," Hagrid told Harry. The former handed over an envelope containing Harry's ticket for the Hogwarts Express – which was set to leave at eleven o'clock on September the first. Then he opened the box and touched the feather, causing him to disappear on the spot.
Harry gaped, and Moody gave a brief explanation about Portkeys (it was information overload today, that's for sure).
"So tell me," said Moody, once Harry had stopped staring at the spot where Hagrid had vanished, "how does one get to platform nine and three-quarters, Harry?"
They were walking down the road when Harry said, "I dunno. Maybe a Portkey?"
"Perhaps, but not quite." Moody then took it upon himself to explain all about the magical barrier between platforms nine and ten. "You can't expect to be Portkeyed everywhere. So don't forget about that wall, OK?"
Harry nodded, and they carried on walking until passing the ice-cream parlour – on their right – where Professor Quirrell was currently sitting outside. He was eating an extra-large strawberry ice-cream while watching Gringotts across the road. Moody grunted upon seeing him.
"So, that's your Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, eh?"
"Seems like it, yeah."
There was a slight pause as Moody eyed Quirrell in the distance. Then he looked at the bag of books in Harry's hand, and groaned. "Back to the bookstore, then."
Harry blinked while looking up at Moody. "But I've already got my books."
"Look, lad, I'm sure Dumbledore has his reasons for letting that idiot take up the post, but" – a slight crease appeared on Moody's forehead – "it'd be an insult to your parents' memory if I let you go in unprepared."
So Harry returned to Flourish and Blotts, where Moody personally picked out two extra books to complement Harry's first steps into offensive and defensive magic.
"They won't turn you into an Auror – or Dark-wizard-catcher – on day one," Moody said. "But at least you'll be as reasonably prepared as a first-year can be."
With nothing else left to do in Diagon Alley, Harry followed Moody out into the Muggle world. Moody wore a bowler hat to cover his magical eye, which helped to lessen the stares during their trip from Paddington station to Little Whinging's station. Today had been one hell of a learning experience, and Harry's mind was filled with the memories of Diagon Alley as he walked alongside Moody on the pavement.
"Keep your wits about you," Moody said, his magical eye likely scanning all around them. "Never know who might try their luck out here. All that luggage would make for a nice distraction during a fight."
The sun was beginning to set by the time Harry and Moody turned into Privet Drive. They were walking in the shadows of the houses when Harry finally decided to ask something which nagged him all afternoon. "Mr Moody, can you see your brain, your eyeballs, your ears, your nose –"
"Everything, lad. But you get used to it over the years. I suppose it's like looking at your hands all the time, except that I get to look through it whenever I want."
"And what does my brain look like?"
"Young and healthy," said Moody. "Ah, here we are ... number four. Make sure to study well in advance, but don't use that wand until you're on the train, understand?"
Harry nodded. Then he watched as Moody carried on limping down the road, and out of sight. And so began the long, dreary wait for Harry at this horrible place he barely called 'home'.
