Chapter 2: Diagon Alley
August 1, 1991 – Thursday
Leaky Cauldron, London, England
"This is it," announced Hagrid, his immense figure coming to a stop with a subtle creak of his boots against the cobblestone street, "the Leaky Cauldron. It's a famous place."
The young boy at his side, eyes wide and brimming with a mixture of awe and confusion, took in his surroundings. The magical world, with all its wonders and peculiarities, was still new to him. Had Hagrid not pointed out the establishment, he might have overlooked the small, unassuming pub that seemed to blend seamlessly with the drab backdrop of the alleyway.
Hagrid, his large frame a comforting presence beside the boy, led the way through the entrance—a doorway concealed by a brick wall that looked more like a forgotten part of the city's infrastructure than an entry to a hidden world. As they stepped across the threshold, the atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron began to envelop them, a peculiar blend of old-world charm and welcoming warmth.
The Leaky Cauldron, despite its storied fame, appeared far from glamorous. The dim light struggled to penetrate the gloom that clung to the worn wooden tables and the faded, threadbare tapestries hanging crookedly on the walls. The room was a tapestry of muted browns and grays, punctuated by the occasional gleam of brass or polished wood. In a shadowy corner, a few elderly women sat hunched over their small glasses of sherry, the scent of aged wine mingling with the smoky aroma of a long pipe being lazily puffed by one of them. A little man in a top hat conversed animatedly with the old bartender, whose face resembled a toothless walnut. His wrinkled features were softened by a warm, toothy grin.
As Hagrid and the boy entered, the murmured conversations and clinking of glasses fell into a sudden, expectant silence. Heads turned, and curious eyes followed their progress through the room. Hagrid, a familiar and well-loved figure in this enclave, was greeted with smiles and friendly waves from patrons who seemed to recognize him instantly.
The bartender, his weathered hands reaching for a glass, looked up with a spark of recognition and greeted Hagrid with practiced ease, "The usual, Hagrid?"
"Can't right now, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," Hagrid replied, his massive hand coming to rest on the boy's shoulder, causing a brief moment of unsteady balance for the young visitor.
The bartender's eyes widened in surprise as he squinted at the boy. "Good Lord," he exclaimed, his voice rising in astonishment, "is this—can this be—?"
A wave of silence swept through the Leaky Cauldron, a stillness descending upon the room as if an invisible spell had been cast. The once lively atmosphere now crackled with a charged, reverent anticipation.
"Bless my soul," murmured the old bartender, his voice imbued with a mixture of awe and profound respect, "Harry Potter… what an honor."
Moved by a force of unspoken reverence, the bartender hurriedly emerged from behind the bar, his movements surprisingly swift for his age. He grasped Harry's hand with a fervent grip, his eyes moist with emotion. "Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back."
Harry stood there, stunned and unsure of how to respond. The entire pub had turned its attention to him, and the weight of their collective gaze was almost tangible, pressing down on him like an invisible force. The once cozy and dimly lit space now felt overwhelmingly vast, every face a mix of curiosity and admiration. Suddenly, there was a collective scraping of chairs as the patrons rose in unison, their movements creating a synchronized rustle that reverberated through the room. Before Harry could fully grasp the situation, he was enveloped in a whirlwind of handshakes and well-wishes. The patrons of the Leaky Cauldron, their faces alight with genuine joy and reverence, clamored to greet him, each one eager to make a personal connection. The clamor of voices and the warmth of countless hands made it nearly impossible for Harry to escape the swirl of attention. It took almost ten minutes of polite but persistent maneuvering for him to extricate himself from the enthusiastic throng.
Finally free, the raucous atmosphere seemed to dim slightly as Hagrid's booming voice cut through the commotion with commanding clarity. "Must get on—important people ter meet—lots ter buy. Come on, Harry." With a gentle nudge that was both reassuring and purposeful, Hagrid guided Harry toward the large, ornate fireplace, its polished brass fittings gleaming softly in the dim light. As they stood waiting, the crackling flames cast dancing shadows on the walls, their warm glow a comforting contrast to the cool, subdued tones of the pub.
"What are we waiting on?" Harry inquired, his gaze sweeping the room as he tried to shake off the lingering sense of being under a spotlight.
Before Hagrid could respond, the flames roared to life with an eager, crackling intensity, signaling the arrival of unexpected visitors. A cascade of vibrant green flames burst forth from the fireplace, their vivid hues painting the room with an ethereal glow. Through the swirling inferno stepped a blonde-haired girl, her bright hair shimmering like strands of spun gold, followed closely by an older blonde-haired woman whose presence exuded a calm, dignified grace.
"Hello, Hagrid," greeted the older woman, her voice carrying a warm and welcoming tone, her smile as inviting as a summer's day. The girl beside her looked up, her expression shifting from surprise to recognition as she took in the scene.
Hagrid's face lit up with a broad, genuine smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Good morning, Joyce," he boomed in his deep, resonant voice. "It's been quite a while. How have yeh been?"
Joyce embraced the giant man in a tight hug, her warmth and affection evident in the way she clasped him, before stepping back with a soft, contented smile. "I've been fine, and you?"
"I've been fine also," Hagrid replied, his gaze shifting to the blonde girl with a mix of curiosity and fondness. "So, this must be Isabella. I haven't seen yeh since yeh were just a year old."
Buffy felt a blush creep onto her cheeks, a gentle rose hue spreading across her face at the thought of this towering man recalling her as a tiny baby. "It's a pleasure, sir," she said, her voice carrying a note of shyness as she offered a small, respectful smile. "And it's Buffy now. Mom," she hesitated, glancing toward Joyce, "or is it Aunt now?"
Joyce's eyes softened as she observed Buffy, her gaze reflecting both affection and understanding. "Whichever you prefer, Buffy. Both are correct. Hank and I did adopt you, which means you are our daughter. But since James and Lily are your birth parents, and I am James' sister, that also makes me your aunt."
Buffy nodded, her gaze moving thoughtfully between Joyce and Harry, trying to piece together the intricate web of family connections that was now unfurling before her. "From what she told me," she said, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and contemplation, "my name was changed not long after when she adopted me."
Hagrid, with his characteristic blend of wisdom and warmth, nodded in understanding. His gaze, which had been focused on Buffy, now shifted towards Harry, his eyes holding a glint of excitement and anticipation. "Isabella…" he began, his voice full of reverence for the name, but then he immediately corrected himself with a touch of joviality, "…Buffy, I would like yeh ter meet your twin brother, Harry."
Buffy's eyes lit up with a radiant joy that seemed to illuminate her entire being. She turned to Harry with a smile that was both tender and enthusiastic, a mirror of the affection she felt for him. Without a moment's hesitation, she pulled him into a warm, heartfelt embrace. The embrace was more than just a greeting—it was a profound expression of the deep, familial love that accompanies the reunion of long-lost siblings. "It's nice to finally meet you," she said, her voice filled with the genuine happiness and relief of finding someone who had been a part of her life story from the very beginning.
As the buzz of the initial introductions settled, Hagrid suggested they get breakfast before embarking on their adventure into Diagon Alley. With a sense of practical efficiency and a touch of hospitality, Hagrid and Joyce took charge of the situation. They guided Buffy and Harry to a nearby table, where they made sure to place orders for both of them, ensuring their first meal together was as pleasant and comfortable as possible.
As they waited for their food, the twins began to engage in an animated conversation, their voices rising and falling in an easy rhythm as they delved into a range of topics. Each story and shared memory served to bridge the gap between their separate lives, weaving a new connection between them. The conversation flowed effortlessly, a testament to the natural bond that existed between them despite the years apart. By the time the plates of food arrived, the discussion had organically gravitated towards their families.
Harry took a deep breath, preparing to share a part of his past that had always been a source of both pain and resilience. "Well," he began, his voice steady but tinged with the faintest trace of reluctance, "I should probably tell you about the Dursleys."
Buffy nodded, her eyes focused on him with an attentive and empathetic gaze. She could sense the weight of the words he was about to speak.
"The Dursleys are our aunt and uncle," Harry continued, his gaze drifting momentarily. "They live at Number Four, Privet Drive. They are, um, not very kind, to say the least. Our aunt, Petunia, and uncle, Vernon, they are pretty… unpleasant people. I had to sleep in a cupboard under the stairs until now. They treat me like I'm a burden—our cousin Dudley gets everything he wants, and I'm just supposed to stay out of their way."
Buffy's expression shifted to one of deep sympathy, her heart aching for her newly discovered brother. She reached out and placed a comforting hand on his, offering a gesture of solidarity.
"It wasn't just the physical stuff," Harry continued, squeezing Buffy's hand gently in return. "It was the way they made me feel like I was less than human. They never showed me any affection, and they went out of their way to make sure I knew that I was different and unwanted."
"They treat you like that, Harry?" Buffy said incredulously, her voice filled with a mix of outrage and pity. "That's just plain awful. Maybe you should come to stay with me and Mom and Dad… err… I mean Aunt Joyce and Uncle Hank." The offer hung in the air, a beacon of genuine concern and affection, as Buffy extended an invitation that held the promise of transforming Harry's life.
Harry's eyes brightened with a spark of hope, as if the first rays of sunlight were piercing through the dark storm clouds that had shadowed his existence. The thought of escaping the stifling, oppressive atmosphere of his aunt and uncle's home was like a burst of warmth in his otherwise tumultuous life. "I would love that," he said, his voice imbued with a blend of relief and eager anticipation. A genuine smile spread across his face, a rare and precious sight for those who knew him well.
Buffy's eyes mirrored the newfound hope in Harry's, glowing with excitement. Her entire demeanor radiated the thrill of the possibility now unfolding before them. "Can he come to stay with us, please?" she eagerly asked Joyce, her words bubbling over with joy and the thrill of a promising future.
Hagrid, who had been quietly observing the exchange, couldn't help but let out a hearty chuckle. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he added his voice to the conversation. "Joyce, Dumbledore said they can choose where they wan' ter live when they meet. Be it with yeh or the Dursleys. I would prefer it with yeh. The Dursleys are the worst muggles I have ever seen," he said, his gruff voice resonating with a sincerity that belied his imposing appearance.
Joyce, having been familiar with Lily's family through the letters she had received, was not entirely surprised by the negative revelation about the Dursleys. Her expression softened slightly as she recalled Lily's accounts of her sister's disdain for the magical world. The corners of her mouth turned down with a hint of sadness as she remembered Lily's struggles. "I remember Lily telling me that her sister, Petunia, did not like our kind very much," she remarked, her voice carrying a note of understanding and empathy. She turned her gaze back to Buffy, her expression softening into one of warmth and reassurance. "Yes, Buffy, Harry can come to stay with us. While Hagrid takes you both shopping for your school supplies, I will talk to the Dursleys."
As the promise of a new beginning settled in, a surge of gratitude and happiness overwhelmed both Buffy and Harry. They leaped from their seats in unison, their movements almost impulsive, and enveloped Joyce in a heartfelt embrace.
Diagon Alley, London, England
Hagrid led Harry and Buffy out the back door of the Leaky Cauldron into a small, secluded courtyard, its walls high and weathered, cloaked in the quiet stillness that only hidden corners of the world seem to hold. The cobblestones beneath their feet were uneven, worn by time, while a rusty trash can and a few stubborn weeds were the only signs of life in the otherwise bare space. The air carried the faint scent of damp stone and dust as Hagrid approached the wall, his towering frame moving with an unexpected grace. He muttered to himself as he counted the bricks above the trash can, his voice low and rhythmic. "Three up… two across…" he said, his fingers brushing over the rough surface until he found the right spot.
"Right, stand back, Harry. Isabella," he instructed, his tone both firm and gentle as he raised his umbrella. The twins took a cautious step back, their curiosity mingling with a flicker of anticipation. With a swift motion, Hagrid tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.
The brick he touched shuddered, vibrating as if waking from a long sleep. It wriggled and twisted, creating a small hole that steadily grew wider, bricks folding back on themselves in a mesmerizing dance until, within moments, a grand archway stood before them, tall enough even for Hagrid to pass through with ease. The bustling sounds of a hidden world began to filter through the opening, like the hum of a distant carnival coming into focus.
"Welcome," said Hagrid, his eyes twinkling with pride and pleasure as he observed Harry and Buffy's astonished expressions, "to Diagon Alley." His broad grin matched the childlike wonder glowing in the twins' eyes. Without hesitation, they stepped through the archway, the transition from mundane to magical seamless yet utterly transformative. They couldn't help but glance back over their shoulders just in time to see the archway shrink and fold back into solid brick, sealing away the entrance as if it had never been there.
The sun beamed brightly, casting a warm light on the bustling cobblestone street that stretched out before them. The world of Diagon Alley was alive with color and motion. Right beside them, stacked in neat but precarious towers, were cauldrons of all shapes and sizes. A sign hanging overhead proclaimed: Cauldrons—All Sizes—Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver—Self-Stirring—Collapsible. The gleaming metal reflected the sunlight, catching Harry and Buffy's attention.
"Yeah, you'll both be needin' one," Hagrid commented, his voice carrying a touch of amusement, "but we gotta get yer money first."
As they began their walk up the street, Harry and Buffy's heads swiveled in every direction, their eyes wide with wonder. They tried to take in everything at once—the vibrant storefronts, the curious items displayed outside, and the eclectic mix of people bustling about with their purchases. A plump woman standing outside an apothecary shook her head in disbelief as they passed by. "Dragon liver, sixteen Sickles an ounce, they're mad," she muttered to herself, her exasperation almost comical in its intensity.
From a shadowy shop nearby, a soft hooting drifted out—a chorus of owls hidden within Eeylops Owl Emporium. The sign above promised all varieties: Tawny, Screech, Barn, Brown, and Snowy. The sound was haunting and soothing all at once. Nearby, a group of boys about Harry and Buffy's age had their faces practically pressed against the glass of a broomstick shop window, their expressions captivated by the sleek broom on display. "Look," one of them exclaimed, his voice bursting with excitement, "the new Nimbus Two Thousand—fastest ever!"
The street was an endless array of wonder. Shops sold shimmering robes of every hue, telescopes that looked more suited for star-gazing into far-off dimensions, and strange silver instruments that whirred and clicked with unfathomable purposes. Windows were stacked with barrels filled to the brim with bat spleens and eels' eyes, teetering towers of spell books with worn spines, jars of ink, quills of every feather imaginable, and rolls of parchment that crinkled softly in the breeze. Potion bottles glimmered in the light like captured rainbows, while globes of the moon rotated lazily in some far-off window, casting ghostly reflections.
As the twins tried to absorb every sight and sound, Hagrid broke through the spell of their awe with a gentle reminder. "So, Isabella, Harry, do you both have your lists?" he asked, his deep voice carrying over the bustling chatter around them. Buffy and Harry exchanged quick looks and nodded in unison, pulling out the neatly folded parchments from their pockets. They studied the lists carefully, their eyes flicking back and forth, realizing that each item mirrored the other exactly.
Harry's practical nature surfaced as he voiced the concern that had been lingering in both their minds. "Hagrid, how are we going to pay for all this?" he asked, a hint of worry creeping into his tone. "Wouldn't two sets of everything be really expensive?"
Hagrid's laughter filled the air, a deep, rolling sound that seemed to blend effortlessly with the hum of magic all around them. There was something infectious about his joy—an enthusiasm that mirrored the wonder Harry and Buffy were feeling as they ventured deeper into this extraordinary world. "Righ' there is how," Hagrid said with a broad grin, steering the twins toward a grand, towering building that stood apart from the smaller, quaint shops lining the cobbled street. The imposing structure was as white as freshly fallen snow, its pristine marble façade gleaming in the sunlight. Carved into the stone above the entrance, the name "Gringotts" stood in bold letters, exuding both authority and an air of mystery.
As they neared the building, its sheer scale became more apparent. It wasn't just the height that made it intimidating—it was the aura of ancient power that clung to it, like a fortress that had withstood the test of time. The bronze doors at the entrance glinted ominously, and standing guard beside them, dressed in scarlet and gold, was a small but striking figure.
"Yeah, that's a goblin," Hagrid said quietly, as they ascended the white stone steps. His voice, usually so boisterous, was tempered with a hint of respect. The goblin, who was a full head shorter than Harry, had sharp features—a swarthy, cunning face that seemed both wise and calculating. A pointed beard jutted from his chin, and his long, slender fingers rested with a poised elegance that suggested he was not one to be trifled with. The goblin acknowledged their approach with a slow, deliberate bow, his dark eyes flicking from one face to the next with keen interest.
As they entered through the massive bronze doors and passed a second set of silver doors, the grandeur of the place hit them fully. The vast marble hall stretched out before them, an architectural marvel that seemed to extend endlessly in every direction. Polished white marble gleamed under the high, vaulted ceiling, catching the light from enchanted lanterns that floated gracefully above. The atmosphere was one of solemn efficiency, punctuated by the scratching of quills on parchment and the clinking of coins being meticulously weighed.
Goblins, seated on tall stools behind an impossibly long counter, were engrossed in their tasks. Some scribbled in enormous leather-bound ledgers, while others peered through magnifying lenses as they inspected glittering gemstones with exacting precision. The attention to detail was extraordinary, as if every coin, every transaction, held the weight of history. Doors lined the hall, too many to count, each one leading to unknown depths or secret vaults guarded by enchantments most wizards could only dream of. More goblins, with their sharp eyes and brisk movements, escorted witches and wizards in and out of these doors, all while maintaining a stern and businesslike composure.
Hagrid, flanked by the wide-eyed twins, headed straight for one of the counters, where a goblin was momentarily free from his duties. "Morning," Hagrid greeted the goblin with his usual friendliness, though his voice held a note of formality. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe and Miss Isabella Potter's safe."
The goblin turned to them with a calculating gaze that flickered with interest. There was no mistaking the recognition in his eyes when he heard their names, but his expression remained neutral, the only giveaway a slight twitch of his pointed ears. "You have their keys, sir?" the goblin asked in a smooth, businesslike tone, his curiosity masked by professionalism.
Hagrid nodded, patting his oversized coat with a casual air as he searched for the keys. But what emerged from his pockets first was a bizarre assortment of items—a coil of frayed rope, several crumpled receipts, and even a handful of moldy dog biscuits that tumbled out and scattered across the counter. The goblin's neatly kept ledger narrowly escaped being soiled by the crumbling biscuits, and his expression tightened, though he maintained his decorum. Hagrid, entirely unfazed, let out a hearty chuckle as he swept the mess aside with his enormous hand. "Got 'em," he finally announced triumphantly, holding up two tiny golden keys. They gleamed in the ambient light, delicate and ornate, as if forged from pure sunlight.
The goblin scrutinized the keys, his sharp eyes narrowing as he turned them over in his long, spindly fingers. "That seems to be in order," he finally declared with a curt nod, his voice clipped and precise, giving nothing away. His professional demeanor was impenetrable, but there was a hint of respect in the way he acknowledged the keys—ancient relics that held more than just monetary value.
Hagrid puffed out his chest with a sense of importance, his massive frame straightening as he produced an official-looking envelope from within his coat. "An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," he said, his voice tinged with pride. The mention of Dumbledore's name carried weight even in this grand hall, where centuries of tradition hummed in the very air. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."
The goblin's eyes flicked to the letter with renewed interest. He took it delicately, unfolding it with the utmost care, as if handling a document that could unravel a host of secrets. Silence fell over the group as the goblin's eyes darted across the parchment, absorbing its contents. After what felt like an eternity, he handed the letter back to Hagrid. "Very well," he said in a tone that was now almost reverential. "I will have someone take you down to all three vaults. Griphook!" he barked, his voice ringing out with authority.
Another goblin, this one smaller but with an even more shrewd expression, appeared almost immediately. Griphook's eyes gleamed with curiosity as they took in Hagrid, the children, and the curious business at hand. Hagrid, still busy cramming the last of the rogue dog biscuits back into his deep pockets, gave the goblin a jovial nod. With a brisk, efficient motion, Griphook gestured for them to follow, leading the way toward one of the many doors lining the hall. His gait was precise, his steps quick, as if he was accustomed to navigating the winding depths of Gringotts without a moment's hesitation.
As they approached the door, Harry leaned closer to Hagrid, his curiosity piqued by the earlier mention of the secret vault. "What's the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?" he asked, trying to keep his voice casual but unable to hide his intrigue.
Hagrid's eyes twinkled with a mix of mystery and caution. "Can't tell yeh that," he said with a deliberate air of secrecy, leaning in as if to emphasize the weight of his silence.
"Why not?" Buffy pressed, her voice reflecting the same inquisitiveness that Harry felt. She wasn't one to back down easily when there was a secret to uncover.
Hagrid, however, was unyielding. "Very secret," he repeated with a grave nod. "Hogwarts business. Dumbledore's trusted me. More'n my job's worth ter tell yeh both that." He finished with a conspiratorial wink, but his tone made it clear the subject was closed.
Griphook held the door open for them, ushering them into a narrow stone passageway lit by flickering torches. The air was cooler here, carrying with it the faint scent of ancient stone and something metallic. The passage sloped sharply downward, and in the dim light, they saw a network of railway tracks crisscrossing the floor like an elaborate maze. Griphook gave a sharp whistle, and out of the darkness came a distant rumble that grew louder until a small, rickety cart hurtled up the tracks toward them. Its arrival was sudden and almost alarming, stopping just inches away with a metallic clatter.
They clambered in—Hagrid with considerable effort, his large frame nearly tipping the cart as he squeezed into place—and within seconds, they were off. The cart shot forward at breakneck speed, twisting and turning down steep inclines and narrow, winding passages. The walls blurred into dark streaks as they zoomed past, the only light coming from the torches they whizzed by, their flames bending under the rush of wind. The tracks seemed endless, crisscrossing in a dizzying pattern, yet Griphook didn't so much as touch the controls. It was as though the cart had a mind of its own, navigating the labyrinthine tunnels with practiced precision.
As they hurtled through the twisting passages, the ride took on an almost dreamlike quality—a blend of exhilaration and the strange, echoing silence that clung to the deeper recesses of the underground. But then, something caught Harry's attention—a brief flicker of light down a shadowed side passage that seemed to glow with an unnatural warmth. He leaned forward, eyes straining in the darkness. "Did you see that?" he asked Buffy, his voice tinged with excitement and a hint of trepidation.
Buffy, momentarily distracted by the blur of motion around them, snapped her attention back to where Harry was looking. "What?" she asked, her curiosity piqued by his urgency.
Harry's gaze remained fixed on the now-vanished passage as the cart sped further away from it. "Thought I saw a burst of fire," he murmured, more to himself than anyone else.
They plunged even deeper into the earth, the air growing cooler and more damp as the cart whipped through the tunnels. The rumbling grew louder, echoing off the rocky walls as they sped along. Their descent was dizzying, and the light from the torches flickered ominously against the jagged stone. Suddenly, the path opened up, revealing a vast underground lake. The water was as dark as ink, its surface still and glassy, reflecting the eerie glow from the luminescent moss that clung to the stalactites hanging from the ceiling like the fangs of some ancient beast. Below, enormous stalagmites rose from the lakebed like stone sentinels, their forms twisted and gnarled by the centuries.
Harry, attempting to distract himself from the unnerving speed of the cart, shouted over the rushing wind, "I never know, what's the difference between a stalagmite and a stalactite?"
Hagrid, looking a bit queasy, grumbled back, "Stalagmite's got an 'm' in it—an' don't ask me questions just now, I think I'm gonna be sick." His face had taken on a greenish hue, and he clutched the side of the cart as they hurtled around another sharp bend. The ride's wild twists and turns had clearly taken their toll on the giant, and by the time the cart screeched to a halt beside two small, nondescript doors set into the passage wall, Hagrid practically stumbled out, leaning heavily against the stone to steady himself, his knees shaking beneath his massive frame.
Griphook, with his usual efficiency, unlocked both doors in quick succession. A sudden whoosh of green smoke billowed out, curling into the corridor in thick tendrils before dispersing into the cool air. As the mist cleared, Harry and Buffy found themselves staring into the depths of their respective vaults—and what they saw left them breathless.
Inside each vault were towering mounds of glittering gold coins stacked so high they seemed to defy gravity, shimmering columns of polished silver, and heaps of bronze Knuts spilling over like treasure from a long-lost pirate hoard. The light from the torches reflected off the piles of wealth, casting a warm, golden glow that made the coins sparkle like stars. It was a sight straight out of a fairy tale—or, as Buffy's mind immediately compared it, like something out of the Scrooge McDuck comics she used to read, where the miserly duck would dive into his enormous vault of money. Only this time, the wealth was real, and it was theirs.
Griphook's voice, crisp and businesslike, broke through the awe-struck silence. "Miss Potter's is the vault on the left. Mr. Potter's is the vault on the right." He said it with the same casualness someone might use when pointing out two coat closets, yet the magnitude of what he was indicating was overwhelming.
Buffy and Harry exchanged wide-eyed glances, both still grappling with the realization that this immense fortune was part of their inheritance. The coins before them were more than just money—they represented the legacy of their parents, a tangible connection to the lives they had lost but could now honor. For the first time, the twins felt a deep sense of their own history, written in the glint of each golden Galleon and the gleam of every polished silver Sickle.
"All yours," Hagrid beamed, his pride evident as he helped first Harry, then Buffy, fill two small bags with a modest portion of their riches. "The gold ones are Galleons—seventeen silver Sickles to a Galleon and twenty-nine Knuts to a Sickle. It's easy enough once yeh get the hang of it." He tied the bags securely and handed them to the twins. "That should be enough fer a couple o' terms. We'll keep the rest safe fer yeh."
With their pockets now a bit heavier, they turned to Griphook, who was already prepared to lead them to the next vault. Hagrid, still looking a bit green from the last ride, added quickly, "Vault seven hundred and thirteen now, please, and can we go more slowly?"
Griphook's sharp-toothed grin was almost mischievous as he shook his head. "One speed only," he replied, the slightest hint of satisfaction in his voice. He whistled, and the cart shot off once more, faster than ever. The tunnels became narrower, the twists tighter, as they plunged further into the earth. The air grew colder and thinner, biting at their skin, and frost rimed the stone walls as they raced by. At one point, they shot across a narrow bridge suspended above a yawning underground ravine. Harry leaned over the side of the cart, trying to peer into the inky blackness below, but whatever lay at the bottom was lost in shadow. Before he could see more, Buffy grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him back firmly. ""I don't want to lose you." she said; her voice strained with worry.
Harry, gazing into his sister's eyes, saw the genuine concern reflected in them.
Finally, they screeched to a halt in front of Vault seven hundred and thirteen. Unlike the other vaults, this one was unmarked by numbers or symbols. Its door was smooth, seamless, and foreboding, with no keyhole in sight. The air here felt different—charged with something intangible, as if this deep part of the bank held secrets older than Gringotts itself.
"Stand back," Griphook ordered with a touch of ceremony in his voice. He approached the door with reverence, reaching out one long, slender finger. He barely brushed it against the cold metal, and the entire door melted away like liquid silver, leaving nothing but an empty archway leading into darkness. "If anyone but a Gringotts goblin tried that, they'd be sucked through the door and trapped in there forever," he said with grim satisfaction.
"How often do you check to see if anyone's inside?" Harry asked, his curiosity piqued by the ominous warning Griphook had just given.
"About once every ten years," the goblin replied, his sharp grin stretching across his face in a way that was more unsettling than reassuring. There was a gleam in his beady eyes, as if he took a particular satisfaction in the discomfort his answer caused. The notion of someone—or something—being trapped in this vault for a decade, forgotten and left to the dark, hung in the air like a shadow, adding to the vault's eerie atmosphere.
The twins, sensing that this vault was unlike the others, exchanged a quick glance brimming with anticipation. Surely, something truly extraordinary had to be inside such a heavily guarded chamber. As they leaned forward, their minds raced with possibilities—maybe there would be piles of glittering gems, treasures so rare they'd sparkle brighter than the coins they'd seen earlier, or perhaps a powerful magical artifact hidden away from prying eyes. The suspense built as the last of the smoke cleared and the interior of the vault came into view.
But what they saw defied all expectations. Instead of lavish riches or ancient relics, there was only a small, grubby package sitting alone on the cold stone floor. Wrapped in plain brown paper, it was so unremarkable that it seemed almost out of place, considering the elaborate security measures that guarded it. Harry and Buffy blinked in surprise, their excitement giving way to confusion. Why would something so ordinary-looking be kept in a vault that was more secure than any they'd encountered?
Hagrid, however, seemed to know exactly what he was looking for. Without a moment's hesitation, he bent down and scooped up the package. There was a fleeting moment when his large hand hovered over it, as if considering its weight, before he tucked it deep inside his massive coat. He glanced around warily, as if the very walls might have eyes. Whatever this object was, it clearly carried far more significance than its humble appearance suggested.
"Come on, back in this infernal cart," Hagrid grumbled, his voice tinged with an edge of discomfort. It was clear the ride hadn't done him any favors, and he was keen to get it over with. "And don't talk to me on the way back, it's best if I keep me mouth shut." He staggered slightly as he moved toward the cart, his face still tinged with green, his discomfort at odds with his usual cheerful demeanor.
0 – 0 – 0 – 0 – 0
One wild cart ride later, they stood blinking in the bright afternoon sunlight outside Gringotts, the bustling activity of Diagon Alley a sharp contrast to the dark, subterranean tunnels they had just left behind. The golden rays danced across the cobblestones, highlighting the vibrant storefronts and the lively crowds that filled the streets.
"Might as well get yer uniform," said Hagrid, his voice still a bit shaky as he nodded toward a nearby shop with a sign that read Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The sight of the cheerful little shop seemed to ground him a bit after the dizzying experience in the vaults. "Listen, Harry, Isabella, would yeh both mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts." His normally robust complexion was still tinged with green, and he winced slightly as he put a hand to his stomach. It was clear that the ride had taken more out of him than he let on.
The twins exchanged a glance, both a little anxious about venturing into the shop alone but not wanting to keep Hagrid from recovering. "Sure, Hagrid," Buffy said with a reassuring smile, while Harry nodded in agreement.
"Thanks, yer both lifesavers," Hagrid muttered with a grateful grin before lumbering off in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, where the clinking of glasses and warm chatter promised a much-needed reprieve.
Taking a deep breath, Harry and Buffy turned and entered Madam Malkin's. A bell tinkled overhead as they stepped inside, announcing their arrival. The shop was cozy and smelled faintly of lavender, its walls lined with bolts of fabric in every shade imaginable. The soft rustling of robes and the quiet hum of a sewing machine filled the space, giving it a warm, homey feel. A squat, smiling witch dressed in rich mauve materialized in front of them with the ease of someone who knew their business inside and out.
"Hogwarts, dears?" she inquired with a knowing smile the moment Harry and Buffy opened their mouths to speak. Before they could answer, she continued briskly, "Got the lot here—another young man being fitted up just now." With a practiced wave of her wand, she beckoned them further inside.
At the back of the shop, standing on a footstool, was a boy with pale skin and a pointed face, his sharp features giving him an air of cool indifference. He barely glanced up as Madam Malkin ushered Buffy onto the stool next to him while another witch attended to Harry. The swift efficiency with which the witches worked was almost magical in itself—long black robes were draped over both Harry and Buffy's heads, and with a few precise flicks of the wrist, the fabric was pinned and adjusted until it hung just right.
"Hello," the boy on the next stool said, his voice smooth and slightly drawling, betraying a hint of arrogance that matched his superior expression. "Hogwarts, too?"
"Yes," Harry and Buffy answered in unison, exchanging a quick glance that spoke of the surreal experience of encountering yet another person destined for the same magical journey.
The boy's pale eyes flicked between them with casual interest. "My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," he continued, his tone as detached as if he were discussing the weather. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow. Have you two got brooms?"
Harry shook his head. "No," he replied simply, while Buffy hesitated, her mind flashing back to the broom tucked away in her room back in Los Angeles. Realization dawned on her—it wasn't just any broom. It was one of those brooms, exactly like the boy was talking about, hidden in plain sight in a world that wouldn't have understood its significance. "Yes," she said, her voice quieter this time, as the implications of what she had at home started to sink in.
"Play Quidditch at all?" the boy asked, his tone suddenly eager, as if assessing whether they were worth talking to further.
"No," Harry and Buffy answered together, though Buffy's mind was racing.
"I do—Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my House, and I must say, I agree," the boy declared with an air of entitlement that matched his smug expression. His tone dripped with the kind of confidence that comes from having everything handed to him on a silver platter. The certainty in his voice was almost comical, as if it was simply a matter of destiny that he would be chosen. "Know what House you'll be in yet?"
"No," came the simultaneous reply from Harry and Buffy. Their eyes met briefly, sharing a moment of uncertainty, both of them acutely aware that the whole concept of "Houses" was still a mystery to them. They were stepping into a world where others already seemed to have an ingrained sense of belonging, while they were still figuring out the basics.
"Well, no one knows until they get there, do they?" the boy continued, with a dismissive wave of his hand. He spoke with the easy assurance of someone who believed the universe would naturally align to his expectations. "But I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family has been—imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?" He delivered the words with a sneer, as though the idea of being sorted anywhere else was beneath him, and Hufflepuff, in particular, was reserved for the hopelessly unremarkable.
His gaze wandered lazily around the shop as if he had already lost interest in the conversation. But then, something caught his attention, snapping him out of his self-assured reverie. "I say, look at that man!" he exclaimed, his voice laced with surprise and a hint of disdain. He nodded toward the front window, clearly intrigued.
Harry and Buffy turned in unison to follow his gaze. There, just outside the shop, was Hagrid. His larger-than-life frame loomed like a cheerful giant as he pointed enthusiastically at the display of three enormous ice creams he had just purchased.
"That's Hagrid," Harry stated matter-of-factly, a hint of pride in his voice. Even in these few short hours, Hagrid had become someone Harry felt he could trust, a comforting presence in the whirlwind of new experiences.
"He works at Hogwarts," Buffy added with a nod, her voice carrying warmth. She had quickly grown fond of the gentle half-giant who had taken them under his wing with such care.
Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey
Joyce stood nervously in front of the door to #4 Privet Drive, the unease in her stomach knotting tighter with each passing moment. The years since her last encounter with Petunia Dursley felt like a lifetime—years marked by loss, change, and the creeping shadow of regret. She could still recall that grim day of Lily and James' funeral with aching clarity, where grief had cast a suffocating pall over everything, and old wounds had only deepened the divide between families. Taking a deep breath, she rapped on the door, the sound sharp and intrusive in the quiet of the manicured suburban street. The air was thick with tension as she waited, each second stretching unbearably until the sound of heavy footsteps reached her ears.
The door swung open to reveal Vernon Dursley, a large, ruddy-faced man whose expression twisted into a scowl the moment his eyes met hers. He loomed in the doorway like a sentinel of narrow-mindedness, his brows furrowed in immediate irritation. "Yes, can I help you?" he grumbled, the irritation in his tone unmistakable, as if her mere presence was an inconvenience.
Forcing a smile through her nerves, Joyce introduced herself, though the words felt like they scraped against old memories. "You may not remember me, as it has been ten years. I'm Joyce Summers, James Potter's sister. We met at James and Lily's funeral. I'm sure your wife might remember me, considering I was one of Lily's friends at Hogwarts. May I come in? I would like to talk with you about Harry." There was a measured calmness in her voice, a layer of professionalism hiding the frustration and protectiveness bubbling underneath.
Vernon's frown deepened, suspicion flickering in his eyes as he sized her up. "We will have nothing to do with any of his family," he spat, his voice dripping with disdain. "You can go back to wherever you came from." The venom in his words was evident, and it was clear that any mention of Harry brought out the worst in him.
But Joyce wasn't here to be deterred. Her eyes hardened as she steeled herself, determination strengthening her voice. "I am here because Harry no longer wishes to live with you. I want to gather his belongings and have you sign custody over to me. As his paternal aunt, I have the right to petition you and your wife for guardianship. Harry and Isabella have recently learned of each other and want to live together. And Harry was very adamant that he would prefer to stay with me and my husband than live with you any longer than he has to." Her words were steady, but the fierce protectiveness underlying them was unmistakable.
Vernon's expression shifted slightly as he considered the idea of getting rid of Harry for good. It was clear that the thought was appealing to him, and after a long, calculating pause, he silently stepped aside, motioning for her to enter. "That is fine; we never wanted the boy to begin with," he declared dismissively, his lack of regard for Harry apparent in every syllable. "You can have him; we will sign any papers you want."
Joyce's heart clenched at the callousness of his words, but she kept her composure. As Vernon scrawled his signature on the legal documents she had prepared, Petunia appeared at the top of the stairs, her thin lips pressed into a tight line. She hurried off to gather Harry's belongings, her footsteps quick and agitated. The tension in the house was stifling, the air heavy with unspoken bitterness and resentment. But Joyce stood her ground, her resolve unwavering. She was here to give Harry what he deserved—a real home, free of the neglect and cold indifference that had marked his life here.
When Petunia returned, she carried a tattered trash bag filled with what was clearly Harry's clothing. The sight made Joyce's stomach twist—an entire childhood reduced to a garbage sack. It was a silent testament to how little they valued him. The finality of the situation seemed to sink in as both Dursleys hastily signed the documents, eager to wash their hands of the boy they had so mistreated. With a firm nod, Joyce accepted the papers, feeling both relief and anger coursing through her veins.
But she wasn't done yet. As she turned to leave, Joyce's expression shifted, the gratitude she had forced herself to muster giving way to cold indignation. "Thank you, I will take my leave. You don't have to worry about Harry any longer," she assured them, her voice icy. The warmth vanished from her smile as she straightened her posture, her eyes narrowing into a contemptuous glare.
"You two are filthy rotten Muggles," she said, her voice laced with venom. The words were sharp and deliberate, each one cutting through the air like a blade. "Albus Dumbledore should never have left Harry with you in the first place, the way you've treated him. And yes, I know exactly how you treated him because he told me." Her words were a hammer blow, the truth laid bare in the oppressive silence that followed. The Dursleys stood there, unable to meet her gaze, their guilt and shame hanging like a dark cloud over the room.
"You're lucky I don't go and report you to the local authorities. Good day!" she spat, her tone leaving no room for rebuttal. With a final look of disgust, Joyce turned on her heel and strode out of the house, leaving the suffocating atmosphere behind her. She felt a surge of satisfaction as she crossed the threshold, the door closing behind her with a resounding finality.
Joyce walked briskly down the street, her mind racing as she put distance between herself and the house. She waited until she was well out of sight before pausing in a quiet alley. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes, the weight of the situation pressing down on her for a moment. But there was no time to linger on the past—Harry's future awaited, and she was determined to ensure it was a bright one.
With a swift, practiced motion, Joyce spun on the spot and with a sharp crack, she disapparated, leaving behind the mundane world of Privet Drive.
Diagon Alley, London, England
Harry and Buffy sat in contemplative silence, each lost in their own thoughts as they savored the ice cream Hagrid had generously treated them to. The magical flavors—rich swirls of chocolate, hints of butterbeer, and bursts of fruity fizz—danced on their tongues, momentarily lifting their spirits. Yet, beneath the surface, a heavy current of unspoken thoughts and emotions flowed between them, the excitement of the day mingling with an undercurrent of uncertainty. Harry's eyes occasionally flicked toward Buffy, wondering if her thoughts mirrored his—a mixture of curiosity, nervousness, and the weight of this strange new world they were about to enter.
"What's up?" Hagrid asked, his deep voice laced with concern as he noticed their unusually quiet demeanor. His brows furrowed, eyes softening with the kind of warmth only someone truly caring could muster.
"Nothing," Harry replied automatically, brushing off the question with a slight shake of his head. The word hung in the air, unconvincing even to him. The truth was far more complex; his mind was swirling with everything from the mystery of the magical world to the looming questions about his past. Buffy, sitting beside him, wore a similar expression—calm on the outside, but her thoughts were churning beneath the surface like waves beneath a still sea. There was so much she didn't yet understand, and that uncertainty gnawed at her, even as she tried to keep a brave face for her brother.
As they continued their stroll through Diagon Alley, they stopped at a quaint shop lined with shelves crammed with parchment, quills, and every kind of ink imaginable. The air inside was scented faintly with old paper and freshly opened ink bottles. A bottle of ink that changed color as you wrote caught Harry's eye, and for a brief moment, the heaviness lifted as a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. The ink shimmered between shades of blue and green, mesmerizing in its simplicity. Buffy caught the hint of that smile, feeling a little lighter herself as they made their purchases and stepped back out into the bustling alley, where witches and wizards hurried by with laden bags and animated chatter filled the air.
But Harry's curiosity could only stay quiet for so long. The unfamiliar words he'd overheard kept circling in his head until he couldn't hold back any longer. "Hagrid, what's Quidditch?" he finally asked, the term sounding strange and foreign as it left his lips.
"Blimey, Harry, I keep forgettin' how little yeh know—not knowin' about Quidditch!" Hagrid's eyes widened in surprise, mingled with a hint of amusement. He turned to Buffy, expecting her to be more familiar with the sport that was practically a cornerstone of wizarding culture. "Yeh would know about it, Isabel… Buffy," he added, his voice taking on a hopeful note, as if expecting her to fill in the gaps for her brother.
But Buffy simply shook her head, the same curious expression in her eyes. "No," she admitted, her voice soft, almost embarrassed. Despite being immersed in the world of slayers and supernatural beings, this wizarding realm held its own mysteries that she hadn't been introduced to.
Hagrid looked genuinely taken aback, his bushy eyebrows climbing higher on his forehead. "Blimey, didn' Joyce tell yeh anything?" His surprise was evident; to him, not knowing about Quidditch was like not knowing how to breathe in the wizarding world.
Buffy's gaze drifted to the cobblestones beneath her feet. "I think she was waiting till I was older," she said quietly, her voice carrying a contemplative tone.
The twins shared their encounter with Hagrid, describing the pale boy's haughty attitude. "—and he said people from Muggle families shouldn't even be allowed in—" Harry recounted; frustration tinged in his voice as he recalled the boy's arrogance.
Hagrid's expression darkened with a mixture of disbelief and irritation. "Yer both are not from a Muggle family. If he'd known who yeh both were—he's grown up knowin' yer names if his parents are wizardin' folk. You saw what everyone in the Leaky Cauldron was like when they saw yeh, Harry," Hagrid explained, his tone laced with reassurance.
Buffy turned toward her brother, her eyes narrowing in curiosity as she sought to piece together what Hagrid meant. "What does he mean?" her expression seemed to ask, searching for more clarity.
"They treated me like I was famous," Harry said simply, the weight of that revelation hanging between them. The memory of those wide-eyed, awestruck stares and the murmurs of recognition still felt surreal, like a dream he was just beginning to wake from.
Hagrid, seeing the confusion and unease in both their faces, pressed on, his voice taking on a more defiant edge. "Anyway, what does he know about it," he said, his large hands gesturing dismissively, as if swatting away the prejudice that boy had shown. "Some o' the best I ever saw were the only ones with magic in 'em in a long line o' Muggles—look at yer mum! Look what she had fer a sister!" He shook his head with a scoff, the memory of Petunia's bitter attitude clearly still a sore point for him.
Buffy's curiosity couldn't be held back any longer as her eyes lit up with interest. "So, what is Quidditch?" she asked, her mind eager to latch onto something new, something that didn't carry the weight of history or fame.
Hagrid's face brightened, his gruff demeanor giving way to genuine enthusiasm as he tried to find a way to explain. "It's our sport. Wizard sport. It's like—like soccer in the Muggle world—everyone follows Quidditch—played up in the air on broomsticks, and there are four balls—sorta hard ter explain the rules," he said, his words picking up pace as the excitement of the game seemed to animate him.
Buffy's curiosity remained piqued as she continued to explore the nuances of this new magical world. "And what are Slytherin and Hufflepuff?" she asked, her voice filled with genuine interest.
Hagrid's eyes took on a thoughtful gleam, as if summoning the weight of tradition and history into his response. "School Houses. There's four. Everyone says Hufflepuff are a lot o' duffers, but—" He began, his tone laced with the sort of resigned wisdom that comes from long experience with school lore.
Harry's brow furrowed in a mix of self-doubt and concern. "I bet I'm in Hufflepuff," he said gloomily.
Hagrid's expression darkened as he leaned closer, imparting a stern warning. "Better Hufflepuff than Slytherin," he said, the gravity in his voice making Harry and Buffy exchange worried glances. "There's not a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin. You-Know-Who was one."
Harry's eyes widened with shock and curiosity. "Vol—sorry—You-Know-Who was at Hogwarts?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper as he tried to process this revelation.
"Years an' years ago," Hagrid confirmed with a somber nod.
Their journey continued as they entered Flourish and Blotts, the renowned bookstore that was a treasure trove of magical knowledge. The shop was an awe-inspiring labyrinth of bookshelves that reached skyward, crammed with volumes of all shapes and sizes. There were enormous tomes bound in rich, weathered leather, their covers embossed with intricate gold leaf; diminutive books no larger than postage stamps, encased in shimmering silk; and even some volumes adorned with cryptic symbols that hinted at their arcane contents. A few shelves even held books that seemed to be completely blank, their secrets hidden from even the most inquisitive eyes.
When Hagrid guided them through the cauldron shop and Harry admired a solid gold cauldron, Hagrid shook his head firmly. Instead, they selected a fine set of scales for weighing potion ingredients, as well as a collapsible brass telescope that gleamed with the promise of future celestial explorations.
Their next stop was the Apothecary, a shop that held its own kind of magic. Despite its overpowering stench—a potent blend of bad eggs and rotted cabbages—there was an undeniable fascination to be found within its walls. The floor was cluttered with barrels of slimy, mysterious substances, while the walls were lined with jars filled with herbs, dried roots, and vividly colored powders. The ceiling was festooned with bundles of feathers, strings of fangs, and snarled claws, creating a chaotic yet mesmerizing display of magical ingredients.
Outside the Apothecary, Hagrid flipped through the lists once more, a look of mild concentration on his face. "Just yer wands left—oh yeah, an' I still haven't got either of yeh a birthday present," Hagrid said, his voice tinged with a note of contrition.
Buffy's face lit up with a mischievous grin as she chimed in. "You're not alone," she said, her tone playful. "I haven't got anything for Harry either."
Harry felt himself go red. "You both don't have to—"
"I believe I speak fer Isabella tha' we know we don't have to," Hagrid said, his voice steady with reassurance, while Buffy nodded in agreement. The warmth of their understanding softened the edges of Harry's discomfort. "Tell yeh what, I'll get yer both an animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh'd be laughed at—an' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer both an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'." The idea of having their very own owls sparked a flicker of excitement in Harry and Buffy's eyes.
Twenty minutes later, the trio emerged from Eeylops Owl Emporium, a shop that had been a world unto itself, filled with shadows, mysterious rustlings, and the glinting eyes of owls that watched them with a mix of curiosity and knowing. The shop had been dimly lit, with shelves cluttered with cages and the soft hoots and flutters of the birds creating a symphony of subtle sounds. Harry cradled a cage containing a snowy owl with feathers as white as fresh snowfall, while Buffy held her own cage with a cinnamon-colored owl, its plumage rich and warm like a setting sun. Gratitude swelled in their hearts as they thanked Hagrid for the thoughtful gifts, their voices tinged with genuine appreciation.
"Don' mention it," Hagrid grumbled in his gruff manner, his face softening slightly as he ruffled his hair. "Just Ollivanders left now—only place fer wands, Ollivanders, and yeh gotta have the best wand." His words carried the weight of importance and tradition, hinting at the significance of their next stop.
The trio approached the last shop in Diagon Alley, Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. The store was narrow and shabby, with peeling gold letters that barely clung to the weathered sign. In the dusty window, a single wand lay on a faded purple cushion, a solitary sentinel to centuries of magical craftsmanship. The shop exuded an air of quiet reverence, as if the very walls were steeped in the history of the art of wand-making.
As the tinkling bell announced their arrival, they stepped into the tiny, dimly lit shop. The air was thick with anticipation and the scent of old wood and parchment, mingled with a faint, elusive aroma that hinted at the magic within. A spindly chair in the corner beckoned, and Hagrid settled into it with a slight creak, his massive frame dwarfing the delicate surroundings.
"Good afternoon," a soft voice uttered, its melodic tone hanging in the air like the echo of a distant spell. The voice seemed to resonate with the ancient magic that permeated the shop.
An old man materialized from the shadows, his presence exuding a quiet authority that transcended the confines of the quaint shop. His eyes, wide and pale, gleamed like moons through the gloom, casting an otherworldly glow that heightened the shop's mystique. He moved with a grace that belied his age, each step deliberate and steeped in centuries of knowledge.
"Hello," replied Harry and Buffy in unison, their voices carrying a mixture of curiosity and respect, as they took in the figure before them.
"Ah yes," the man continued, his eyes sparkling with a knowing glint. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you both soon. Harry and Isabella Potter." His words were not a question but a recognition, a statement that the alignment of their destinies was as inevitable as the passing of time. "You, Mr. Potter, have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, and made of willow. A nice wand for charm work."
"Your father," Ollivander continued, his gaze shifting to Buffy, "whose eyes you have, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable, a little more power, and excellent for transfiguration." His voice took on a contemplative tone as he spoke of the wand's characteristics, highlighting the nuanced properties that made it suitable for transformative magic. "Well, I say your father favored it — it's the wand that chooses the witch or wizard, of course." His words carried the weight of ancient wisdom, emphasizing the deep connection between wand and wielder.
Ollivander leaned in even closer to the twins until he was almost face to face with them. His eyes, reflecting the dim light of the shop, seemed to search their very souls. "And that's where…" he began, his thin fingers tracing the air between them, first pointing at the lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead and then at the lightning-shaped scar on Buffy's cheek.
Buffy couldn't help but frown at the mention of her scar. It had always been a source of discomfort and self-consciousness, a mark that set her apart in a way she didn't always appreciate. The acknowledgment from Ollivander brought a tinge of unease. "No offense, sir, but if you mind, I would prefer you not delve into that particular subject," she said, her tone polite but firm.
Ollivander, understanding the sensitivity of the matter, nodded in response. His expression softened with empathy, though his gaze remained thoughtful and intense. Unlike her brother's scar, Buffy's mark was not something easily concealed. "I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it," he admitted softly, a note of regret in his voice. "Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. A powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands… well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do…"
Turning the conversation towards a more constructive direction, Ollivander addressed Harry. "Well, now—Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings from his pocket, the metallic glint catching the light. "Which is your wand arm?"
"Er—well, I'm right-handed," Harry responded, his voice tinged with a hint of awkwardness as he extended his arm.
"Hold out your arm. That's it." Ollivander measured Harry meticulously, his movements precise and methodical. He measured from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and around his head. As he worked, he shared insights into the craft of wandmaking, his voice carrying a sense of reverence. "Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter, Ms. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. And upon request only rare mystical items. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And, of course, you will never get such good results with another witch or wizard's wand."
Harry tried three different wands, each experience marked by a swift and unsuccessful attempt. The first two wands seemed to resist Harry's touch, yanked from his hands almost immediately with a sense of dissatisfaction that lingered in the air. However, the third wand held promise. As Harry raised it above his head and brought it down through the dusty air, a burst of red and gold sparks erupted from the end, resembling a dazzling firework. The sparks danced and illuminated the walls, casting a magical glow throughout Ollivander's shop, turning the dim, dusty interior into a tapestry of shimmering light.
Hagrid couldn't contain his excitement and let out a whoop, clapping his massive hands together with a show of enthusiasm and joy.
Ollivander, equally enthralled, cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…" His words, filled with wonder and intrigue, carried a sense of reverence for the unfolding magical connection. He carefully placed Harry's wand back into its box and wrapped it in brown paper, his muttering of "Curious… curious…" underscoring the enigmatic nature of the selection and hinting at a deeper significance.
Harry and Buffy exchanged glances, their faces reflecting a shared curiosity that sparkled in their eyes. With a sense of anticipation, they turned to Ollivander and voiced the question that hung in the air, "What's curious?"
Ollivander fixed the twins with a pale stare, his gaze so penetrating that it seemed to reach into the very depths of their magical cores. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter, Miss Potter. Every single wand." As he continued, his tone grew more contemplative, threading a tapestry of mystery and connection. "It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, Mr. Potter, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you, Mr. Potter, should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you both those scars."
Buffy swallowed hard, her throat tightening as she processed the gravity of the information. Her gaze flitted nervously between Harry and Ollivander, the revelation sending a shiver down her spine. The dots were connecting in a way that made her feel both exposed and intrigued, as if the wand itself was a key to understanding their tangled fates.
"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the witch or the wizard, remember… I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…. After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things — terrible, yes, but great." Ollivander's words, though unsettling, were wrapped in a tone of dark admiration, as if the very nature of destiny and power was a double-edged sword.
Ollivander then turned his attention to Buffy, preparing to repeat the process of finding her ideal wand. The tape measure, once again hovering in the air, gracefully dropped to the floor as he meticulously adjusted his measurements. "Right then, Miss Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible."
Buffy accepted the wand with a mixture of hope and trepidation. The wand felt solid and promising in her hand, yet the instant she tried to wield it, the wand was promptly snatched away by Ollivander's swift and practiced hand, adding another layer to the growing pile of discarded wands.
"Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy. Try—"
Undeterred, Buffy gave the second wand a determined attempt. Despite her best efforts, it too was quickly reclaimed by Ollivander, who seemed to grow more intrigued with each failed trial.
"No, no—here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Go on, go on, try it out."
Buffy accepted the ebony wand, her expression resolute as she focused on finding the right connection. The ebony wand, though promising in its sleek appearance, did not yield the success she hoped for. The growing pile of discarded wands on the spindly chair was a testament to the challenging nature of the task. Despite the apparent setbacks, Ollivander's demeanor remained one of enthusiastic patience, his satisfaction undiminished by the numerous unsuccessful attempts.
"Tricky customer, eh?" he said with a hint of amusement. "Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination, one of the rare special ones I mentioned—Willow, Hair of the First Slayer, Eleven inches."
Buffy accepted the offered wand with a sense of anticipation, her fingers curling around the slender piece of wood. The moment her skin made contact, she felt a sudden, unexpected warmth spread through her hand, a comforting sensation that seemed to hum with latent power. The wand felt almost alive, pulsating with a gentle energy that resonated with her own magical essence. As she raised it above her head, her heart quickened with excitement, and she brought it swishing down through the dusty air. A burst of red and gold sparks erupted from the end of the wand, creating a mesmerizing display of magical fireworks that danced and twinkled in the dim light of Ollivander's shop.
The room seemed to brighten with the fiery splendor of the sparks, the vibrant colors casting fleeting shadows on the walls and illuminating the shop's dusty corners. Mr. Ollivander's pale eyes gleamed with a mix of admiration and fascination as he watched the spectacle unfold. His gaze was steady, reflecting his deep appreciation for the artistry and significance of the wand's performance.
"Curious yet again," Mr. Ollivander mused, his voice carrying a note of intrigue as he observed the magical display. The word "curious" now felt like a motif in their wand-choosing journey, a marker of something deeper and more significant than the ordinary.
Buffy, having grown accustomed to Mr. Ollivander's repeated use of the term, couldn't help but shake her head with a smile. The term had taken on a familiar ring, a playful acknowledgment of the wand's unusual nature. "Do you always say that?" she asked, her tone light and inquisitive, her smile reflecting both her amusement and her eagerness for further explanation.
Ollivander returned her smile with a soft, knowing expression. "Not usually, Miss Potter. It's curious because of the core of that wand. The Hair of the First Slayer. That is a very rare and very powerful wand." His words were laced with reverence and respect, as if the wand's rarity and power were something to be honored and revered. The significance of the core added a layer of mystique to the wand, suggesting that its magic was both ancient and potent.
Buffy's curiosity was piqued by the mention of the First Slayer. Her brow furrowed slightly as she glanced between Mr. Ollivander and Harry, her eyes searching for answers. "A Slayer, what is a Slayer?" she asked, her voice tinged with a mix of curiosity and confusion.
The late afternoon sun cast a warm, golden glow over Diagon Alley, bathing the bustling magical market in a soft, amber light. The lively chatter of witches and wizards mingled with the occasional clink of coins as Harry, Buffy, and Hagrid made their way back through the vibrant street. As they approached the brick wall that concealed the magical gateway, the familiar sensation of being transported enveloped them. With a gentle lurch, they emerged back into the comforting, dimly lit embrace of the Leaky Cauldron.
The Leaky Cauldron, with its cozy, lived-in atmosphere, offered a stark contrast to the dazzling expanse of Diagon Alley. Its aged wooden beams and flickering candlelight created a sense of warmth and familiarity. Joyce, stepping through the front door with a resolute stride, brought with her an aura of positivity and resolve. Her entrance was marked by the rustling sound of a large trash bag she carried in her hands—a tangible symbol of change and closure.
"Harry, I talked with your Vernon and Petunia," Joyce began, her voice imbued with a blend of determination and warmth. Her words held the weight of a significant resolution, a promise of a new beginning. "And they were more than willing to let you come stay with me. They have signed guardianship over to me. You will never have to go back to them again."
Harry's eyes sparkled with a mixture of relief and gratitude as he absorbed the news. Without hesitation, he reached out and enveloped Joyce in a heartfelt hug, his voice choked with emotion. "Thank you, Aunt Joyce, thank you." His gratitude was palpable, a heartfelt acknowledgment of the safety and care he was about to receive.
As his gaze shifted to the trash bag Joyce held, the past seemed to materialize before him—a symbol of the life he was eager to leave behind. "I doubt there is anything I want to keep in that bag. They mostly gave me Dudley's old clothes to wear. If you don't mind, I would like to get some new clothes."
Joyce's smile was both reassuring and maternal as she responded. "Of course, my dear," she said with a gentle nod. "We will do that tomorrow after we get home. We will go through the bag tomorrow too just to make sure there is nothing you want to keep. But I expect you're right that there is nothing in this bag you want to keep."
With their plans set for the following day, the trio bade a fond farewell to Hagrid. Gathering their belongings, Harry and Buffy joined hands with Joyce as she prepared to apparate them home.
In a moment of swirling, disorienting sensation, the Leaky Cauldron dissolved from view.
Summers Home, Los Angeles, California
Over the next few days, the Summers house was abuzz with activity as it adapted to accommodate its newest member. The transition was marked by a series of thoughtful adjustments, each one rippling through the cozy, lived-in residence. With the decision made for Harry to stay with Joyce, the house, already a warm and inviting haven, began to reconfigure itself to welcome the young wizard.
At the heart of these adjustments was a significant room swap between Buffy and Dawn, an endeavor aimed at creating a welcoming and comfortable space for Harry. Buffy, with her characteristic grace and maturity, relinquished her room—her personal sanctuary, a space filled with memories and cherished possessions. The room, once a refuge of solitude and personal expression, was prepared to become Harry's new haven. Buffy's selfless act of giving up her space was a testament to the deepening familial bonds within the Summers household.
Buffy carefully packed up her belongings, each item a small piece of her history, and transported them to Dawn's room. The process was filled with a sense of bittersweet nostalgia as she rearranged her possessions in the new space. Dawn, embracing the change with an eagerness that was both youthful and endearing, welcomed her sister into the shared space. The room swap was more than just a physical move; it was an emotional reconfiguration, symbolizing the growing sense of unity and support among the siblings.
In addition to the room swap, Joyce took Harry on a shopping excursion to ensure he had everything he needed. Together, they visited stores to purchase all new clothes for Harry, a gesture that went beyond mere practicality. The shopping trip was an opportunity for Harry to choose items that suited his personal style, marking a fresh start and a new chapter in his life. Joyce's attentive and caring approach ensured that Harry felt welcomed and valued, reinforcing the sense of belonging he was beginning to experience in his new home.
As the days passed, the Summers house, now rearranged and replete with new touches, began to feel like a place where Harry could settle in and start anew. The changes, while seemingly small in the grand scheme of things, were imbued with meaning, each one contributing to the creation of a nurturing environment where Harry could build new memories and forge stronger familial connections.