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Chapter Three: A Glimpse of Power


Diagon Alley buzzed with life. Wizards and witches hurried along, robes fluttering as they weaved between shops filled with strange and wonderful objects. Harry had never imagined a place like this existed, but as his feet carried him down the cobbled street, a strange sense of belonging settled within him. For the first time in his life, it felt like he was somewhere he was meant to be.

His destination loomed ahead—Gringotts. The towering white marble building stood as an imposing guardian over the alley, its polished stone gleaming in the sunlight. It was his first stop, the key to unlocking the funds he needed to purchase everything on his Hogwarts list.

The interior of Gringotts was just as intimidating as its exterior. Goblins moved with purpose, counting gold and handling transactions with swift efficiency. Harry approached one of them, trying to steady his nerves.

"I need access to my vault," Harry said, his voice more confident than he felt.

The goblin didn't look up immediately, his sharp features focused on a scroll in front of him. "Name?"

"Harry Potter."

The goblin's head snapped up, his black eyes narrowing as they studied Harry with renewed interest. Without another word, he slid off his stool and motioned for Harry to follow.


The deeper they ventured into the bank's tunnels, the more oppressive the air became. Harry could feel the weight of centuries pressing in on him, but it wasn't an unpleasant sensation—it felt... familiar, in a way he couldn't explain. They passed through a wide, open chamber where a group of goblins were training with short swords. The clang of metal against metal filled the space, the goblins sparring with fierce concentration.

As Harry and his guide neared the exit, one of the goblins—a large, battle-hardened warrior—paused mid-swing. His sharp gaze landed on Harry, studying him with an intensity that made the air feel heavier.

Harry's eyes met the goblin's, and he could sense a shift. There was no malice in the goblin's stare—rather, a sort of challenge. Not a spoken one, but something primal, instinctual. The warrior stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"You there," the goblin said in a low, measured tone, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "I challenge you to a duel."

The surrounding goblins fell silent, their eyes now fixed on Harry. A challenge. The tension in the air thickened, but instead of fear, a calm confidence settled in Harry's chest. The goblin's words didn't come from arrogance—Harry could tell that. This wasn't about ego. It was about respect.

He could feel it—the way the goblin had sized him up, the way he had sensed something in Harry. And deep down, Harry knew he was right. Though he couldn't explain it, there was something inside him, something that responded to this challenge, as if his body had known combat long before this moment.

"I don't have a sword," Harry said, his voice steady.

The goblin warrior gave a sharp grin and tossed Harry a longsword, the heavy blade glinting in the torchlight. As Harry caught it, the weight of the weapon felt strangely natural in his hand, as though it had always belonged there.

The goblins around them cleared a space, and the warrior drew his own blade. His sword was shorter but clearly built for speed and precision.

The fight began in a flurry of movement. The goblin lunged first, his strikes fast and precise, his blade a blur as it sliced through the air. But Harry moved without thinking, his body reacting before his mind had even registered the attacks. He blocked the first strike effortlessly, his arms swinging the heavy longsword with surprising grace.

The clash of metal rang through the chamber as the goblin pressed forward, but Harry was faster, each block and parry flowing into the next with a skill that felt ancient, honed over countless battles. His feet danced across the stone floor, his body moving with fluidity and precision that surprised even him.

For a moment, the goblin tried to catch him off guard with a feint, but Harry saw through it, sidestepping smoothly and countering with a sharp swing that knocked the goblin's sword from his hand. The blade clattered to the ground, and the chamber fell into stunned silence.

Harry stood over the goblin, his sword held steady, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.

The goblin, breathing heavily, stared at Harry for a long moment, and then slowly, he smiled. It wasn't the smile of someone defeated, but of someone who had found a worthy opponent. He nodded, his respect clear in the gesture.

"You fight well," the goblin said, his voice carrying no hint of bitterness. "Better than any wizard I've crossed blades with."

Harry lowered the sword, unsure how to respond. He had won, but more importantly, he had earned the respect of this goblin warrior—a respect that went beyond strength. It was as though the goblin had sensed something in him long before the fight began, and now Harry had confirmed it, even if he didn't understand it himself.

The warrior gave him a short, respectful bow. "You may pass, Harry Potter."


After collecting a modest amount of gold from his vault, Harry left Gringotts, the fight still playing over in his mind. The way he had moved—so natural, so instinctive—left him with more questions than answers. He had never trained with a sword in his life, yet his body had fought as though it had done so for years. But there was no time to dwell on it. There were still supplies to buy.

After getting robes, books, and potions ingredients, Harry made his way to the one shop he had been both excited and nervous about: Ollivanders.

The wandmaker's shop was small and dimly lit, the towering shelves filled with thousands of narrow boxes. The air smelled of aged wood and dust, and Harry could feel the quiet hum of magic in the air.

He stepped inside, glancing around, but before he could speak, a voice came from behind him—soft but sharp.

"Ah, Mr. Potter. I've been expecting you."

Harry didn't flinch, though the voice had caught him off guard. He had sensed someone approaching but hadn't turned. He spun around calmly to find an old man with pale, moonlit eyes standing behind the counter, watching him with an intensity that felt almost otherworldly.

"Good reflexes," Ollivander said with a faint smile, stepping closer. "Not many can sense me coming."

Harry said nothing, merely nodding. The wandmaker studied him in silence for a moment before turning to the towering shelves that surrounded them.

"Now, let us find your wand," Ollivander murmured. He moved with surprising speed, pulling down box after box, handing Harry wands to try—one after another.

"Willow. Ten inches. Flexible."

Harry gave the wand a wave, but nothing happened. He tried another. Then another.

Each wand felt wrong—too light, too stiff, too lifeless. As the minutes passed, Harry began to grow frustrated. Ollivander, however, looked more intrigued with each failure.

"Curious… very curious…" the old man muttered, his sharp eyes darting between Harry and the wands.

Harry frowned, catching the strange look in Ollivander's eyes. "What's curious?" he asked.

Ollivander didn't respond immediately. Instead, he moved to the back of the shop, his long fingers tracing the edges of boxes that looked as though they hadn't been touched in years. Finally, after a long pause, he pulled down a single, dust-covered box from the very top shelf.

"Ah…" he whispered, bringing the box back to the counter. He blew the dust off and opened it slowly. Inside was a wand unlike any Harry had seen.

It was light, nearly white, with intricate Celtic and Druidic runes carved along its length. There was something ancient about it, something powerful, as though the wand itself carried the weight of centuries of magic.

"Yew wood," Ollivander said softly, handing the wand to Harry. "Thirteen and a half inches. Slightly bendy. With a core of an elder dragon's heartstring."

Harry took the wand, and the moment his fingers wrapped around it, a powerful surge of warmth shot through him. The magic thrummed in the air, the runes on the wand glowing faintly under his touch. It felt… alive, as though the wand had been waiting for him.

Ollivander's eyes gleamed with something close to wonder. "Extraordinary," he whispered, more to himself than to Harry. "I've never known a wand quite like this."

Harry looked up at him, curious. "Why?" he asked. "What makes this one different?"

Ollivander's expression turned solemn, his voice low. "An elder dragon's heartstring is one of the most powerful wand cores in existence. Elder dragons are ancient creatures, older than most wizards can comprehend. Their magic is raw, primal, and incredibly difficult to control. Few wizards have the ability to wield such power."

Harry ran his fingers over the wand, feeling the weight of the old man's words. "So why would this wand choose me?"

Ollivander's gaze was piercing. "That, Mr. Potter, is a question only time will answer.


As Harry left Ollivanders, the wand tucked carefully in his pocket, he couldn't shake the feeling that he had unlocked something. Something hidden, something powerful. The sword fight with the goblin, the instinctive movements, and now the wand… It was all connected, but how?

Whatever it was, Harry knew that soon enough, he would find out. And when he did, nothing would ever be the same again.