Harry sat cross-legged on the floor of Dudley's spare bedroom. He'd claimed it as his for this sojourn in his former prison. His exotic robes—woven from materials gathered in far-off lands—seemed out of place against the dull, beige walls and worn furniture of the Dursleys' home.

Surrounding him were a few of the trinkets he had collected during his travels with Grindelwald—small magical objects that hummed with latent power, each holding memories of a place he had been or a lesson he had learned. But none of them could hold his attention now.

The room felt stifling, suffocating in its mundanity. Harry drummed his fingers against the floor, glancing at the window. He had hoped for something—anything—to happen. His thoughts wandered to Dumbledore and his staff. What was taking them so long? Surely, they weren't just going to let him sit here.

Harry's eyes drifted to the television in the corner of the room. He had tried watching it earlier, flipping through channel after channel, only to find the shows idiotic and meaningless. The colors and sounds had grated against him, so far removed from the intellectual rigor of his studies with Grindelwald. It seemed laughable now—how easily muggles were entertained. Their world felt small and hollow.

He let out a long breath, standing up and pacing the room. For the first time in years, he found himself bored. It was an unfamiliar feeling, one that gnawed at him. Grindelwald had always supplied him with books—rare, ancient texts that expanded his mind and sharpened his magical prowess. There had never been any need to seek out entertainment. He had been too busy absorbing everything.

But here? Here there was nothing.

The knock at the door broke the silence, its sound cutting through Harry's frustration like a sudden gust of wind. His head turned sharply, his curiosity piqued. The Dursleys had remained as terrified as ever since his return, rarely venturing near him. So who could it be?

Harry strode down the stairs, his movements deliberate and composed. When he reached the door, he opened it without hesitation.

Standing there was Professor Filius Flitwick, a diminutive figure with a kind smile that barely reached up to Harry's chest. Flitwick's twinkling eyes shone with warmth as he looked up at the young wizard. In his hands, he held a familiar-looking envelope, sealed with the crest of Hogwarts, and a small, gleaming key.

"Ah, Harry!" Flitwick's voice was high and cheerful, though it carried a certain gravity. "I'm sure you've been expecting this."

Harry blinked, his face carefully neutral, though his eyes betrayed a flicker of interest. "Professor Flitwick," he acknowledged, stepping aside to allow the Charms professor inside. "I wasn't expecting you to deliver it personally."

Flitwick chuckled softly as he stepped into the house. "Well, this is a bit of a special circumstance, isn't it?" He offered the envelope and the key to Harry. "Your Hogwarts letter, and your Gringotts key. You'll be needing those soon enough."

Harry took them, his fingers brushing over the envelope's fine parchment. He could feel the weight of it, the significance. Still, his face remained impassive. "Thank you."

Flitwick's smile didn't waver, though he seemed to sense the distance in Harry's tone. "There's one more thing," he added. "I've been sent to offer you the chance to visit Diagon Alley to gather your school supplies. If you like, I'd be happy to accompany you."

For a moment, Harry didn't respond. He studied Flitwick, the professor's open, unassuming demeanor a stark contrast to the intense, commanding presence of Grindelwald. But there was something genuine in the small wizard's manner—something Harry found unexpectedly… appealing.

He could have gone alone, of course. He didn't need anyone's help. And yet, almost to his own surprise, he found himself nodding.

"I accept," he said, his voice as calm and controlled as ever, though a small part of him was intrigued by the idea of having the professor's company.

Flitwick beamed, clearly pleased with the response. "Excellent! We can leave as soon as you're ready, Harry. I'll show you the finest shops in Diagon Alley."

"I'm ready now," he said simply, stepping out the door with Filius, the wind shifting around him as they departed.

Though outwardly aloof, Harry couldn't help but feel a strange, cautious sense of anticipation as he followed the kindhearted professor down the road toward a world that had been waiting for him all along.

—

Diagon Alley bustled with witches and wizards going about their daily routines, their robes swishing as they passed shopfronts filled with colorful wares. The cobblestone street, lined with its crooked buildings and flickering lanterns, seemed charming to most first-time visitors—magical, in its own right. But as Harry stepped through the archway with Professor Flitwick beside him, he found the scene… underwhelming.

Compared to the places he had seen—the magical marketplaces in Cairo, the towering spires of South American wizarding cities, the hidden, ancient magical enclaves deep in Southeast Asia—Diagon Alley felt provincial. Quaint, if he were being generous. Still, he maintained a polite facade, his expression calm, though inwardly he found the bustling street to be nothing more than a pale imitation of the wider magical world.

Flitwick, however, was unfazed by Harry's lack of enthusiasm. He chattered happily as they walked, pointing out various shops with a childlike glee that was almost infectious. Almost.

"There's Ollivanders!" Flitwick exclaimed, gesturing toward the old wand shop. "The finest wands in all of Britain! I daresay they've been making wands there for nearly two thousand years. You'll need to get fitted for one before the term starts."

Harry nodded, glancing at the narrow shop window where wands were displayed like dusty artifacts. He already possessed several wands—each taken from his travels, each with a different history. But for now, he'd play along. Ollivanders was a name that carried weight in the magical world. The family of artisans had been here when the city was Roman Londinium—even Harry found that impressive.

"And over there—Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions," Flitwick continued, his eyes twinkling. "You'll find your Hogwarts uniform there, but they also have some wonderful everyday robes, if you're looking for something more casual."

Casual robes? Harry thought with a hint of amusement. His attire, collected from all corners of the world, was far more interesting than anything he had seen here so far. Still, he nodded again, maintaining his aloof politeness. Let Flitwick have his moment; the professor seemed to enjoy playing the role of guide, and Harry saw no reason to interrupt his enthusiasm.

As they made their way through the crowd, Harry caught sight of various magical items in shop windows—quills, potions, broomsticks—but none of it sparked the excitement that Diagon Alley was no doubt supposed to evoke. To him, it all seemed quaint, as though the British magical world hadn't quite caught up with the rest of the global wizarding community.

They soon arrived at Gringotts, the grand, white marble building towering over the street with its imposing doors and stern-looking goblins guarding the entrance. Harry had heard of Gringotts before, of course, but Grindelwald had never considered it necessary for him to make use of the bank during their travels. Banks were for common wizards.

Grindelwald would simply pull whole ingots of gold forth from deep underground, in the rare instances it was more convenient to use coinage than magic to accomplish some task. Usually, there was a pile of change left over after whatever purchase Grindelwald made, which Harry always gathered up for himself, as he couldn't dredge up gold bars from a mile underground himself. Not yet.

Harry showed no outward reaction as they entered the cool, marble-lined interior of the bank. Flitwick escorted him toward one of the goblins, chattering away about the history of the building and its importance to the British wizarding world.

"Ah, here we are," Flitwick said cheerfully as they approached the counter. "Time to make a withdrawal from your family vault, Harry. I'm sure you'll be wanting to do some shopping after this."

Harry nodded again, stepping up to the goblin at the counter. "Potter, Harry," he said smoothly, handing over the small Gringotts key that Flitwick had given him. The goblin took it with a sharp, calculating glance before nodding and motioning for Harry to follow.

As they were led down into the depths of the bank, Harry remained composed. He had no need for the gold in his vault—he had acquired far more during his travels, stored in expanded pouches and pockets in his robes, along with a few hidden caches in remote locations he'd created during his travels. But he saw no reason to reveal this. Let Dumbledore and his lackeys think he had a need for these resources. Being underestimated always made things simpler.

The goblin eventually stopped in front of a large vault door, tapping it with a long, spindly finger. The heavy door swung open with a low groan, revealing piles of gleaming gold, silver, and jewels within. Harry stepped inside, his eyes sweeping over the treasure, though his expression remained neutral.

He casually gathered a few handfuls of galleons into a small pouch, enough to last him for his immediate shopping needs. He didn't take more than necessary—there was no point in drawing attention.

Stepping out of the vault, he met Flitwick's expectant gaze with a calm nod. "That should be enough."

"Excellent!" Flitwick beamed. "Now, off to get your school supplies, then. There's plenty to see, and I imagine you'll want to have everything ready well before the term begins."

As they ascended back into the bustling street, Harry allowed himself a small, private smile. He had played his part well. And though he wasn't impressed by Diagon Alley or the quaintness of British wizarding society, there was something satisfying about moving unnoticed through it. Let them think what they would. He had other plans.

The hum of Diagon Alley shifted subtly as Harry and Professor Flitwick made their way through the bustling crowd. It started with sideways glances, curious stares lingering a moment too long. Harry, dressed in his exotic blend of magical robes—part South American, part Southeast Asian, with hints of North African craftsmanship—stood out like a beacon amidst the more conservative British wizarding fashions. He had been accustomed to standing apart in many parts of the world, but here, the attention was different.

The stares began to linger, and soon Harry noticed hushed murmurs spreading through the crowd.

"That scar…"

"Is that—?"

"Harry Potter?"

Within moments, the murmurs turned into exclamations, and the crowd that had once bustled with everyday errands now gravitated toward him. Harry felt the shift in the air as more and more witches and wizards stopped to look, their eyes wide with astonishment and awe.

Professor Flitwick, walking beside Harry, noticed the commotion as well. He frowned slightly, moving closer to Harry's side, clearly concerned about the growing crowd.

"Excuse me, everyone!" Flitwick called, his voice polite but firm as he raised his hands, the effectiveness of such a gesture limited by his diminutive stature. "Let's give Harry some space, shall we?"

But the crowd wasn't listening. The name Harry Potter had always carried weight, and now, seeing him in the flesh—alive and returned after so many years—was too much for the onlookers to ignore.

Harry, however, was not fazed. He had been taught by Grindelwald how to handle attention, especially from those beneath him in the magical hierarchy. These were common witches and wizards, after all. They had their place, and as a Great Wizard, his role was to accept their adulation with grace. It was expected.

He turned toward the crowd, his expression calm, but his gaze intense. He raised a hand gently, a silent command for quiet. The murmurings died down instantly, and the crowd watched him with bated breath.

"I see many of you recognize me," Harry said, his voice clear and even, carrying easily over the hushed street. "I am Harry Potter, but this moment is not about me. It is about all of you. You are the ones who keep the magical world alive. You are the ones who, through your strength, courage, and unity, continue the legacy of our world. I may be the Boy-Who-Lived, but I lived so you could thrive."

The crowd shifted slightly, pleased murmurs rippling through the gathered witches and wizards. Harry saw their expressions change from shock to pride. They wanted to believe in something bigger than themselves, and Harry understood how to give them that, even if he considered his own words meaningless tripe. He had been trained not to make the moment about him, but rather to reflect their hopes and desires back to them.

"You are what makes this magical world what it is," Harry continued, his voice warm but commanding. "And I am honored to stand among you today."

A ripple of applause started from somewhere in the crowd, quickly spreading until everyone around him was clapping and cheering, their faces alight with admiration. A brief chant of Boy-Who-Lived, Boy-Who-Lived, rippled through the crowd like a wave.

Fools, Harry thought, putting on a smile like a mask. He gave a small, graceful bow, the way he had been taught to do, accepting their praise with quiet dignity. As he straightened, he made a slight gesture with his hand, encouraging the crowd to disperse. Slowly, they began to move away, satisfied, many still murmuring to one another about how extraordinary it was to see Harry Potter returned.

Professor Flitwick, who had watched the entire exchange in quiet amazement, was at Harry's side again as the last of the crowd thinned out. His expression was a mixture of admiration and something more—something that bordered on concern.

"That was… very impressive, Harry," Flitwick said, his tone warm but careful. "You handled that crowd with more grace than many wizards twice your age."

Harry glanced at him, a small smile playing on his lips. "It's a matter of understanding what they need," he replied smoothly. "People are easily reassured when you give them something to believe in."

Flitwick chuckled softly, though Harry could sense the unease behind his laughter. "Indeed. Though I must admit, it's not often we see such composure from someone your age."

Harry simply nodded, letting the comment pass without further response. He could tell that Flitwick was impressed—perhaps even more than he was willing to admit—but there was also a flicker of something else in the professor's eyes. A hint of worry, perhaps, or wariness.

Harry had seen that look before. It wasn't uncommon for those who saw power displayed so casually to feel unsettled by it. He didn't mind. It was their place to be unsettled.

The bell above the door of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions gave a soft chime as Harry stepped inside. The cool air of the shop was a welcome contrast to the bustling street outside. It was quieter here, away from the watchful eyes and murmurs of the crowd that had gathered earlier. Harry preferred the calm, at least for now.

Madam Malkin approached him with a warm smile, her measuring tape already in hand. "Hogwarts, dear? Come for your school robes?"

Harry nodded, stepping up onto the stool without a word. As Madam Malkin began her work, Harry let his thoughts drift. His gaze roamed the shop, taking in the robes and materials with little interest.

The door chimed again, and another boy entered the shop. His platinum blonde hair caught the light as he strode confidently inside, his sharp, aristocratic features and perfectly pressed robes marking him as someone from a wealthy family. Harry didn't give him much thought at first, until the boy's eyes fell on him, and he saw the recognition flash across his face.

The boy's gaze lingered for just a second too long on Harry's forehead, clearly having spotted the scar. There was a flicker of surprise, but it was quickly masked by the boy's practiced composure. Harry could almost see the thoughts racing behind the other boy's grey eyes, but to the boy's credit, he didn't immediately say anything. Instead, he approached the stool beside Harry with a carefully measured smile.

"You're here for Hogwarts too, I see," he said, his voice smooth, every bit as polished as his appearance. He didn't introduce himself right away, clearly giving Harry the chance to respond first.

Harry turned slightly, studying him with an impassive gaze. He could feel the weight of the other boy's curiosity, the expectation behind the polite exterior. This boy knew exactly who he was—of that much, Harry was certain. But he was waiting, following the etiquette he had been trained in. Harry could almost respect that.

"Yes," Harry replied simply.

The blonde boy's smile widened a fraction, the confirmation settling something in his mind. "I'm Draco Malfoy," he said, giving a small nod as though it were a mere formality. There was no arrogance in the introduction—only a sense of assurance that came from knowing exactly who he was speaking to.

Harry took a moment before responding, letting Draco wait just a little longer. "Harry Potter."

Draco's eyes gleamed with satisfaction at hearing the name spoken aloud, though he masked it well. "Of course," Draco said, as if he had expected nothing less. "I'd heard you'd be starting this year."

Harry said nothing, only watching Draco with that same calm, unreadable expression. He knew Draco knew far more about Hogwarts, probably even about Harry's own parents, than he did, but he didn't mind. Information was a weapon, and Harry had learned to wield it carefully.

Draco continued, his tone conversational, but there was a hint of calculation beneath it. "My father's mentioned you, of course. It's hard not to, given everything that's happened. You must have had an… interesting upbringing."

Harry raised an eyebrow slightly. "You could say that."

Draco's eyes flickered with curiosity, clearly hoping for more, but Harry didn't offer any further details. He wasn't about to discuss Grindelwald or his travels with anyone, least of all someone like Draco. Instead, Harry let the silence linger, watching as Draco shifted slightly, trying to find another angle.

"I suppose it must be strange," Draco said after a pause, "coming back to a world you've never really known."

Harry's gaze sharpened. Draco was more perceptive than he had given him credit for. "It has its moments," he replied coolly.

Draco nodded, still maintaining that polite exterior. "I imagine you'll get a lot of attention at Hogwarts. People are always curious about the famous, aren't they?"

Harry could feel Draco testing the waters, trying to gauge how he felt about his fame. But Harry wasn't interested in playing along. Fame, like bloodlines, meant little to him. Power came from understanding, not from the expectations of others.

"People are always curious about things they don't understand," Harry said, his tone calm but pointed.

Draco blinked, caught off guard for just a moment. "True," he agreed after a beat, though there was a note of confusion in his voice. He hadn't expected that response. "But understanding can come from knowing the right people, don't you think?"

Harry turned to him fully now, his green eyes locking onto Draco's with quiet intensity. "Understanding comes from the mind, Malfoy. Knowing the right people won't change that."

Draco's confident smile faltered slightly. "Of course, but—"

Harry didn't let him finish. "A wizard's strength comes from his ability to understand and shape the world around him. Magic is just an extension of that understanding. Bloodlines, connections—they mean nothing without the mind to wield them."

Draco stared at him, clearly thrown off by the sudden shift in the conversation. He had likely never heard someone dismiss the importance of bloodlines so easily. And certainly not Harry Potter.

Madam Malkin returned at that moment, oblivious to the tension between them, her cheerful voice cutting through the silence. "All done, dear. You're all set for Hogwarts!"

Harry stepped down from the stool, his expression unchanged, but there was something final in his tone as he gave Draco a last, cool look. "Maybe one day, you'll understand."

Without waiting for a response, Harry turned and left the shop, leaving Draco standing there, stunned and uncertain for the first time in his life.

The narrow shop for trunks was dimly lit, the musty scent of old wood and leather greeting Harry as he stepped inside. Flitwick followed behind him, silent but observant, his sharp eyes taking in the various displays as if mentally cataloging anything Harry might need. But the professor, true to his nature, hung back, content to let Harry lead the way.

Harry glanced around, his gaze sweeping over the rows of trunks stacked high on shelves, each boasting its own unique enchantments and features. Some were extravagantly designed, gleaming with polished brass corners and intricate carvings, while others looked more practical, built for durability. After the suffocating days at Privet Drive, his first order of business was clear: he needed books. And lots of them. The thought of collecting a proper library for himself made the idea of the trunk more essential. He would need something large enough to carry everything, but without unnecessary frills.

"Good day, young man!" The shopkeeper, a wiry man with a wide smile, hurried over, clearly eager to make a sale. "I can tell you're in the market for a trunk. And you've come to the right place! We've got everything from the standard Hogwarts models to more advanced versions—self-cleaning compartments, built-in Featherlight Charms, even an automatic organizer for all your books and belongings!"

Harry nodded politely, his eyes drifting over some of the fancier trunks. But he didn't need a Featherlight Charm, and the idea of an automatic organizer was laughable—he had been taught the importance of self-reliance, of doing things for oneself. Grindelwald had emphasized that a wizard's true power came from their understanding and mastery over their tools, not from letting the tools think for them. Still, Harry let the shopkeeper continue his pitch as a courtesy.

"This one here," the man said, gesturing to a particularly elaborate trunk, "has six hidden compartments, all charmed with Extension Spells. And this model"—he moved to another—"includes self-locking mechanisms and an alarm spell for added security!"

Flitwick, who had been perusing a nearby display, raised his eyebrows, amused by the enthusiasm of the shopkeeper. "Quite a variety of features, don't you think, Harry?"

Harry smiled faintly at the professor's remark but shook his head. "They're all well-made, but I'd prefer something simpler."

The shopkeeper seemed slightly crestfallen but recovered quickly. "Oh, of course, of course! We do have simpler models, but you wouldn't want to miss out on some of these features—they make life so much easier!"

"Perhaps," Harry said, his tone thoughtful but firm. "But I don't mind doing things myself."

The shopkeeper moved toward a more modest trunk, one that looked sturdy and well-crafted, without the excessive ornamentation of the fancier models. He opened the lid, displaying the interior. It was plain but spacious enough. Then, with a practiced flick of his wrist, the shopkeeper activated a mechanism that caused a hidden trapdoor to swing open at the bottom.

"This one's equipped with a magically extended room under the trapdoor," the shopkeeper explained, trying to salvage the sale. "You could fit quite a collection of books or other belongings down there. It's a bit more bare-bones than the fancier trunks, but still very practical!"

Harry knelt to inspect the trapdoor and the expanded compartment below. It was exactly what he needed—space to store a growing library and the essentials for Hogwarts without the unnecessary bells and whistles.

Grindelwald had taught him caution when it came to advanced magical enchantments like Extension Charms. They were powerful but dangerous to experiment with, especially without a full understanding of their complexities. The rest he could do himself.

"This will do," Harry said, standing up and nodding at the trunk.

The shopkeeper hesitated, still clearly hoping to push a more expensive model, but Harry's tone left no room for negotiation. "A fine choice," the man said quickly. "Very durable. You'll have more than enough room for everything."

Flitwick, watching quietly, seemed impressed by Harry's decisiveness. "A wise selection," he remarked, his voice kind. "You'll find that trunk to be quite reliable. And if you ever need help expanding it further down the line, I'm sure Hogwarts' library will have plenty of information on safe enchantments."

Harry nodded in acknowledgment, appreciating the professor's subtle offer of guidance without intrusion. "I'll handle it when the time comes," he said calmly, his mind already turning toward the books he would soon acquire. The thought of having access to Hogwarts' library—along with the freedom to build his own—filled him with a sense of purpose. No more idle days of boredom.

After making the purchase, Harry and Flitwick left the shop, the trunk following obediently behind them, levitating gently at their heels after a flick of the professor's wand. Flitwick glanced at Harry with a thoughtful expression.

"You know, Harry," he began, his tone light but perceptive, "I expect a boy like you—a curious, intelligent boy—will want to spend quite a bit of time in Flourish and Blotts, looking for books. Perhaps it would be best to finish the rest of your shopping first, so you can take as much time as you'd like in the bookstore without feeling rushed."

Harry considered this for a moment. Flitwick's suggestion was reasonable, and Harry found that he appreciated the professor's understanding. After days of boredom at Privet Drive, having ample time to browse through a collection of books sounded like exactly what he needed. Nodding, Harry replied, "That sounds sensible. Let's get the other items out of the way first."

With that, they continued down the cobblestone streets of Diagon Alley, quickly and efficiently gathering the necessary supplies. Harry moved with purpose, wanting to finish the shopping as quickly as possible so he could focus on the books later. Flitwick, true to his word, took a back seat during the purchases, only offering directions and information when Harry asked.

Their first stop was the stationary shop, where Harry picked out high-quality parchment, quills, and ink—no need for extravagance, just solid and reliable materials. Next, they visited the apothecary for potions supplies, gathering a standard set of ingredients along with a well-made set of brass scales and glass phials. At the astronomy shop, Harry acquired a telescope and a set of star charts. Each stop was quick, with Harry selecting what he needed without hesitation.

Finally, they made their way to their penultimate stop of the day: Ollivander's.