Chapter 10

I own nothing. All characters and places belong to their respective franchises and companies.

The group's next stop was the apothecary, a dimly lit shop filled with the earthy scent of dried herbs and the sharp tang of bottled potions. Shelves lined with jars of every shape and size surrounded them, containing everything from brightly colored powders to preserved animal parts floating in viscous liquids.

Harry wrinkled his nose at a particularly strong-smelling jar labeled Pickled Slug Livers, while Bowser eyed a shelf filled with gleaming metal cauldrons. "Not bad," Bowser muttered, picking up a sturdy pewter cauldron with one hand and giving it an experimental tap. "But it wouldn't last a day in the Dark Lands."

Kamek was engrossed in a display of dried herbs and potion bases, muttering under his breath as he examined each jar. "Interesting... similar to some of the alchemical ingredients back home, but much more refined."

"Got what we need here," Hagrid announced, patting his bag of supplies and leading them out of the shop. "Next stop, Harry, is yer uniform. Madam Malkin's is just up the street."

As they approached the shop, Hagrid hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. "Listen, Harry," he said, his booming voice dropping slightly, "would yeh mind goin' in on yer own? That Gringotts cart's still got me stomach churnin'. I'll just nip back to the Leaky Cauldron for a quick pick-me-up."

Bowser snorted, crossing his massive arms and glaring at the half-giant. "A pick-me-up? Really? That cart wasn't even that fast. You're softer than you look."

Hagrid chuckled nervously under Bowser's fiery gaze. "I'll be quick, Your Majesty, I promise. Madam Malkin'll have him sorted in no time."

Harry smirked, his confidence shining through. "I'll be fine, Dad. Go ahead and wait outside with Kamek. I can handle this."

Bowser grunted, giving his son an approving nod. "You'd better. Don't let anyone push you around."

"I don't plan on it," Harry replied, his green eyes gleaming.

With that, Hagrid shuffled off toward the Leaky Cauldron, and Bowser and Kamek positioned themselves near the entrance to Madam Malkin's, Bowser looming like a sentinel as Harry stepped inside.

The shop was bright and orderly, with racks of neatly folded robes lining the walls. A squat, smiling witch dressed in mauve bustled over to Harry as the bell above the door jingled.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she asked kindly.

"Yes," Harry said, his tone confident but polite.

"Got the lot here—another young man being fitted up just now," she said, gesturing toward the back of the shop. "Step right up on this stool, and I'll have you sorted."

Harry hopped onto the stool without hesitation, his posture relaxed but alert. Madam Malkin slipped a long black robe over his head and began pinning it to the correct length. Beside him, a boy with a pale, pointed face stood on a similar stool, his robes already being adjusted by a second witch.

"Hullo," the boy said, his drawling tone trying to sound impressive. "Hogwarts too?"

"Yeah," Harry replied, his tone steady, unimpressed.

"My father's next door buying my books, and Mother's up the street looking at wands," the boy continued, puffing himself up. "After this, I'm dragging them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll convince Father to get me one and smuggle it in."

Harry raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You're that bad at following rules already, huh?"

The boy blinked, clearly not expecting that response. "Well, it's not about rules, is it? It's about having an edge. Do you have your own broom?"

"No," Harry replied casually. "But I don't need one to win. You?"

The boy hesitated, thrown off by Harry's confidence and confused by his statement. "I—well, I play Quidditch, so it's only natural I'd have a broom. Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked for my house team."

"Good for you," Harry said flatly, his expression unreadable.

The boy shifted, trying to regain control of the conversation. "Know what house you'll be in?"

"No idea," Harry replied. "But I'm not worried about it. What about you?"

"Slytherin, of course," the boy said, his chest puffing out. "All our family have been. Imagine being in Hufflepuff—I think I'd leave."

Harry tilted his head, his smirk returning. "Slytherin, huh? Makes sense. You talk enough for it."

The boy blinked, not sure whether it was a compliment or an insult. "Well... yes. And you?"

Harry shrugged. "Wherever I end up. Doesn't really matter to me."

The boy was about to respond when his eyes flicked to the window, where Bowser stood like a mountain, arms crossed, glaring down at the street. His gaze shifted to Kamek, who was adjusting his glasses, clearly bored.

"What in Merlin's name are they?" the boy asked, his voice tinged with curiosity and apprehension.

Harry glanced out the window, his expression softening. "That's my dad and my uncle."

The boy's jaw dropped slightly. "Your dad?"

"Yeah," Harry said, a faint edge to his voice. "He's powerful. And trust me, you don't want to cross him."

The boy's bravado faltered for the first time. "Oh. Right."

Before the conversation could go any further, Madam Malkin stepped back, smiling brightly. "That's you done, dear," she said, stepping aside.

Harry hopped down from the stool, giving the boy one last glance. "See you at Hogwarts, I guess."

The boy, clearly unsure how to respond, managed a weak, "Yeah... see you."

Harry stepped outside, finding Bowser and Kamek waiting for him. Bowser raised an eyebrow. "How'd it go?"

Harry smirked. "Some kid in there thought he was clever. Didn't impress me much."

Bowser chuckled. "Good. Keep that confidence, kid. You'll need it."

Kamek nodded, adjusting his glasses. "He doesn't sound worth worrying about."

The group moved through Diagon Alley with purpose, ticking items off Harry's school list one by one. Their first stop was the bookstore, Flourish and Blotts, where Harry needed his textbooks for Hogwarts.

Inside, the store was packed with towering shelves brimming with books of every size and color. A ladder rolled along one wall as a clerk restocked the higher shelves. Harry quickly found the required books on his list, but as they moved toward the counter, Kamek lingered, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

"This shop is magnificent," Kamek muttered, running a hand over the spines of books on magical theory and potion crafting. "So much knowledge in one place…"

Before Bowser could drag him away, Kamek began pulling books off the shelves with increasing speed. "This, this, and this—oh, I can't leave without this one. And this entire section on charms, naturally."

"Hey," Bowser barked, crossing his arms. "Don't get carried away. You're supposed to help Harry, not build your own library."

Kamek gave an unrepentant grin, pulling a bulging magic sack from his robe. He tossed the growing pile of books inside, the bag swallowing them effortlessly. Despite its size, the bag appeared comically unchanged, hanging limply at his side. "My library is part of helping Harry. You never know when we might need these!"

Harry laughed, shaking his head. "You sure you'll have time to read all those?"

Kamek sniffed. "With proper time management, yes. Don't doubt my priorities."

As they left the shop, Harry had pulled out a book called "A History of Magic" as they continued down the street. As they continued down the Alley, the group was greeted by Hagrid, who was waiting with a large, covered cage in his hands. His face lit up as he spotted Harry. "There yeh are! Got somethin' for yeh, Harry."

Hagrid handed over the cage, and Harry uncovered it to reveal a beautiful snowy owl with bright amber eyes. She hooted softly, tilting her head as she looked at him.

"She's a snowy owl," Hagrid explained, grinning. "Smartest kind there is. Reckon she'll be a great companion—and deliver yer mail, too. Thought yeh might like her for Hogwarts."

Harry beamed, his excitement breaking through. "She's amazing. Thanks, Hagrid."

"She'll need a name," Kamek noted, peering into the cage with interest.

Harry thought for a moment, stroking the owl's soft feathers. "Hedwig," he decided. "I'll call her Hedwig."

Hedwig hooted again, as if in approval, and Bowser nodded in satisfaction as he started leading Harry once more. "Good choice, kid. Now let's get this wand of yours."

The shop was narrow, dusty, and steeped in a strange, almost tangible magic. The peeling gold letters on the sign outside had read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC, and as Harry, Bowser, and Kamek stepped inside, a tinkling bell echoed somewhere in the depths of the room.

Harry looked around at the endless shelves stacked with narrow boxes, the air heavy with the scent of aged wood and parchment. There was an energy here that made the back of his neck prickle. Even Bowser seemed subdued, though his fiery eyes scanned the space with faint suspicion.

"Not bad," Bowser grumbled. "Still looks like it could use a decent sweep."

"Do you feel that?" Kamek said quietly, his sharp eyes darting around. "The magic here... it's unlike anything I've encountered before. Subtle, yet profound."

Before anyone could respond, a soft voice spoke, startling them all. "Good afternoon."

Harry turned quickly to see an old man with pale, moonlike eyes standing just a few feet away. His movements were silent, his presence almost ghostly.

"Ah, Harry Potter," the man said, his voice smooth and quiet. "I have been expecting you."

Harry blinked. "You have?"

Ollivander stepped closer, his piercing gaze fixed on Harry. "Indeed. You have your mother's eyes. She was here many years ago, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches, willow, swishy—perfect for charms work."

Harry's chest tightened slightly at the mention of his mother, but he didn't say anything.

"And your father," Ollivander continued, his voice laced with a strange reverence, "favored mahogany. Eleven inches, pliable. A powerful wand, excellent for transfiguration."

Kamek tilted his head, whispering to Bowser, "His memory is impeccable. It seems as though every wand has a story."

Bowser snorted softly. "Let's hope he's as good at finding the right one for Harry."

Ollivander turned toward Bowser, his eyes narrowing slightly as though he sensed something unusual about the disguised Koopa King. But instead of commenting, he merely returned his attention to Harry.

"Now," Ollivander said, pulling a long, silver-marked tape measure from his pocket, "let us find the wand that has been waiting for you. Which is your wand arm?"

"Right," Harry said, holding out his arm.

The tape measure sprang to life, taking measurements from Harry's shoulder to his fingertips, his wrist to his elbow, even around his head and between his nostrils, seemingly of its own accord. Meanwhile, Ollivander flitted between shelves, pulling down boxes and muttering softly.

"Try this," he said, handing Harry a wand. "Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Flexible."

Harry waved the wand, but a sharp crack echoed through the shop, sending a pile of boxes tumbling to the floor.

"No, no," Ollivander muttered, snatching it back. "Not the right fit."

Another wand was handed over. "Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Whippy."

This one fizzled out almost instantly, and Kamek frowned, adjusting his glasses. "Interesting. It seems these wands reject anyone they deem unworthy."

Ollivander gave a small smile. "Indeed. The wand chooses the wizard. We merely facilitate the meeting."

Bowser growled impatiently. "We could be here all day at this rate."

"Patience, Your Majesty," Ollivander said without missing a beat, his tone calm. "Some wizards take longer to find their match."

Finally, after several more failed attempts, Ollivander paused, his gaze lingering on a high shelf. "Ah... perhaps this. Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Supple."

He pulled the box down with care, opening it to reveal a wand that seemed to shine faintly in the dim light. "Try this, Mr. Potter."

The moment Harry took the wand, a warmth spread through his hand. He raised it, swishing it through the air, and a cascade of red and gold sparks erupted from the tip, illuminating the shop in brilliant light.

Hagrid whooped, clapping his hands. "That's it, Harry! That's the one!"

Ollivander's pale eyes gleamed. "Ah, very good. Very good indeed. How curious... How very curious."

Harry frowned, lowering the wand. "What's curious?"

Ollivander carefully placed the wand back in its box, wrapping it in brown paper as he spoke. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar."

Harry swallowed, his hand unconsciously brushing his lightning-bolt scar.

"Yes," Ollivander continued, his voice soft but firm. "Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Curious how these things happen. The wand chooses 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."

Harry shivered slightly at the words, but Bowser stepped forward, his fiery gaze locking onto Ollivander. "Great things or not, Harry's not him. This wand? It's his. And he'll make his own path."

Ollivander inclined his head, unfazed by Bowser's intensity. "Of course, Your Majesty."

Harry paid the seven Galleons, clutching his wand tightly as they left the shop. Outside, Bowser placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's yours now, kid. Don't let anyone make you think otherwise."

Harry nodded, his confidence returning. "I won't, Dad. I'll make it mine."

With Harry's supplies now complete, the group exited out of the shop and began their journey back through Diagon Alley, the excitement of the day still buzzing in the air. Harry glanced down at the wand in his hand and the owl by his side, a mix of curiosity and determination filling him as he prepared for the adventure ahead.