Ollivander's Wand Shop, Diagon Alley, 1991

The soft jingle of the bell marked their entrance, and the scent of old wood and parchment greeted Harry as he stepped into the narrow, dusty shop. Stacks of wand boxes towered on every wall. It felt like the quietest place in Diagon Alley—until a voice, papery and precise, emerged from the shadows.

"Ah, Mr. Potter… I wondered when I'd be seeing you."

Harry jumped slightly. A thin, white-haired man stepped out from between the shelves with eyes like pale moons. But his attention didn't stay on Harry for long. It shifted behind him.

"Well, now," Ollivander said with a smile. "Mr. Ray. What a surprise. A pleasure, as always."

Harry turned. A tall young man had just entered—dark hair slightly messy, a light sea-blue cloak draped carelessly over his shoulders. His piercing violet eyes were uncommonly kind and warm, but yet sharp—like someone always thinking a few steps ahead.

"Hello, Mr. Ollivander," Mriyan replied, calm and pleasant.

"Still using the laurel wand, are we? Ten inches, phoenix feather core, quite the rare match—fierce loyalty, excellent with complex charms…"

Mriyan nodded. "Still works like a charm."

"Of course it does," Ollivander said fondly. "That wand was always… particular. Much like its master."

Harry watched the exchange with interest. This guy seemed effortlessly cool, and he clearly wasn't just another wizard off the street. But the way he smiled at Harry a moment later—it wasn't smug, or overbearing. It was just kind.

"You must be Harry," Mriyan said, stepping forward. "Mriyan Ray."

"Er—hi," Harry replied, shaking his hand.

"Good to meet you," Mriyan said. "So, First wand, that's quite special!"

"Yeah," Harry nodded, then glanced around. "This place is… different."

Mriyan chuckled. "Yeah. It's got its own mood."

Harry relaxed a little. Mriyan's tone wasn't like the others. He wasn't staring at his scar, or treating him like a mystery. He talked to him like he was just a regular kid.

Ollivander returned with a stack of boxes and began his ritual of wand-trying. A few failed swishes later, he opened a long, narrow case.

"Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere – I wonder now – yes, why not – unusual combination – holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls. Hagrid whooped and clapped and Mr Ollivander cried, "Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well… how curious… how very curious…"

"Sorry," said Harry, "but what's curious?"

Mriyan, leaning casually against the shelf, suddenly straightened a little. His eyes narrowed.

"What's curious?" Harry asked.

Ollivander stepped closer, inspecting the wand he had just handed over. "This wand—holly and phoenix feather—shares a core with another. 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.
"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed 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. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... and we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter.""

Before the words could settle, another voice cut through—calm, clear, and edged with quiet conviction.
"That wand belonged to someone who made choices, Mr. Ollivander. Choices soaked in darkness. And darkness, however powerful, must never be mistaken for greatness."

Mriyan had stepped forward, the firelight catching in the deep violet of his eyes. His tone was respectful, but unwavering.
"It is disappointing to hear such ambiguity from someone as wise as you."

Ollivander fell silent, his pale eyes unreadable.

Then Mriyan turned to Harry, and the firmness melted into something gentler—something fiercely kind.
"But that doesn't matter now," he said, voice low and steady. "Because every wand is unique—just as every soul is. What truly matters, Harry, is that this wand chose you. And that means, no matter what its brother has done, your path is still yours to shape."

Harry looked up at him. "You think I can shape my own path, this wand choosing me, it matters?"

"I know it does," Mriyan said simply.

Ollivander gave a slow nod, as if satisfied by Mriyan's words. "Wise as ever, Mr. Ray."

A moment later, Hagrid burst through the door. "There yeh are, Harry! An'—blimey! Mriyan Ray! Good ter see yeh, lad!"

Mriyan winced, half-smiling. "You too, Hagrid."

"He was one o' the best students Hogwarts ever had," Hagrid told Harry, clapping Mriyan's shoulder. "Dumbledore trusted him more'n most adults."

Harry looked at Mriyan, a little awe slipping into his gaze.

Mriyan noticed, and looked down awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "He exaggerates. I just studied a lot and broke a few rules in the right places."

Harry laughed. He liked him instantly.

The late afternoon sun spilled over the cobblestones as Mriyan and Harry stepped out of Ollivander's, Hagrid lumbering a few paces behind with Harry's bags.

Mriyan carried himself with quiet grace, his eyes always scanning the crowd—but not like he was paranoid. Like he was ready.

Harry walked beside him, still holding his new wand, fingers tracing the polished wood as he kept glancing up at Mriyan.

"You really knew Dumbledore?" Harry asked suddenly.

Mriyan nodded. "Yeah. He was a mentor. Still is, in a way."

Harry looked thoughtful. "He's the one who sends me the invitation to Hogwarts, and Hagrid says he is the best Head Master in the History of Hogwarts. So… I guess I trust him."

"You should," Mriyan said. "But also learn to trust yourself."

They turned the corner near the steps of Madam Malkin's, and bumped—quite literally—into a boy about Harry's age, dressed in black robes with silver trim, blond hair slicked back, a smug expression ready for the world.

"Oh," said the boy, brushing his shoulder. "Watch it—"

He stopped when he saw Mriyan.

His face instantly changed. "Mr. Ray!"

Mriyan raised an eyebrow. "Draco Malfoy."

Draco straightened his collar, suddenly a little awkward, like he was meeting a pop star. "I didn't know you were back in town."

"Just passing through," Mriyan said, then gently placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "Showing a friend around."

Draco looked curiously at Harry, but didn't recognize him. "Friend?"

Mriyan's smile was polite, firm. "Yes."

Draco seemed to hesitate, torn between curiosity and not wanting to look nosy in front of someone he clearly admired.

"I suppose I'll see you at some point at the Manor," Draco said finally. "My father still says you're the only Ravenclaw worth respecting."

Mriyan gave a wry smile. "Tell Lucius I'm flattered."

Draco gave Harry one more puzzled glance, then nodded stiffly and walked off.

As soon as he was gone, Harry turned to Mriyan. "You… know him?"

"We've met," Mriyan replied with a shrug. "I met him a few times when he visited Hogwarts with his father, who is most unfortunately a member of the Governing Body of Hogwarts. He was young. He's grown… sharp."

Harry looked impressed. "He really respects you."

"Respect doesn't always mean agreement," Mriyan said with a half-smile. "Just means he listens. Sometimes."

Then he turned to Harry, eyes kind but steady. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone who you are—not until you want them to know."

Harry's chest eased, and he gave a quiet, grateful nod.

Mriyan ruffled his hair. "You're just a first year, remember? You don't have to carry the world yet."

"But I might have to someday," Harry said.

Mriyan looked at him, really looked. Then said softly, "And when that day comes, you'll have us. You'll have me."

Harry smiled, and for the first time since he learned he was a wizard… he felt safe.

The Leaky Cauldron was warm and slightly smoky, filled with murmuring voices and the occasional clink of glasses. Harry sat at a small corner table, his untouched shepherd's pie growing cold. Hagrid was halfway through his third tankard of mead, and Mriyan was stirring a cup of steaming tea with a steady hand, eyes half-lidded in thought.

Harry looked from one to the other, then lowered his voice.

"Can I ask something?" he said. "About… Voldemort?"

Hagrid flinched, his massive shoulders tensing. "Blimey, Harry—don't say the name!"

Mriyan, however, looked up without surprise.

"Say it, Harry," he said gently. "Call him by his name. The fear in the name is what gives him half his power."

Harry nodded slowly. "What happened to him? Why does everyone act like… he's not gone?"

Mriyan took a breath, folding his hands on the table.

"No one really knows where he is," he said. "Or what he is now. But when you were a baby, he came for you. Tried to kill you. And something happened—something no one expected."

Harry swallowed. "He tried to kill me?"

Hagrid looked down, pained.

"Your mum and dad… they died protectin' you," he muttered. "Lily… she loved you so much, Harry. That love—it did something powerful. When You-Know-Who cast the curse at you… it backfired. Destroyed 'im. Or almost did."

Mriyan's voice was softer. "Dark magic like his—it can't be destroyed by normal means. That night, his body died. But his soul… it didn't."

Harry looked shaken. "So he's still out there?"

"Somewhere," Mriyan said. "But not whole. And not strong. Not yet."

"But he will come back?" Harry asked, quietly.

Mriyan met his eyes, calm and honest.

"Yes," he said. "I believe so."

Hagrid looked horrified. "Mriyan—"

"We have to be honest with him, Hagrid," Mriyan said quietly. "If he's to face the future, he needs to know the truth. Not just fairy tales."

Harry was quiet for a moment. "What do I do, then?"

Mriyan smiled, not with amusement, but with quiet certainty.

"You live. You learn. You grow strong, not just with magic, but with kindness. Loyalty. Wisdom. The things Voldemort never understood."

He reached into his pocket and placed something on the table—a small, enchanted coin with the crest of Hogwarts.

"Remember this place will be your home now. You'll find people who care about you. Who fight for you. And someday, Harry, if darkness rises again—you will be ready."

Harry picked up the coin and looked at it as though it were the most precious thing in the world.

Hagrid wiped a tear from his eye. "You're a great lad, Harry. An' with Mriyan 'round, you'll always have someone watchin' your back."

Harry looked at Mriyan, a strange warmth blooming in his chest.

"Thank you," he whispered.

Mriyan simply smiled and said, "Always."

Hagrid and Mriyan talking about some serious things, something related to Gringotts. Something they wanted to discuss privately, and Harry doesn't wanted to eavesdrop So he was lingering just outside the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, eyes wide as he stared at a sleek, gleaming broomstick: the Nimbus Two Thousand. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"That's the newest model," said a voice beside him, cool and confident. "Fastest in the world, if you ask me."

Harry turned to find a boy about his age, with pale blonde hair, sharp gray eyes, and the posture of someone used to people listening when he talked. This is the same boy who greeted Mriyan a few moments ago .

"I reckon they'll let us have one when we make the house teams. My father says I'll be a shoo-in for the Slytherin team."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Do first years usually get to play?"

The boy shrugged. "Not always. But there are… exceptions, when someone's got real talent. Or real connections."

He glanced at Harry's plain, slightly oversized clothes. "You going to Hogwarts this year too?"

Harry nodded cautiously. "Yeah."

"Name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

Harry considered offering his name, but something about the boy's smug tone made him pause.

"Do you know Mriyan Ray?" Draco asked suddenly, his eyes flicking toward the street behind them. "I just saw you walking near him earlier. He's... well, everyone knows him. He was Head Boy, top dueller in the last decade, Ravenclaw—bit of a legend."

Harry tried to hide the flicker of surprise that someone could speak of Mriyan that way.

"I met him today," Harry replied simply. "He was... nice."

Draco scoffed, almost uncertainly. "Nice, sure. Doesn't act like it, but I've seen how dangerous he can be. Father says he's always interfering in things that don't concern him. Still, even he wouldn't dare get in the way of the Dark Lord if he truly returned…"

Harry frowned. "I thought you said your name was Malfoy. Is your family... in the Ministry?"

"We're well connected," Draco said vaguely, puffing his chest a little. "Father knows everyone. Important people. And we've always been pure-bloods."

Then his tone turned curious. "What about your family? Are they our kind, or—muggles?"

Harry stared at him, his mind catching on that phrase. Our kind?

"They're… gone," he said quickly. "They were magical, I think. But I didn't grow up with them."

Draco blinked. "Oh. I see."

A pause. Then: "You'd better be careful who you talk to at school. There are some people you don't want to mix with. Blood traitors, mudbloods, that sort."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "I think I can decide that for myself."

Before Draco could reply, a heavy figure called from across the street. "Harry! There yeh are!"

It was Hagrid, striding toward him, Mriyan just behind with a small parcel tucked under his arm—something important, Harry could tell by the way both men moved, alert and deliberate.

Draco gave Harry a sideways look. "Guess I'll see you at the station," he said, and with a flick of his robes, he disappeared into the crowd.

Harry turned toward Hagrid and Mriyan, who had now caught up. Hagrid gave Draco a long, suspicious glance over his shoulder.

"Was that young Malfoy?" Hagrid muttered. "Keep yeh distance from that one."

Mriyan glanced down at Harry, his expression unreadable. "He has his own path," he said neutrally. "So do you."

And somehow, that made Harry feel a little better.

As they walked down the cobbled streets of Diagon Alley, the afternoon sun slanting through the shop signs and the bustle of witches and wizards all around, Harry glanced up at Mriyan, curiosity tugging at his thoughts.

"Um… Mriyan?" Harry asked hesitantly.

Mriyan turned his head slightly, his pace easy. "Yes, Harry?"

"That boy—Draco—he said some things about you. That you were Head Boy. A duelling champion. That everyone knows your name at Hogwarts."

Mriyan gave a soft chuckle, almost amused by the weight of the words.

"Draco does have a flair for dramatic summaries," he said dryly.

"But… is it true?" Harry pressed, eyes wide with a mix of awe and uncertainty. "Were you really all that?"

Mriyan paused near the edge of the street, letting a group of children rush past with bags of sweets from Honeydukes. Then he looked at Harry, his expression gentler than before.

"I suppose I held some titles, yes. I was Head Boy. I loved duelling. And… perhaps I was decent at it," he said with a shrug, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"But none of that really mattered in the end," he continued, his voice quieter. "What mattered—what I still carry with me—are the memories. I had great friends. Laughed in the Common Room till morning. Studied too hard sometimes, and broke rules when it felt right. I truly lived at Hogwarts."

He rested a hand briefly on Harry's shoulder. "And I believe you'll have all of that too. The titles, the skills… they come and go. But the heart of Hogwarts? It's something you carry with you, if you let it in."

Harry felt something shift in his chest. Not the weight of expectation, but the warmth of possibility.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Mriyan smiled and nodded once. "Come on. Before Hagrid buys out the entire Menagerie."

They continued down the street, the sun spilling golden light across the stones, and Harry felt—just for a moment—like maybe this whole magical world wasn't so overwhelming after all.

As they made their way past the Apothecary and stopped near the side entrance of Flourish and Blotts, Mriyan slowed down, glanced around to make sure Hagrid wasn't too far behind, then turned to Harry.

"I got you something," he said casually, reaching into the satchel slung across his shoulder.

Harry blinked. "Me?"

Mriyan nodded, pulling out a slim, slightly weathered book with silver-etched runes on the spine. Its cover was deep navy, almost black, and shimmered faintly in the light.

"It's not on your school list," Mriyan said with a quiet grin, "but it helped me a lot in my early years. A Beginner's Guide to Defensive Magic: Foundations of Protection."

Harry took it carefully, flipping it open. The pages smelled of old parchment and ink, and there were notes scribbled in the margins—neat, precise handwriting. "Are these your notes?"

"Some of them," Mriyan admitted. "There's no dark forest survival guide or dramatic duels in there. Just good, solid spells. Disarming, shielding, awareness—skills every witch or wizard should learn first."

Harry looked up, unsure what to say.

"Thank you," he said finally, quietly, the weight of the gift settling in more than just his hands.

Mriyan smiled, then added, "One day, when you find yourself in a tricky spot—and you will—remember: defense is as much about the mind as the wand. Stay calm. Trust yourself."

Harry nodded, the book clutched close to his chest. He wasn't sure what made his throat tight, but something in Mriyan's tone felt like… home. Not the kind he lost, but the kind he was slowly beginning to find.

As they stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron and back into the Muggle world, Harry looked around awkwardly, unsure of what came next. But Mriyan, standing beside him, drew his wand casually and, with a flick, transfigured his Ravenclaw-blue wizarding robes into a tailored, midnight-black suit—elegant, sharp-edged, with a silver pin at the lapel and leather gloves now resting in one hand.

Harry blinked. "Wow."

Mriyan smirked, brushing a nonexistent wrinkle from his cuff. "When in the Muggle world, it helps to dress like you own it."

A taxi pulled up—Mriyan had arranged it with an easy charm to the driver—and soon, they were heading to Privet Drive. As they turned onto the clean, uniform street of number four, Harry grew quieter, apprehensive.

"I'll handle it," Mriyan said simply, his voice steady.

At the door, Vernon Dursley opened it with his usual scowl, but that expression faltered the moment his eyes landed on Mriyan. The young man stood tall, his dark hair swept back, suit immaculate, gaze sharp. Mriyan didn't raise his voice—he didn't need to.

"Good evening. I'm Mriyan Ray," he said, his tone crisp and articulate. "I've escorted Harry home. I trust you'll ensure his stay until school begins is… appropriately comfortable."

Petunia peered from behind Vernon, pale and blinking. Dudley was already halfway up the stairs, unnerved by the commanding stranger at the door.

Vernon tried to bluster. "Look here, we—"

Mriyan took a slight step forward, not threatening, but somehow making the air in the doorway feel colder.

"I'm sure I don't need to remind you," he said smoothly, "that Professor Dumbledore values Harry's safety. And so do I. Any mistreatment will not go unnoticed. I assure you—I have my ways."

A silence followed, thick and brittle. Petunia gave a rigid nod. "Of course. He'll be fine."

Mriyan gave Harry a reassuring glance and then said to the Dursleys, with the faintest smile, "Excellent. I'm glad we understand each other."

He turned to Harry. "I'll see you at Hogwarts. Write to me if you need anything." Then, after a warm, brief pause, "You've got this."

With that, he stepped off the doorstep, the shadows folding around his silhouette as he vanished down the street, leaving behind a house full of very stunned Muggles—and one quietly beaming boy.