Hagrid had peeled off a few minutes ago, saying, "Might as well get yer uniform," nodding toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. And continuing with, "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a bit, think some ice cream would do us right good after that hellish cart? I hate them Gringotts carts." I didn't argue—if I'm being honest, I could use a sugar hit too. After everything, I'm still running on sheer adrenaline and a quiet, simmering disbelief.
Madam Malkin's is quieter than I expected. A soft charm hums in the air, keeping the room comfortably cool despite the summer heat. Bolts of fabric float midair, enchanted scissors snipping away with idle precision as pins glide to their places. It's… peaceful. Calming, even.
She steps out from the back, dressed in soft mauve work robes and measuring tape already around her neck. She gives me a small, professional smile.
"Standard Hogwarts robes, dear?"
"Yeah," I say, stepping up onto the fitting stool she gestures toward. "First year."
She makes a soft hum and gets to work, lifting a dark black robe over my head with practiced ease. It's all smooth motions—quick measurements, a handful of pins, a flick of her wand here and there. She doesn't speak much, and that's fine by me. I'm grateful for the silence.
Because the mirror across from me? It's impossible to ignore.
Short, skinny frame. Messy black hair, soft round jawline, and those eyes—green, too green, I had always wanted green eyes and black hair but now it felt unnatural. My hands look too small. I catch myself fiddling with the edge of the robe, not because of nerves but because everything feels unfamiliar. The glasses are the worst part—every time they slip a millimeter down my nose, I want to rip them off. The world shouldn't be blurry without them.
She's not commenting on any of it. Not the awkward silence, not my face, not my obvious discomfort. She does keep glancing at the scar, though. Subtle flicks of the eye, half-second pauses. I catch it twice, maybe three times—but she says nothing.
Thank God for professionalism. I make a mental note to leave her a tip.
After a moment, I clear my throat. "You carry anything made from acromantula silk?"
That catches her off guard. She blinks once, lifts her eyebrows. "We do, yes. But it's… quite expensive. Dangerous to collect, you see—most acromantulas don't exactly give up their webs politely."
"Figures," I mutter.
"The silk is also incredibly dense. The weaving alone takes enchantment to process properly—special looms, preservation spells, tensile softening before threading."
"How much for a robe?"
"Unenchanted? Fifty galleons. Enchanted would run closer to eighty, depending on the layering."
I physically flinch. "Yikes."
A tiny smirk ghosts over her lips. "Most only order them custom—for dueling robes or family formalwear. Certainly not school uniforms."
"Right," I say, sheepish. "I'm not trying to be that guy." I only brought about five hundred out of the vault. Better not burn it all in one go.
She nods approvingly.
"But what about enchantments for the standard Hogwarts robes? Anything that can be added? Like… self-mending? Weatherproofing?"
Now she looks impressed. "You're unusually practical for your age. Most just want a flashy trim."
"Fashion's great. Warm robes are better."
She chuckles, gently adjusting a seam at my shoulder. "Yes, we offer a light enchantment bundle. Self-mending, mild water-repellant, temperature regulation—helps keep the heat out in summer and cold out in winter. Adds a galleon per set."
That actually sounds… really worth it. "Yeah. Add that."
She gives a quick nod and makes a note on a floating clipboard. "Anything else, dear?"
"No. This is already more than I expected."
She gives me a warm little smile and a pat on the sleeve before stepping back. "That's all for now. You can step down."
As I hop off the stool, I hear the door chime softly in the front. Probably Hagrid returning with sugar. I take one last glance in the mirror, force myself to meet those green eyes, and push the discomfort aside.
I step out of Madam Malkin's, the soft chime of the door fading behind me. The fresh air of Diagon Alley hits my face, but it doesn't clear the low buzz of irritation still simmering under my skin.
The robes fit perfectly. The enchantments were solid. But the moment I caught sight of myself in the mirror…
I looked like a kid playing dress-up.
No offense to the robes — they were clean, functional, but above all boring.
Hagrid lets out a satisfied sigh behind me, clearly thinking we're done. "Right then, robes sorted. S'pose next is—"
I spot it before he can finish.
Across the alley, set between a crystal telescope boutique and what looks like a talking inkwell emporium, stands a storefront of deep obsidian stone. Silver letters are etched into the arched signage above the door in graceful, looping script:
Vern & Stitch – Tailors of Tradition and Taste
The display window is dominated by mannequins dressed in robes straight out of a gothic fever dream. High-collared coats with silver clasps, velvet waistcoats embroidered with runes, frock-style robes with layered skirts and sweeping cuffs. One of them turns slowly in place, giving me a full view of its ensemble. The craftsmanship is absurd. And exactly what I want.
I step toward the door without hesitation.
Hagrid grunts, catching up. "Er—Harry? That's not on the list."
"It's not," I say. "But I'm not leaving this place looking like a discount wizard Halloween costume. Two minutes."
He sighs, massive shoulders rising. "Two minutes. Don't spend all yer gold, mind."
Inside, the shop is dim, lit with cool white witchlight suspended in glass orbs above the walls. Rich black carpeting muffles our steps, and a faint scent of clove and parchment hangs in the air. Shelves are lined with bolts of cloth in every texture imaginable — some shimmer as if wet, others drink the light around them like shadows.
From behind a crimson velvet curtain steps a man as thin and angular as a rune carved in glass. His robes are black with a silver vine pattern, and a monocle glints at his right eye.
He takes one look at me, his eyes pausing on my scar and smiles like a man who's just seen a puzzle worth solving.
"Mr. Potter," he says smoothly, bowing low. "A pleasure. Tessius Vern, clothier to the refined and particular. Might I interest you in something... less institutional than standard schoolwear?"
I grin.
He gets it.
Hagrid groans in the background.
Perfect.
I stand awkwardly in the center of the velvet-floored fitting platform, arms half-lifted as floating tape measures dart and weave around me like metallic hummingbirds on caffeine.
Tessius Vern hums quietly to himself as he circles, a half-dozen bolts of fabric trailing behind him like a courtier's entourage.
"Forgive me, Mr. Potter," he says at last, folding his hands, "but you seem… uncertain of your desired aesthetic."
"I am," I admit, not even trying to fake confidence. "I don't know the fashion here. Or, you know, wizard fashion at all."
He stops, tilts his head. "And yet you dragged yourself into this shop — clearly not content with the school-standard aesthetic."
I shrug, lips twitching. "Yeah, well. If I'm gonna be wearing robes, I'm not wearing the wizarding version of beige cargo pants."
That earns a dry chuckle from him, one brow arching. "Well said."
The first bolt of fabric floats toward me — dark crimson velvet laced with fine-threaded silver.
"Too soft," I murmur, brushing my fingers against it. "Pretty, but I'll look like I escaped a brothel."
"Quite right," Tessius says though he raises an eyebrow curiously— shit I'm fucking eleven, and sends it drifting back to its shelf. "You strike me as someone searching for contrast — elegance with presence. Perhaps… dignity with a touch of menace?"
I blink. Then nod slowly. "That's exactly what I want."
He begins again.
Black wool with grey pinstripes. Too boring. Rich emerald with subtle shimmer. Better, but too light in mood. We start trying combinations. Black with deep red piping. Purple with silver embroidery. Black-on-black with only texture to distinguish.
As I step behind the privacy screen, pieces begin forming and refitting around me.
"You're quite young for a private commission," Tessius calls over the screen.
"Blame trauma," I say dryly, stepping out in a first full set: dark coat-style robe with red inner lining, high-collared underlayer, slim black trousers, and long cuffs that flick slightly as I move.
Hagrid grunts from his chair in the corner. "Look like one o' them vampire hunters."
"Excellent," I mutter. "Now I just need a sword."
Tessius perks up. "If you're genuinely interested, we do commission enchanted blades on occasion—"
"Not today," Hagrid cuts in quickly, eyes narrowing. "Merlin's beard, Dumbledore'll string me up if yeh come back with a bloody sabre."
I chuckle, and slide back behind the screen.
Tessius floats several boots into place for me to try — dragon-hide, chimera-blend, and something blacker than black "stormcat leather." I settle on a pair of dark dragon-hide boots with silver buckles and featherweight soles that don't creak when I walk.
"You'll find them ideal for travel, dueling, or vanishing silently into the night," Tessius offers helpfully.
"That last one feels a little targeted," I mutter, but take them anyway.
When he brings over a shirt of pale, shimmering black silk, I pause.
"Is this…?"
"Acromantula silk," he confirms with a slight bow. "Light as air, immune to flame, and will turn most weapons — Muggle fire legs included."
I squint. "Do you mean guns?"
"That's what I said," he replies with a grin.
The fabric flows through my fingers like water made solid. It's so soft it's almost unnerving. I slip it on and grin, to be able to be assured of having armor on at all times…. I love it..
"How much?"
"Sixty Galleons. Unenchanted."
I wince, even worse than Madam Malkin said. Even with the enchanted pouch at my hip, that's a hefty price tag.
"...I'll take one," I mutter. "But it better last."
"It will," Tessius assures me with professional pride.
Bit by bit, the wardrobe takes shape. I ask for colors — I test them, feel them, see them on myself. Red and silver. Green and silver, black and purple…I know the colors I like but I don't know what works with this body yet.
Every piece feels like I'm building something. Not a disguise. Not a mask. An identity. A future.
When I finally step in front of the mirror, dressed in a full ensemble — black robes with silver clasp, inner coat trimmed in violet thread, dragon-hide boots gleaming softly — I feel it hit me.
I look good.
But the reflection still jars me.
Because even under the regal cut and magical grace, I'm still… a child.
My face is too soft. My shoulders too narrow. My height lacking.
The scar — that ragged, vicious thing that slashes down through one eye and cheek — is the only part that feels like it belongs in the mirror. It anchors the image. Corrupts the innocence. Makes the whole thing a little more real.
I grimace.
I look like a kid playing dress-up in his older brother's funeral clothes. Pretending he belongs in the halls of power.
And yet…
I can see it.
The silhouette is there. The potential. The curve of the collar and fall of the robe show me not what I am — but what I will be. The man I'll shape this body into.
Better even than what I used to be.
I breathe out slowly and nod.
"I'll take all three sets," I say, voice calm. "With all the standard enchantments. Weatherproof, self-mending, heat and cold resistance. And the silk underlayer."
Tessius bows again. "An excellent investment, Mr. Potter."
I reach into the pouch and count out the gold. One-hundred and fifty Galleons. I hand him the pouch and slide three more aside as a tip.
He doesn't smile, but his head dips in subtle appreciation.
"Come back next year," he says as the robes are packaged into a sleek obsidian-silver carrier case. "You'll have outgrown the fitting enchantment by then I imagine."
I glance down at myself.
I hope so.
We step back into the midday bustle of Diagon Alley, the hum of conversation and faint magical crackle returning like background static. The sun filters through pale clouds overhead, throwing slanted shadows across cobblestones.
Hagrid stretches with a long sigh and adjusts the new robe carrier slung over his arm like it weighs nothing. "Didn't think you'd be in there quite that long," he grumbles, though there's a faint twinkle in his eye. "You're a right little lord now, eh?"
I smirk, but before I can get too comfortable, something glints in the corner of my eye — bright, blue-hued magic pulsing behind a glass storefront just down the lane.
A sign above it reads: Marcalo's Enchanted Jewelry & Protective Charms.
Oh.
Yes.
A wave of curiosity floods through me. The display window is crammed with intricate rings, amulets, and cufflinks — some glowing faintly, others shining under protective glass domes. One pendant crackles with icy blue light; another rotates slowly, suspended in nothing but runes.
I start veering toward the door.
Hagrid is on me in a second. "Oh no yeh don't."
"What?" I protest, trying for innocence. "Just looking."
"That's what you said about the clothes, and now you're dressed like a vampire prince," he mutters, steering me firmly back to the main street. "No more spending. Dumbledore'll tan my hide if I let yeh come back wearin' six amulets and a monocle."
"…I was eyeing the monocle," I admit under my breath with a smile.
Hagrid groans.
With a dramatic sigh worthy of the stage, I let him redirect me — only to spot something that instantly pulls me back to excited reality.
A squat building made of thick, polished oak. Brass signage overhead inlaid with moving letters reads:
Harridan & Sons – Enchanted Travel Trunks Since 1632
Yes. This I need. I slip away grinning as I hear Hagrid groan behind me.
Inside, the scent of leather and old polish fills the air. Rows of finely crafted trunks stretch along the walls. I zero in on one with a dark walnut finish and subtle leaves and vines carved into the edges.
A shopkeeper appears — sharp-featured and serious. "Looking for standard or specialty enchantments?"
"Do you have one with expandable compartments? Wardable? Lightweight? Silent opening? Maybe a library drawer?"
His eyes gleam. "We have something that may fit."
Ten minutes later, I walk out with a three-compartment trunk keyed to my wand (not that I have a wand yet), capable of shrinking to pocket size, and with a custom voice-locked secure section.
Worth every Galleon.
As we head back out into the alley, I glance down at my hands sadly. No rings. No torcs. Yet.
"Right then," Hagrid says, clapping his hands. "Still got your books, potions, and—"
"And an owl," I say, perking up immediately. Hedwig.
"Aye," he nods, chuckling. "We'll see if we can find yeh somethin' with feathers."
By the time we leave the trunk shop, I've added another twenty Galleons to today's damage report — not that I regret it. Between the enchanted storage and the sleek wand holster stitched inside the lid, it's easily worth twice that. Hagrid pauses just ahead, jerking his thumb toward the next storefront — tall windows fogged slightly with magic, stacked with floating tomes and parchment that hums softly through the glass.
"Flourish an' Blotts," he rumbles. "Get yer school books sorted, then we'll swing past the apothecary."
I nod, but my gaze is already locked on the shelves inside. There's something magnetic about it — the quiet gravity of knowledge that matters. This is where the real power starts. Not in robes or gold.
In the books.
I follow Hagrid inside, heart thudding faster than it should.
The bell over the door jingles as we step into Flourish and Blotts, and immediately the world softens. The noise of Diagon Alley fades behind thick oak and stone. It's quieter here — not silent, but contained. Like sound itself is muffled out of respect for the words lining every inch of the place.
It smells like paper and polish and candle smoke. The kind of scent you want to bottle and keep.
Books float gently behind the front counter, their pages fluttering as if caught in a breeze I can't feel. There's a rhythm to the place, a pulse beneath the surface. A magical bookstore in a magical world. Of course it hums.
Hagrid heads toward the register to sort out the standard Hogwarts textbook bundle. "Poke about if yeh like," he says over his shoulder. "Just don't vanish on me."
But I'm already moving.
I trail down the first aisle, fingers trailing along spines embossed with gold and silver. A beginner's guide to charms. A dull-looking transfiguration manual. "History of Magic for the Curious Young Mind." Cute.
I round a corner and stop.
A lower shelf near the wall has a curved wooden sign hanging above it: For Young Witches and Wizards.
The display is bright. Glossy covers. Cartoony fonts. Gentle pastels and glittery foil. I crouch down, curiosity piqued despite myself, and pick up one at random.
Harry Potter and the Vampire Coven.
I blink.
The cover shows a stylized, cheerful version of Harry — big round glasses, messy black hair, a wand clutched in one hand and a glowing stake in the other. The scar is prominent. Clean. Centered.
I thumb through a few pages. It's clearly fiction. Sanitized adventure. Monster-hunting mayhem with cheerful moral lessons tucked between every action beat. I find myself scanning for the author, but there's no name.
"Oh, god," I mutter, sliding the book back onto the shelf. "Harry Potter children's books are real here."
I stare at the shelf a second longer. There's a whole series. Harry Potter and the Haunted Portrait. Harry Potter and the Mermaid's Tear. Harry Potter and the Clockwork Chimera.
"I better be getting royalties," I grumble and turn sharply on my heel.
The next section is tucked away in the back. The shelves rise above eye level and the lighting dips a touch — not enough to be obvious, just enough to feel like the magic's heavier here. The spines are leatherbound, stitched in thick thread or sealed with runes that shimmer faintly under the light.
My heart kicks up a beat.
This is it. This is where the shit I want is.
War Magic: Theory and Practice. Runic Augmentation. Elemental Focus: A Treatise on Channeling Natural Forces. Animagi and Soul-State Projection.
I reach out. One finger brushes a sigil on the spine of a thin book titled Wandless Application in High-Stress Scenarios and the hair on my arms lifts. Static. Power.
Before I know it, I've pulled five books. Then six. Then more. I start stacking them in my arms, tucking them against my chest as carefully as one can cradle forbidden knowledge. I'm halfway through a book on bloodline enchantments when Hagrid's voice rolls through the shelves like distant thunder.
"Harry? Don't make me come lookin' for yeh."
I wince and scoop up the last few I'd laid aside. My arms are full. A ridiculous, wobbling tower of books I absolutely cannot afford but desperately want.
I shuffle back toward the front, the stack partially obscuring my vision. Hagrid takes one look at me, one eyebrow creeping toward his hairline.
"Yeh can't be serious."
"I can be," I say, "but you're probably going to stop me, aren't you?"
He sighs. "Pick one, Harry."
I kneel down slowly, careful not to drop anything, and set the stack of books on the floor beside me. Runic Integration in Battle Casting lands with a satisfying thud, and the rest wobble dangerously before I steady them with both hands.
Hagrid stands a few feet away, arms crossed, looking like someone who just caught their kid trying to sneak every candy bar off a shelf.
"One," he repeats, voice gentle but firm. "Just one, Harry."
And just like that, the smallest flicker of irritation flares in my chest.
It's not about the money. I have money. Plenty, actually — that vault was a dragon's hoard. No, it's the fact that I'm eleven. Short. Wide-eyed. Glasses I don't need. A voice that cracks and stumbles in the wrong places. And now I need someone else's permission to buy a damn book.
It feels... wrong.
Still, I don't argue. I just crouch down, scanning the titles again, letting my hands drift across the worn leather spines. There's temptation in all of them. Dueling techniques. Animagus transformation. High-level transfiguration theory.
But then my fingers stop.
Tucked between two larger volumes is a slimmer, dark blue book. Gilded lettering across the spine that shimmers faintly in the light. I slide it out and tilt it toward me— this one had really caught my eye.
Channeling the Elements: The Core Principles of Wandless Elemental Manipulation
I flip it open. A single sketch stretches across the first page: a wizard standing barefoot on a stone surface, lightning coiled in one hand, fire circling the other. No wand. No focus.
A wide grin tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. A memory flickers — fire, water, earth, air. Avatar. I was obsessed with that show once. I want to be able to do it, even if it likely is not as potent as with a wand.
I stand, tucking the book under my arm.
"This one," I say.
Hagrid glances down, eyes skimming the title. His beard twitches. "Good choice."
He doesn't say anything else, just turns and heads to the counter.
I follow, clutching the book like it might vanish if I let it go.
.
.
.
We step out of the bookstore with my new prize tucked firmly under my arm, the heavy weight of the book pressing against my ribs like a promise. Hagrid gives me a long look — somewhere between amused and exhausted — before grunting, "Right. Potions next. Keep clutchin' books like that, you'll be a bloody Raven — straight into Ravenclaw before the Hat even touches your head."
I snort, rolling my eyes. Ravenclaw? Please. I already know where I'm headed. Ambition, my craving for power? I'm practically tailor-made for Slytherin. But let him guess for now.
He turns and starts lumbering down the cobblestone street, and I fall in step beside him.
I catch sight of something glittering in a shop window to our left — a cauldron, yes, but not just any cauldron. This one is diamond-cut crystal, clear and cold and undeniably expensive. The kind of thing you'd expect to see holding elixirs in some high fantasy royal court. I slow for half a second, gaze lingering, one thought spiraling up through the awe:
I want that.
Back in canon, Harry had been tempted by a solid gold one. That never really appealed to me — too tacky. But this? I can almost imagine it glowing faintly under a brewing starlight potion.
Of course, Hagrid sees me looking.
"Nope," he says without breaking stride. "Pewter, size two. That's what it says on the list. Now come on, we need to stop in for yer actual cauldron."
He steers me toward a far less dazzling shop where we pick up a standard pewter model — size two, just like the list says. No frills, no enchantments, just functional. I give it a long-suffering look before packing it into my expanded trunk with the rest of my school gear.
Only then does Hagrid turn down a cramped little alley I hadn't noticed before — nestled between two much louder storefronts, the sign hanging crooked above the door reads:
Slug & Jiggers Apothecary
The moment we step inside, the air changes. Thick. Sharp. Foul.
Rotting herbs, sulfur, crushed roots, and a hint of vinegar cut with something almost metallic. The smell is overwhelming — like a pig farm in potency.
My nose wrinkles, but I don't back out.
I follow Hagrid into the dim, narrow shop, my boots clicking softly against the uneven stone floor. The place feels... alive, in a way the bookstore hadn't. Less polished, less curated, more primal. The scent is overpowering. Acrid herbs, sour roots, iron-rich earth, and something faintly... electric. It's like a potion is actively being brewed just beneath the floorboards, and the fumes have seeped into the very walls.
Barrels of slimy stuff stand on the floor, sweating under layers of condensation. Jars of herbs, dried roots, and bright powders line the walls in chaotic harmony. Bundles of feathers hang in bunches overhead, swinging gently as if stirred by invisible drafts. Strings of fangs dangle from hooks, some yellowed and dull, others gleaming with fresh polish. A few twisted claws — charred, blackened, or bone-white — hang like trophies.
Jars line the shelves, stacked high and deep, filled with liquids and powders and things that defy my ability to categorize. Glowing beetle eyes float in oil — tiny, glittery-black, five Knuts a scoop. Coiled serpents preserved in thick green gel. A skull, small and humanoid, grins at me from behind thick glass, its eye sockets stuffed with dried mushrooms. I can't tell if it's meant to be for sale or if it's just watching.
I pause beside a display of silver unicorn horns and glittering phoenix feathers, tagged with price markers that make my stomach flip. Two hundred Galleons. For one horn. I almost choke.
Potions were overpowered as hell in Hogwarts Legacy, I think, slowly turning away from the case. If this is the same... then I need to take this seriously.
My gaze drifts toward a long wooden case of scales, snare-root, boomslang skin. All ingredients I recognize. Barely. There are probably a dozen poisons here that could stop a heart mid-beat, and just as many antidotes that require timing down to the second.
A slow grin pulls at my mouth.
Snape is almost certainly more dangerous than I thought as a kid. A man who could kill with a brew, disfigure with a mistimed drop, or twist someone's body and magic with a single vial. And I'll be sitting in his class. Vulnerable. Untrained. Eleven. It's a sharp reminder that I need to be sharper still.
A sharp clink draws my attention back as the shopkeeper rings up the student kit and Hagrid hands over the coins. I glance down at the bundled tools: brass scales, measuring spoons, a stirrer, a tiny silver blade, glass phials, mortar and pestle. All simple. All clean. All mine.
I reach out and run a finger along the blade. I feel naked without my weapons.
Then I look back at the locked case. One day, I think. One day, I'll know how to use everything in there.
For now? I just nod my thanks as Hagrid tucks the kit into the trunk with everything else.
We step back into the alley, the heavy wooden door swinging shut behind us. The clean air hits like a slap — but the scent of magic lingers in my nose. Bitter. Sharp.
I don't mind.
Outside the apothecary, Hagrid double-checks the list again, scratching at his beard with one meaty finger.
"Right, just the wand left—and I still haven't gotten yeh a late birthday present," he adds with a little grin.
"You don't have to," I say automatically, already feeling the reflexive protest rise in my throat.
"I know I don't," he rumbles. "Tell yeh what—how about an owl? Handy little buggers. Carry yer mail and all. All the Hogwarts kids love 'em. Nobody wants a bloody toad."
I nod slowly, not quite trusting my voice. I'm too excited to get Hedwig.
He leads us toward a tall, shadowed shop with its name etched in faded silver over the archway: Eeylops Owl Emporium.
Inside, the lighting is dim, almost cathedral-like, with perches stretching from wall to wall and owls of every kind rustling and hooting softly in their cages. The air smells like feathers, straw, and sharp, dry air—like a high mountain nest.
I walk the rows, eyes scanning instinctively for one particular shape. Pale feathers. Golden eyes. A flash of white.
Hedwig.
I don't find her.
It's stupid, I know. Hedwig was never really mine—just Harry's. A character detail in a book. But the disappointment still lands, sharp and sudden.
I step back.
"None of 'em catch your eye?" Hagrid asks, squinting at the cages.
I shake my head.
He rubs his chin, glancing toward the door. "Well, we'll try the Menagerie. Bit more... variety in there. Might be somethin' special waitin' on yeh."
.
.
.
The Magical Menagerie hums with life the moment we step inside.
It's not loud in the normal sense—though creatures are definitely making noise—but it feels loud. Alive in a way the other shops weren't. There's something about the press of magical beasts in one place that makes the air heavy. Watchful.
The scent hits next: fur, feathers, straw, wet scales, something vaguely sulfuric, and something else I can't place—like powdered bone.
And then I think of Diana and Hades.
My cats. Hades, from the Humane Society, curled up on my chest during long nights of work like it was his personal throne. Diana, the stray I found on the street, who never stopped ambushing him at all hours of the day. They wrestled constantly—under the couch, over the bed, behind the damn monitor when I was in meetings. And yet every night, without fail, they slept like a pair of bookends across my legs.
They were loud. Needy. Always underfoot.
And I loved them.
The ache hits fast and hard, a flash of loss I can't fully process. I swallow it, like everything else.
They're gone. Like the rest of that life.
I take a breath and step deeper into the store.
Owls line the front half—rows of sharp beaks and amber eyes. I scan for one in particular, knowing what I won't find but still hoping. One final check for a familiar presence.
No Hedwig.
Nothing even close.
I turn away before the disappointment settles in.
Then I see her.
Back corner. Tall steel perch. A raven—massive, still, half-shadowed. Feathers shimmer darkly, oil-slicked blue and purple under the lighting. Its eyes meet mine: cold, reflective, sharp.
I step closer.
She doesn't flinch.
"Yeah," I murmur. "You'll do."
Behind me, Hagrid's voice rumbles as he catches up, blinking at the sight. "Well, now… don't see many kids go for ravens."
The bird lets out a low, deliberate kraww, like it's confirming the deal.
Hagrid chuckles. "Bit broody, that one. But clever as hell, I bet ya. Smarter'n half the owls in here, I'd wager."
"She's perfect," I say, quieter now.
He nods. "Aye. Then that's settled. Late birthday gift. My treat."
I open my mouth to protest again—on instinct more than anything—but close it again. Hagrid's already at the counter, bartering gently with the clerk.
I'm almost to the counter when a flicker of color pulls at my attention—deep violet, shimmering under the low shop lights. I pause, eyes catching on a narrow tank near the wall, almost buried behind a stack of hay-stuffed cages and brass feeding dishes. One flash of movement, and I'm already veering toward it.
"Oi! Don' go wanderin' off again," Hagrid calls, voice carrying across the shop, but there's no bite in it. Just mild exasperation laced with fondness.
I crouch in front of the tank.
He's coiled on a thick branch near the back, perfectly still but watching. A lean body wrapped in scales of layered purples—lavender along the belly, dark violet across the spine. His head is ridged with sharp, scale-like crests that almost resemble feathers. A bush viper. Atheris hispida. Rare. Aggressive. Deadly in the wild.
Beautiful. I'd always wanted one.
I lean in slightly, voice soft, barely audible.
"Well, aren't you beautiful?"
It comes out strange—smooth, drawn-out. My tongue flicks oddly, the words feel like silk and oil. I barely register the shift.
Then—
"Yesss. I am. You are more aware than mosst."
I freeze.
The snake stares back at me, his eyes unblinking, unreadable.
That was... speech. Actual language. A response. Not emotion. Not a sense. Words.
My jaw clicks shut as the realization hits: Parseltongue.
A grin spreads across my face—slow and wide and a little sharp at the edges. This? This is cool.
Footsteps thud behind me as Hagrid finally catches up, looming beside the tank. "Ain't he a beaut," he murmurs, peering in through the glass. "Yeh don't see many like that even in the Forest. Look at them scales—like a bloody gemstone."
Still crouched, I glance up at him, grinning. "I want him."
Hagrid raises a brow, surprised for all of a second before his face softens into something close to pride. "Well, not the mos' usual o' pets, but I've seen worse. I'll talk ter Dumbledore, make sure it's all right."
I nod, still watching the snake.
He flicks his tongue toward me.
"It will be sssatisfying to leave this place. I think I will not be bored."
Neither will I.
We make our way up to the counter, cages in hand—raven in mine, snake in Hagrid's—and I already know what's coming.
"I'll cover it," Hagrid says, reaching into that bottomless coat pocket of his and fishing out a handful of coins. "Late birthday gift, like I said."
I frown. "The raven, sure. But the snake wasn't part of the plan. He was my idea. I should—"
Hagrid cuts me off with a wave of one massive hand. "Bah. What's one more beastie between friends? 'Sides, reckon I've never seen yeh look at anythin' the way yeh looked at that serpent the entire day. Yeh've got a bond already, I'd say."
I glance down at the cage. The bush viper is coiled neatly in the center, his head resting just so, golden eyes unblinking. Regal little bastard looks like he owns the place already.
The shopkeeper, an older witch with narrow spectacles and ink-stained fingertips, raises an eyebrow as she tallies up the sale. "Not the most common pair, I'll admit. Raven and viper." Her gaze flicks to my scar for half a second, then away. "Very... distinct choices."
I shrug, a little defensively.
Hagrid finishes paying and starts loading the cages into the trunk. I take a step back, folding my arms. I glance down at them again, brow furrowing slightly. "Now I just need to name you two."
The raven tilts her head.
The snake does not move at all—but I feel his gaze settle on me.
Hagrid gently sets the last cage into my trunk before snapping it shut with a satisfying click. He gives the top a pat, then raises his pink umbrella and taps it once. The trunk shimmers, warps, and collapses into a shrunken, palm-sized version of itself. He plucks it up and hands it to me.
"Now," he says, glancing around, "we just need ter get yeh your wand."
My face splits into a grin before I can stop it.
Finally. My wand.
.
.
.
The door to Ollivanders is narrow, almost unassuming, with peeling gold letters barely clinging to the wood above:
Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
I pause in front of it, letting the moment stretch out. This isn't just another shop. This is the shop.
Hagrid pulls up short, squinting into the dusty display window. One wand lies there, on a faded cushion, like it's been waiting for centuries.
Hagrid clears his throat beside me. "Right then, I'll leave yeh to it. Wand chooses the wizard an' all. Bit of a personal thing, y'know?" He gives me a nod and starts lumbering off toward the Leaky Cauldron. "I'll grab us a bite, meet yeh back outside."
I barely register Hagrid's departure. My hand is already on the handle.
The bell above the door chimes softly as I step inside.
The shop is dim and narrow, lined floor-to-ceiling with stacked boxes. Dust hangs in the air, disturbed only by the faintest movement. There's a feeling in here—something sharp, electric, just under the surface of things. Like the shop is watching.
I swallow and take another step in.
It's dead silent.
The dust. The wood. The faint smell of varnish and old paper. It hits me all at once.
This place is steeped in power. Not showy, not flashy—just old. Deep. The kind that doesn't need to announce itself.
My boots creak softly against the floorboards as I drift forward. I run a hand along one of the nearby shelves, tracing the edge of a wand box with my fingers.
Before I can even call out, a voice speaks from the shadows.
"You have your mother's eyes."
I turn just as a man emerges silently from between the shelves, like he was never separate from them to begin with. Pale, misty eyes. Wispy white hair. Garrick Ollivander. His presence is unnerving—soft-spoken, delicate but there is presence there.
"It seems only yesterday she was in here herself," he murmurs, stepping closer, "buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches. Swishy. Willow. An excellent wand for charm work."
His eyes gleam faintly. "Your father's wand was mahogany. Eleven inches. Pliable. Powerful—very good for Transfiguration, if memory serves. Though of course," his voice drops, "the wand chooses the wizard."
He's right in front of me now, and I can see myself reflected in those strange, gleaming eyes. There's no blinking. No wasted motion. Just observation.
"And that's where…"
He reaches out, one long, pale finger brushing the edge of my scar. It's instinct to flinch—but I hold still.
"I'm sorry to say," he continues softly, "I sold the wand that did it. Thirteen and a half inches. Yew. Powerful. Very powerful. And in the wrong hands… well." He shakes his head. "If I had known what it was destined for…"
His gaze lingers on me for a breath too long. Then his tone shifts "I imagine," he says, voice low and expectant, "you're here for your wand."
"I am."
He inclines his head. "Then let us begin."
He draws a silver tape measure from somewhere within his robes and gestures toward me. "Wand arm?"
"Right."
He nods and moves efficiently—shoulder to fingertips, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, then around my head, across my chest, behind my back. I blink as the tape slithers free of his fingers and continues measuring on its own.
Why the fuck do the measurements matter?
"As I'm sure you know, no two Ollivander wands are the same," he murmurs, already vanishing between shelves. "Each is made from one of the three supreme cores—unicorn hair, phoenix feather, or dragon heartstring—housed in the wood that best complements the soul it binds to."
The boxes come fast. He stacks the first on the counter with a quiet tap.
"Ebony and unicorn hair. Eight and three-quarter inches. Give it a wave."
I do. A gust of air slams out from the tip like a shove, knocking over a full shelf to my left.
"Hmm. No." Already gone again.
"Maple and phoenix feather, ten inches, firm."
Sparks sputter from the tip like a busted firework and the counter catches a brief flame.
"Ah. Not quite."
"Cedar and dragon heartstring. Twelve and a quarter inches, unyielding."
The wand jerks in my hand and then shoots clean across the room, embedding itself in the wood above the doorway like a javelin. I blink at it.
Ollivander makes a delighted hum. "Very spirited."
He doesn't stop. Wand after wand. Every wood, every core. Every length. Some make the lights flicker. One made me sneeze uncontrollably. Another spat a thick stream of red ink that splattered the front of my shirt and soaked through my undershirt.
The pile grows higher. I'm getting tired of apologizing to furniture.
Then, he stops. Eyes locked on one box. The old one. Faded edges. Slightly frayed ribbon.
He takes it down with deliberate care. His fingers linger on the lid before he speaks.
"Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Supple."
A beat passes. I say nothing. I know this wand.
Or rather—Harry's wand. The twin to Voldemort's.
It should work.
I reach for it without hesitation.
The moment my fingers close around the wood, there's a pull—like a string being drawn taut in my chest. Magic flares in my blood, not gentle or curious, but demanding. Hungry.
I raise the wand. Sparks shoot from the tip—gold and red and hot as live flame—and my heart kicks.
Then smoke.
Dark smoke.
It pours from the wand, thick and slick, black with veins of green laced through it like poison in water.
I freeze.
The sparks turn violent, snapping like whips. My fingers tremble. The heat intensifies. A line of fire crawls up my arm.
"Drop it," Ollivander says, sharp now. "Drop it—"
The wand cracks.
I feel it in my bones, a deep, wrong sound. Another fissure. Then another.
And then it explodes.
A pulse of force pulses through the wood like a dying star. I stagger back, clutching the shattered remains. Something sharp slices across my cheek, and I feel warm blood trail down.
Silence.
Thick. Smothering.
Ollivander stares at me. Not shocked. But very, very still.
I look down at my hand.
All that's left is half a handle and a curl of blackened wood trailing smoke. The wand's heart—its phoenix feather—is gone. Vaporized. Like it never existed.
My heart pounds in my chest, but the magic is gone. No trace of warmth now.
Just ash.
Ash drifts through the air like snowfall.
I stare numbly at the broken handle in my palm, the wood still warm, scorched black along the edges. My cheek stings—dull at first, then sharp as a bead of blood traces the curve of my jaw.
Ollivander moves silently, his pale eyes wide and searching. He doesn't speak right away. Just reaches into his sleeve, pulls his wand with a subtle flick of the wrist, and points it at my face.
A cool sensation spreads across my skin as the cut knits shut, leaving nothing behind.
"Thought that was the one," he murmurs, voice soft, almost disappointed. "But I think I have the measure of you now."
He turns and vanishes between the shelves again. No rustling, no muttering. Just movement and silence.
When he returns, he's holding a box that looks untouched by time. No dust. No worn edges. It's made of dark wood, the grain gleaming faintly in the light.
"I crafted this one nearly twenty years ago," he says, almost reverently. "Too demanding for most. Too rigid. But perhaps..."
He lifts the lid.
The wand inside is polished ebony, deep and gleaming, so dark it drinks the light. The handle is smooth, shaped to fit the palm, but the wood above it twists in a gentle spiral that winds all the way to the pointed tip like a twisted wrought iron fence.
"Ebony and dragon heartstring," Ollivander says, watching me. "Twelve and a half inches. Rigid. Uncompromising."
My fingers close around it.
And everything shifts.
No heat. No flare of warmth. No fireworks.
Just power.
It hums through me—clean and sharp, like a blade sliding out of a sheath. A perfect fit. The wand feels ready, like it was waiting for my hand all this time.
A quiet breath escapes me.
I give it a gentle flick.
Silver sparks burst from the tip in a tight, controlled arc before fading into nothingness.
My grin splits my face in twain, so wide it hurts my face.
Ollivander's expression is unreadable. "Ah."
There's a long pause.
"That," he says finally, "is a wand for someone who will not yield. A wand for control, for clarity. For war, perhaps. For dueling certainly."
I don't say anything. Just run my thumb along the spiral grain.
He closes the box slowly, almost reluctantly, and begins wrapping it in soft velvet before tucking it away.
His eyes linger for a second too long on the pile of scorched fragments left from the wand before. The holly wand. The one that never got the chance to choose me.
"That wand," Ollivander says quietly, almost to himself, "was unique. The phoenix who gave that feather only gave one other. That wand… resides with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."
"Voldemort," I say softly, watching him.
He flinches. Just slightly. But I catch it. The way his expression pinches, like the name tastes bitter in the air.
"Indeed," he murmurs, eyes unreadable. "Curious. Very curious. For it to react with such violence… That says something. About the wand. And, perhaps, about you."
His tone is light, but the weight behind it lingers.
I tuck that away for later, then glance down at the wand in my hand.
The wand is mine. I can feel that already. It waited in my hand, feeling like a serpent ready to strike. But there's something else I've been thinking about.
"So… do you sell accessories? Holsters, cases, maintenance kits?" It had been a huge thing in fanfiction.
His wispy brow raises. "Most students don't ask about that."
"I'm not most students."
A pause—then a faint smile, like he approves but won't say it aloud.
"I do, in fact," he says, voice returning to that faintly reverent tone, "though I do not advertise them. Wand accessories, as you call them, are not toys. And the best are expensive."
He reaches behind the counter and produces a slim catalogue bound in red leather. The cover glimmers faintly with enchantment. He sets it down gently and opens it.
I lean in, flipping the page slowly.
Each illustration moves—animated diagrams of wands being drawn in a flash, holsters locking into place with shimmered light. Boxes sealed with glowing sigils. Maintenance kits with polishing cloths that move on their own, wand oils suspended in clear glass phials, tiny runestones etched with micro-runes I can barely parse.
My fingers brush the page.
"I'll take the wrist holster," I say. "Quick draw. With an extra slot for a knife."
Ollivander nods once and turns, unlocking a separate drawer beneath the counter. The holster he draws out is slim, dark leather with faint silver inlay along the seams. He sets it on the counter.
"That one should suit you, Mr. Potter. It will tighten or release according to your intent. That will be along with the wand and a care kit sixty galleons even."
I glance at the holster, then at my arm. "This—my wand's longer than my forearm. Even if I was grown. How does that work?"
Ollivander gives the faintest smile. "A subtle space expansion, Mr. Potter. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to accommodate the wand without strain."
I grin slightly and hand over the coin without blinking.
.
.
.
The last bite of the cheeseburger is lukewarm by now, but I don't mind. I chew it slowly and try not to think about how there goes my biggest advantage against Voldemort—I can still see the shattered handle of the holly wand in my hand. Brilliant. I suppose I'll just need to beat a wizard with six decades of experience and who knows how many advantages without it. No big deal.
My free hand keeps drifting to my forearm, brushing against the smooth leather of the wand holster wrapped snug around it.
It's… reassuring.
Not just the wand itself—though that's part of it—but the presence of it. I'm not defenseless anymore. Not unarmed. Whatever comes next, I'm not going into it with empty hands.
Hagrid walks beside me in a lumbering kind of silence, the crowd parting naturally around his bulk. He hasn't said much since I left Ollivanders, and I don't push him to. It's been a long day. For both of us.
Diagon Alley is starting to quiet down. The sun is lower now, turning the cobblestones gold, and most of the shoppers have vanished into shops or vanished altogether. The scent of parchment and ink, roasting nuts, crushed herbs—it's all blurring together. Familiar now. Almost comforting.
I catch my reflection briefly in a shop window as we pass. Small. Thin. Still, I can see the shape of something else in that reflection. Not just who I am, but who I could be.
The Floo station is just ahead when I slow down, hesitating a little.
Hagrid notices immediately, stopping beside me with a curious grunt.
"Somethin' wrong?"
I shake my head. Then glance up at him.
"Hey," I say, voice low. "Magic… can do a lot, right?"
He blinks, bushy brows knitting in surprise. "Course it can. S'what it's for."
I gesture vaguely to my face, to the glasses I've had to push up three times in the last block. They're already smudged.
"Can it fix my eyes?"
I do have a dirty P word under the name MandTeKad that is 1 free chapter and 5 paid chapters ahead
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