“Hey, Harry, wake up.
How’d you fall asleep?” When Harry came to, he wasn’t in Potter Manor.
He was still in Gringotts.
Hagrid was lifting him out of the mine cart.
Harry blinked, confused.
“Where are we?” “Gringotts.
Remember?
We just came out of vault seven hundred and thirteen.” Hagrid set him down.
“You slept like a rock.
Rough night?” Harry wasn’t sure last night even counted as sleep.
“Never mind.
We’ll worry about rest after we finish shopping,” Hagrid said.
“My business is done.
Let’s get your school supplies.” Hagrid took Harry straight to Madam Malkin’s for robes.
“You go on in.
I’m gonna grab a drink—that cart ride nearly killed me.” Hagrid clapped Harry on the shoulder and pointed down the street.
“Buying clothes takes time.
I’ll be back soon.” Madam Malkin was a short witch who rushed over the second Harry stepped inside.
“Hello, dear,” she said warmly.
“Here for your uniform, yes?
Come along, stand on this platform and I’ll take your measurements.” She draped an oversized robe over him and started pinning it to the right length.
“This outfit you’re wearing…” Madam Malkin said.
“Unusual cut.
Must be custom-made?
Lovely workmanship.
Excellent fabric.
May I ask who made it?” Harry had no idea how to answer.
These clothes weren’t even from this world.
“My parents left it to me,” he said honestly.
“They’re gone, so I don’t know.” Madam Malkin spotted the embroidered “Potter” on the collar and froze.
She studied Harry’s face carefully.
“Oh—forgive me.
You must be the famous Harry Potter.” She looked mortified.
“I shouldn’t have said so much.” “It’s fine,” Harry said.
Clearly embarrassed, she finished quickly and held up two neat packages.
“All set.
Would you like to wear them now or shall I wrap them?” “Please wrap them,” Harry said politely.
After paying, Harry stepped outside with the box and ran straight into Hagrid holding two ice-cream cones.
“Hey, Harry—try this.
Best ice cream in Diagon Alley.” “Thanks.” Harry had barely ever tasted ice cream.
The Dursleys never let him have treats, and they always dumped him with Mrs.
Figg whenever they went out.
While Harry ate the cold, sweet cone, Hagrid led him through the rest of the list—potion vials, cauldron, dragonhide gloves, scales, telescope, and every textbook, including the Standard Book of Spells.
There were over a dozen books in total, but this world’s version of Standard Spells was surprisingly thin.
Harry flipped through it while they walked.
Compared to the massive, several-feet-tall book at Potter Manor, this one felt almost too easy.
It only listed fewer than ten spells, but every single one came with crystal-clear instructions—exact wand movements, pronunciation, everything.
It was written so simply that even someone as thick as Dudley could probably learn them.
The big book back home had needed Mom right there explaining every page.
Without her, Harry doubted he could’ve understood half of it.
“Strange how two textbooks can feel so different,” he muttered.
“What was that?” Hagrid turned.
Harry jumped.
“Oh—nothing.
This book is just really interesting.” “See?
I told you you’ve got talent.
Reading for fun already—you’re ahead of most young wizards.” Hagrid looked delighted.
“Don’t worry, once we get your wand you can start practicing.
You’re not supposed to use magic in the Muggle world, but as long as nobody sees…” He winked.
“Come on.
This is Ollivander’s.
You’ll find the perfect wand here.” “Ollivander’s?” Harry looked up.
He knew that name.
In the other world there was an Ollivander’s too—the magic ring shop where his ring had come from.
Was there a connection?
Both were tools for casting spells, after all.
The old sign above the door looked ready to fall off.
It read “Ollivander’s — Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.” Three hundred and eighty-two B.C.?
That was over two thousand years ago.
Hagrid pushed the door open and Harry followed him inside.
The moment the door closed behind them, the noise of Diagon Alley vanished.
The shop was quiet—uncomfortably quiet.
The silence was so deep it almost felt like something was crawling just out of sight.
“A customer,” a voice said suddenly.
An old man rose from behind a mountain of boxes.
He was tall and thin.
“Welcome… oh!
You must be Harry Potter.” His eyes went straight to the lightning scar.
He took Harry’s hand and led him gently to the counter.
“I’m Ollivander.
I was just thinking you’d be arriving soon.
I’m honored—and sorry.” “Sorry?
Why?” “Because of this.” Ollivander’s fingers brushed the scar on Harry’s forehead.
“I’m sorry.
The wand that left this mark was one I made.
If I’d known what would happen…” “It’s not your fault, sir,” Harry said.
“I don’t think the wand is to blame.” “No.
Wands are never innocent.
It isn’t the wizard who chooses the wand—it’s the wand that chooses the wizard.
That one—yew, twelve and a half inches, very powerful.
It chose its master.
Not innocent at all.” Ollivander rubbed his eyes.
“Best not dwell on it.
Nobody’s happy when we do.
Oh—hello, Hagrid.
Long time no see.
I remember they snapped your wand.” “Yes… yes they did.” Hagrid looked guilty and quickly hid his pink umbrella behind his back.
“Ah…” Ollivander gave him a knowing look, then turned back to Harry with a smile.
“Come, Mr.
Potter.
Let’s see which wand chooses you.”