Chapter 4

Harry sat quietly in the corner seat of the crowded London subway , his lean frame tucked against the window as he peered out at the passing tunnels. The dim, flickering lights cast a hazy glow against the walls, and the occasional jostle of the train caused the metal poles to rattle softly. The scent of engine oil and the faint, lingering tang of sweat from the morning crowd filled the space. It was a thoroughly mundane setting, one he had passed through countless times with the Dursleys—though rarely with them acknowledging his presence.

He watched the people—trench-coated businessmen clutching briefcases, elderly women with well-worn handbags, and tired students with frayed backpacks. They were ordinary, oblivious to the veil of magic that separated their world from the one he was about to step into.

"Yer awfully quiet, Harry," Hagrid's voice rumbled beside him. "Nervous?"

Harry turned and offered the gentle half-giant a small smile. "Just... thinking," he replied vaguely.

Hagrid gave a reassuring pat to his shoulder, causing Harry to nearly stumble from the force. The gesture was meant to be comforting, and it was—though Harry had the fleeting realization that most children his size would have been knocked flat.

The subway slowed to a screeching halt, and the passengers filed out, making room for a new crowd. Harry followed Hagrid as they navigated the platform, weaving through the flow of foot traffic. Hagrid's towering frame drew more than a few startled glances from onlookers, and Harry caught snippets of whispered remarks—"Bloke must be seven feet tall!" and "Is that a bear-skin coat?"

They ascended the grimy stairwell leading up to the bustling London streets. The contrast was almost jarring. After the dim, enclosed subway, the morning sunlight cast a golden shimmer over the cobblestone roads. The streets were filled with the familiar noise of car horns and the hurried footsteps of commuters.

Harry walked slightly behind Hagrid, watching the man's broad shoulders shift beneath his massive coat as he led the way. The giant's strides were long, forcing Harry to move quickly to keep up, but he didn't mind.

Soon, they stood before a nondescript, weathered pub wedged between a bookstore and a record shop. It looked old—impossibly old. The wooden sign above the door, faded and splintered by decades of rain, read The Leaky Cauldron in barely legible script. Harry stared at it for a moment. To any Muggle, it was just an ordinary, run-down building, blending into the scenery. But with his enhanced perception, he could sense the enchantments layered over it—subtle wards that turned Muggle eyes away and obscured the entrance.

Hagrid pushed open the door, and they stepped into the dimly lit interior.

The Leaky Cauldron was precisely what Harry had imagined—if not more so. The ceiling beams were low and dark with age, worn from centuries of smoke and flame. The scent of old wood, firewhisky, and stale bread lingered in the air. A handful of witches and wizards sat at the tables, sipping from tankards or nursing cups of steaming coffee. The atmosphere was cozy and rustic, with flickering candlelight adding a warm glow to the stone walls.

The stooped, bald barman with a welcoming smile, glanced up at their entrance. Harry's gaze lingered on him, studying his wrinkled face.

"Ah, Hagrid!" the barman greeted, his voice a raspy drawl. "The usual I presume?"

"Can't, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business." Hagrid replied to the barman named Tom while patting me on the back.

"Good Lord, is this — can this be —? Bless my soul. Harry Potter... what an honor. Welcome back, Mr. Potter, welcome back." Tom said after he noticed Hagrid's gesture.

Harry saw the ripple of attention at the mention of his name. The low murmur of conversation fell silent as wizards and witches turned to look at him. He felt their eyes sweep over him, lingering on his forehead, no doubt searching for the infamous scar.

A middle-aged witch clutching a string bag of groceries stood and approached, her eyes wide with awe. "Bless my soul," she whispered. "It's really him!"

Harry offered a polite nod, feeling the sudden wave of attention settle over him like a heavy cloak. The stares were not unfamiliar—he had been accustomed to admiration in his past life—but he found the reverence directed at him, for something he had no memory of doing, oddly uncomfortable.

Hagrid, sensing his discomfort, gently placed a hand on his shoulder and steered him toward the back of the pub. "Come on, Harry. Let's get yeh to Diagon Alley, eh?"

Harry nodded gratefully, and together they approached the brick wall behind the pub.

With a tap of Hagrid's pink umbrella, the bricks shuddered and shifted, folding inward and spiraling away in an intricate pattern. The wall peeled back to reveal a narrow stone passageway that widened into the bustling street of Diagon Alley.

Harry stepped forward—and the world he had once known came rushing back with breathtaking vividness.

The cobblestone street was teeming with life, filled with wizards and witches moving between shops with arms full of parcels and bags. Brightly colored shop signs swung overhead, some painted with charming fonts, others glowing with magical runes. The scent of roasted nuts and cinnamon pastries wafted through the air from a nearby vendor. Children pressed their faces against shop windows, staring at display cases filled with enchanted toys, gleaming broomsticks, and shimmering robes.

Harry turned in place, slowly taking it all in. Though his features remained outwardly composed, his soul stirred with bittersweet familiarity. He had once walked these very streets in his previous life, long before they were called Diagon Alley. The structures were different, the names changed, but the essence of magic remained the same—untamed and brimming with promise.

"Gringotts first," Hagrid announced, breaking Harry's reverie.

They approached the marble-white façade of the wizarding bank, its massive bronze doors guarded by goblins. Harry's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the goblin guards. Their sharp, beady eyes were watchful, missing nothing. Merlin's memories stirred faintly—he had once negotiated with the dwarves from which the goblin race descended, securing their services as bankers and crafters. That ancient deal had long since been twisted by greed, but the echoes of their original cunning remained.

Inside the bank, the high ceiling loomed overhead, glittering with chandeliers made of enchanted crystal. Goblins sat at marble desks, sorting through ledgers with quills that moved of their own accord. The floor was polished stone, reflecting the soft golden glow of the lamps.

Harry and Hagrid approached one of the goblins.

"Morning," said Hagrid to a free goblin. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr Harry Potter's Trust Vault."

"You have his key, sir?" asked the goblin.

"Got it here somewhere," said Hagrid and he started emptying his pockets on to the counter, scattering a handful of moldy dog biscuits over the goblin's book of numbers. The goblin wrinkled

his nose. Harry watched the goblin on their right weighing a pile of rubies as big as glowing coals.

"Got it," said Hagrid at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

The goblin looked at it closely. "That seems to be in order."

"An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," said Hagrid importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the You Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

The goblin read the letter carefully. "Very well," he said, handing it back to Hagrid, "I will have

someone take you down to both vaults."

The goblin then called another goblin named Griphook, who let us towards one of the doors leading off the hall.

A short, bumpy ride down into the vaults later, Harry stood before his Trust Vault. As the goblin unlocked it, the heavy door swung open with a soft clang, revealing piles of gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts stacked in neat columns. The sight was overwhelming—and this was just his trust vault, the main vault would be worth looking forward to.

He scooped a generous handful of Galleons into a small pouch, enough to cover his school expenses and leave a substantial reserve for emergencies.

After getting out of the trust vault and pocketing the money and the key, we once rode down in cart, now towards vault seven hundred and thirteen, where Hagrid pocketed a small, enchanted parcel—the object entrusted to him by Dumbledore—though Harry did not need to ask what it was. He could feel the faint magical signature emanating from it, the Philosopher's Stone.

With their business at Gringotts complete, Harry and Hagrid strolled back into the sunlit alley, ready for the next stop—Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

After leaving Gringotts, the warm afternoon sun cast a golden haze over Diagon Alley, illuminating the bustling street with a soft, amber glow. The gentle warmth was accompanied by the ever-present clamor of the crowd—the clinking of Galleons exchanging hands, the playful squeals of children marveling at enchanted toys, and the rhythmic creak of shop doors opening and closing.

Harry stood for a moment, breathing it all in—the scent of freshly baked pasties mingling with the faint, smoky aroma of potion fumes, the faint tingle of residual enchantments that lingered on the cobblestones, and the laughter of young witches as they pressed their faces against the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

"Listen, Harry would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts. Meanwhile yeh can go to Madam Malkin's to get yer uniform," Hagrid asked, looking a bit sick and green after the cart ride in Gringotts.

So, Harry went to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

The robes shop was painted in pleasant lilac hues, its large display window showing mannequins dressed in flowing Hogwarts robes, shimmering ballgowns, and sleek, practical traveling cloaks. The brass bell above the door chimed softly as they entered, and the scent of freshly pressed linen and faint lavender filled the air.

Madam Malkin herself—a squat witch with twinkling eyes and a warm smile—greeted me.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she asked with a practiced eye.

Harry nodded, and she gestured him toward a raised platform surrounded by three full-length mirrors. The glass shimmered faintly with enchantments, subtly adjusting to display the robes at their most flattering angle.

"Just hold still while I pin it, dear."

As Madam Malkin bustled around him, tugging at the fabric and inserting silver pins with swift, practiced fingers, the bell above the door tinkled softly, and another boy entered.

Harry glanced in the mirror and immediately noticed a boy with a pale, pointed face. He moved with a self-assured grace, clearly accustomed to attention. His light grey eyes swept the shop with idle disinterest before they landed on Harry.

He approached the adjacent platform and stepped up, allowing Madam Malkin's assistant to begin measuring him.

"Hogwarts too?" the boy asked, turning to Harry with a casual, drawling tone.

Harry glanced at him and offered a neutral nod.

Draco's lips curled faintly, and he continued, his tone light and conversational, yet unmistakably superior. "'My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said the boy. He had a bored, drawling voice. "Then I'm going to drag them off to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first-years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow."

"Have you got your own broom?" the boy went on.

There was no malice in the question—only genuine curiosity, as though he were making idle conversation while enduring the boredom of fitting robes.

Harry shook his head slightly. "Not yet."

The boy's lips twitched faintly, clearly finding the answer unsurprising. "You should. The school brooms are awful—practically falling apart. Even the Cleansweeps from last year are useless. Not a chance of catching the Snitch with those."

The words were spoken with the nonchalant ease of someone already confident in their flying abilities, despite not yet having attended a single Hogwarts lesson.

Harry offered a noncommittal hum, more amused by the boy's easy arrogance than anything else. He had known many like him in his past life—nobles and heirs of prestigious houses, always quick to name-drop their lineage and boast of their family's wealth. Yet, despite the boy's casual superiority, Harry detected no real malice behind his words.

Madam Malkin hummed softly, deftly adjusting the sleeves of Harry's robe, before bustling over to tend to the other boy.

Harry, now free of her ministrations, turned slightly on the fitting platform and regarded the boy more closely.

"You fly often, then?" Harry asked mildly, keeping his tone equally casual.

The boy's eyes gleamed faintly with unmistakable pride. "All the time." His voice was airy, but there was a note of genuine enthusiasm beneath the surface. "My father's bought me a personal practice pitch at home. I've been flying since I was six."

Harry's lips quirked slightly. "Sounds nice."

The boy, clearly used to boasting without being challenged, seemed momentarily thrown by Harry's lack of reaction. He tilted his head slightly, scrutinizing Harry with a touch more interest.

"You from a wizarding family?" the boy asked, his tone still conversational, but there was a faint trace of calculation in his gaze now.

Harry smiled faintly, his expression giving nothing away. "Sort of."

"I'm Malfoy, by the way," the boy added after a moment, holding out his hand with a sudden air of formality. "Draco Malfoy."

Harry glanced at the offered hand. With an inner flicker of amusement, he realized that in a different life, he would have likely refused the handshake out of sheer spite. Yet, here and now, he felt no such impulse.

Instead, he extended his hand and shook Draco's firmly, though not aggressively. "Harry Potter."

For a brief moment, Draco's eyes flickered with faint surprise at the name. However, the reaction was brief, and he recovered smoothly, offering a slight, almost approving nod.

"I thought you looked familiar," Draco remarked offhandedly, though his tone lacked any of the awe or curiosity Harry had grown accustomed to from strangers.

Madam Malkin's assistant returned then, busily pinning and measuring Draco's robes, and the conversation lulled.

After a few more moments, Harry's robes were declared ready. With a quick exchange of polite nods, he paid Madam Malkin and stepped off the platform.

As he turned to leave, Draco's voice called out casually.

"See you at school, Potter."

Harry glanced over his shoulder, offering a brief half-smile. "See you, Malfoy."

He walked out of Madam Malkin's into the bustling street, the brief encounter lingering faintly in his thoughts.

"Done already?" Hagrid asked, as he walked outside the shop.

"Yeah," Harry replied casually. He made no mention of Draco.

They moved on to the luggage shop, where Harry purchased a sturdy, brown leather suitcase. He paid close attention as the shopkeeper demonstrated its magical features—the expansion charm that gave it expanded space, the feather-light enchantment, and the locking runes for security.

"Practical," Harry murmured approvingly as he tested the weight, pleased with the craftsmanship.

The next stop was Flourish and Blotts, the bookshop. The scent of ancient parchment and freshly inked pages wafted through the store as soon as they entered. Towering shelves, crammed with spell books and scrolls, loomed over narrow aisles, creating a labyrinth of knowledge.

Harry ran his fingers along the spines of Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration and The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1), his eyes flicking over the familiar titles. The texts were elementary compared to the tomes he once studied in Camelot, but they still carried a distinct charm.

He took his time here, deliberately scanning through Advanced Theoretical Arithmancy and Ancient Runes: A Primer, drawn to the familiar symbols and concepts, though he knew he wouldn't need them for his first year. Still, he purchased a few extra books, curious to see how modern magical theory had developed since his time.

Next came the apothecary, where the scent of dried herbs and pickled animal parts greeted them with pungent intensity. The wooden shelves were lined with glass jars of eye-of-newt, powdered root of asphodel, and bezoars, their labels written in elegant script.

Harry bought a pewter cauldron, his potion supplies, and a small selection of personal-use ingredients—nothing particularly rare, but a few herbs that could be useful for minor potions.

Finally, with most of the essentials purchased, Hagrid insisted on treating him to ice cream at Florean Fortescue's. They sat at one of the small, round tables under the striped awning, enjoying bowls of chocolate and raspberry ripple ice cream. The cool sweetness was a refreshing break from the warmth of the summer afternoon.

Hagrid, clearly in a good mood, regaled Harry with tales of his days at Hogwarts—his fondness for magical creatures, pranks pulled by mischievous students, and even a few embarrassing escapades from his own school days.

Harry listened with genuine amusement. Though he had once conversed with kings and warriors, Hagrid's simple honesty was uniquely endearing. The half-giant's warmth was genuine—unlike the sycophantic politeness of courtiers, Hagrid's affection was real, and Harry found it oddly comforting.

As they finished their ice cream, Harry's eyes were drawn to the shop across the street—Quality Quidditch Supplies. The display window showcased the gleaming, slender frame of the Nimbus 2000. Its sleek, polished handle glimmered with a faint golden sheen, and its twigs were perfectly manicured for balance.

Harry stepped closer to the window, his eyes narrowing with faint longing. He had flown once—long ago, atop the back of a dragon, soaring above the snow-capped peaks of Avalon. Though this broom was far smaller and far slower, the call of the sky was the same.

Hagrid chuckled. "You'll be gettin' a school broom, mind. First years aren't allowed their own."

Harry didn't respond, his gaze still fixed on the broom, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips.

After a moment, Hagrid patted his back. "C'mon, let's get yeh a wand."

The last shop of the alley was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door read Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC

The brass bell above Ollivanders' door tinkled softly as Hagrid and Harry stepped inside. The shop was narrow and somewhat dimly lit, with shelves stretching from the floor to the high ceiling, stacked with thousands of slim, dusty wand boxes. The entire place smelled faintly of old wood, varnish, and a peculiar, magical musk that seemed to cling to the very air—a mixture of polished oak, cedar resin, and ancient magic.

The shop itself felt oddly sentient, as though it were observing the two of them with quiet curiosity. Harry's sharp magical senses immediately picked up on the faint but constant hum of latent enchantments infused into the very walls.

The door clicked shut behind them, muting the lively sounds of Diagon Alley. An expectant silence settled over the shop.

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, from somewhere in the back, came the unmistakable shuffling of feet, accompanied by the faint sound of a measuring tape snapping closed.

An old man with wispy silver hair and pale, misty eyes appeared from between the shelves. Mr. Ollivander moved with an almost ethereal grace, his eyes faintly unfocused as though perpetually seeing something beyond the physical realm.

"Ah yes, Harry Potter, I thought I'd be seeing you soon." His voice was soft and airy, carrying with it an almost reverent curiosity. His irises, a pale silver reminiscent of frost on a windowpane, drifted toward Harry with piercing scrutiny.

For a brief moment, Harry felt the wandmaker's gaze press against the outer edges of his magical aura—a subtle brush, as if Ollivander were instinctively measuring his power. Harry, well-versed in the subtle art of magical concealment, carefully kept his magic tightly contained, allowing only the faintest hint of his natural strength to bleed through.

Ollivander's lips parted slightly, his eyes narrowing with the faintest flicker of confusion, but he said nothing. Instead, he inclined his head slightly.

"I remember your parents' wands quite well," he said softly, his voice almost melancholic. "Your father's—a mahogany wand, eleven inches, pliable. An excellent wand for transfiguration. And your mother's—ten and a quarter inches, willow, swishy. Ideal for charm work."

The wandmaker's voice took on a distant quality, almost wistful, as if the mere mention of their wands stirred old memories.

Harry inclined his head slightly in response, his face impassive, though his mind briefly lingered on Lily and James—memories still crystal clear in his mind. He could vividly recall James twirling his wand between his fingers with practiced ease and Lily using hers with delicate precision while watering her garden.

Ollivander's sharp eyes fixed on Harry once more. "And now... it is your turn."

Without another word, he turned and plucked a slim wand box from a shelf with practiced ease, opened it, and presented the wand to Harry.

"Beechwood and dragon heartstring, nine inches, flexible. Give it a wave."

Harry accepted the wand and felt nothing. No warmth, no hum, no pull of magic. He gave it a halfhearted flick, and the wand sputtered weakly, sending up a small, dull spark that fizzled out.

Ollivander plucked it from his hand and muttered, "No, no, clearly not."

He moved with fluid efficiency, withdrawing another wand, this time made of blackthorn. When it too failed to respond, he sighed and began plucking more boxes from the shelves.

What followed was a flurry of wands, each one progressively more unusual—ash with unicorn hair, oak with phoenix feather, willow with kelpie mane. None of them reacted.

Ollivander's brows gradually furrowed, his gaze growing sharper, more analytical. He glanced at Harry with a faint frown, clearly aware that there was something unusual about him.

Hagrid, who had been idly watching, coughed slightly and muttered, "Tricky customer, eh?"

Ollivander didn't reply. His pale eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and he moved toward the back of the shop, fingers trailing lightly over the worn edges of boxes as though guided by some unseen force.

Finally, he stopped before a high shelf, far removed from the others. The box he selected was older and dustier than the rest, its edges worn with age. Carefully, reverently, he removed the wand and turned back toward Harry.

"I wonder..." Ollivander murmured softly. "Holly and phoenix feather. Eleven inches. Supple." His voice was barely above a whisper as he extended the wand toward Harry.

The moment Harry's fingers curled around the wand's handle, he felt it—an immediate, searing connection. A pulse of warmth surged through his palm, spreading through his fingers and up his arm. It was familiar and yet not—subtly different from the ancient staves and enchanted staffs he once wielded as Merlin, but no less potent.

The wand hummed softly in his hand, a faint golden light blooming around its tip as small, swirling motes of magic drifted upward like ethereal fireflies. The shop itself seemed to hold its breath, the very air stilling for a moment as though witnessing something significant.

Ollivander's eyes widened fractionally. "Curious... very curious..."

Harry gently lowered the wand and gazed at Ollivander expectantly, wanting to know what would come next.

The wandmaker's voice grew hushed. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mister Potter. Every single one. And it just so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather resides in your wand gave one other feather... just one."

He leaned forward slightly, his silver eyes keen and knowing.

"It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother – why, its brother gave you that scar" said Mr. Ollivander with his pale stare.

For a moment, the shop was utterly silent.

Harry remained impassive, though he could feel Hagrid stiffen slightly at the revelation. The half-giant's large hand drifted to the back of his neck, absently scratching at his collar.

"Strange how fate works," Ollivander murmured, his voice thoughtful rather than ominous. "The wand chooses the wizard, after all."

Harry met the wandmaker's gaze steadily. He offered the barest nod, acknowledging the significance but giving nothing away.

Hagrid, ever the gentle soul, quickly clapped Harry on the shoulder, breaking the solemn moment. "A fine wand, that one!" he declared, clearly eager to shift the mood back to something lighter.

Harry turned back toward the counter, pulling out his pouch of Galleons to pay, and thanking Mr. Ollivander for the wand.

Just as they turned to leave, Hagrid paused suddenly.

"Oh! Nearly forgot!" he exclaimed, glancing around as though searching for something.

He pulled a large package wrapped in brown paper from inside his coat and handed it to Harry with a wide grin.

Harry carefully unwrapped it to reveal a beautiful snowy white owl nestled inside a small cage. The owl's piercing amber eyes stared at him with surprising intelligence, and she gave a soft, melodic hoot.

"Happy birthday, Harry," Hagrid rumbled warmly, his eyes glinting with affection. "I know it's still a bit early, but I reckon she'll make a fine companion at school. Loyal as they come."

With a mixture of surprise and curiosity, Harry carefully unwrapped the package. Inside, nestled in a small cage, was a beautiful snowy white owl. Her amber eyes, sharp and intelligent, locked onto his with an almost knowing gaze. She gave a soft, melodic hoot, tilting her head slightly.

Harry blinked once, then slowly reached into the cage, brushing his fingers over her soft feathers. The owl responded by nipping affectionately at his hand, the touch surprisingly gentle.

"Hello, girl," Harry murmured softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

The name came to him instantly—Hedwig. It felt right. Fitting her perfectly, as though the name had been hers all along.

With his wand in hand and Hedwig perched gracefully inside her cage, Harry's return to the magical world was complete. He cast one last glance around the dusty, enchanted shop before offering Ollivander a polite nod of thanks.

Then, with Hagrid leading the way, they made their way back through the winding streets of Diagon Alley. The sun was beginning to dip lower, casting long golden shadows over the cobblestones, while the lively chatter of witches and wizards gradually faded behind them.

As they reached the alley's end, Harry expected Hagrid to pull out his umbrella and whisk them back to Privet Drive. Instead, the half-giant pulled a small, silver whistle from his coat pocket and gave it a sharp, ear-piercing blow.

A loud BANG! echoed through the street, making several witches shriek and a passing wizard drop his cauldron with a clatter.

From seemingly nowhere, a massive, triple-decker purple bus screeched to a halt before them. Its gold-lettered sign read:

The Knight BusEmergency Transport for the Stranded Witch or Wizard

The doors hissed open with a faint puff of steam, and a thin, pimply conductor with protruding ears and a bored expression greeted them.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus," he droned flatly. "Transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step aboard, and we'll take you anywhere you want."

Harry glanced at Hagrid, surprised by the choice of transport, but the half-giant simply gave a shrug.

"Quicker this way," Hagrid muttered. "An' I figured yeh'd enjoy it."

The conductor, clearly unimpressed by Hagrid's towering frame, gave him a once-over and snorted."Hope you can fit through the door," he mumbled under his breath.

Hagrid shot him a look, but stooped down and squeezed himself through the entrance with surprising agility. Harry followed, slipping into the bus just before the doors slammed shut with a hiss.

Inside, the bus was nothing short of chaotic madness. Spell-o-taped chandeliers swung dangerously overhead, and the violently rocking beds—which were somehow nailed to the floor—slid back and forth with every lurch. The bus moved so erratically that it felt like riding a rogue Hippogriff with motion sickness.

Harry barely had time to grab onto one of the brass poles before the bus shot forward with a deafening BANG, sending him stumbling back into a bed. The entire vehicle shuddered and jumped sideways as it careened through London's streets, squeezing through impossibly narrow gaps and occasionally leaping over traffic altogether.

Hagrid, meanwhile, was not handling it well.

The half-giant's massive hands clung to a bedpost as the bus violently swerved around a corner, nearly tossing him onto the floor. His face, usually ruddy and cheerful, turned an unsettling shade of green.

"Urgh..." Hagrid groaned weakly, clutching his stomach as they hurtled over a roundabout and narrowly missed a Muggle car.

"Yeh alright?" Harry asked, half-grinning as he steadied himself.

"Fine... jus'... fine," Hagrid muttered, eyes squeezed shut as he gripped the bed frame like his life depended on it.

The conductor, seemingly oblivious to the mayhem, handed Harry a slip of parchment."Where to?"

"Er... Privet Drive," Harry replied, suppressing a chuckle as Hagrid let out a strangled grunt when the bus made an abrupt 90-degree turn.

"Right-o. Next stop, Little Whinging," the conductor announced, as though they weren't currently defying every law of magical physics.

The Knight Bus screeched and jolted violently, causing Hagrid to lurch sideways, knocking into Harry and sending the owl cage tilting precariously. Hedwig let out an indignant hoot, flapping her wings in protest.

"Sorry, girl," Harry murmured, quickly steadying her cage with one hand while holding onto the brass rail with the other.

The ride continued in a blur of reckless zigzags and nauseating lurches, with Hagrid's complexion only growing greener by the minute. By the time they finally came to a shuddering halt in front of Number 4, Privet Drive, Hagrid looked as though he'd just survived a Kraken attack.

"Thank Merlin that's over," he groaned, staggering off the bus, one hand still clutching his stomach.

Harry, by contrast, hopped down with a bemused grin, clearly enjoying the ride far more than Hagrid had.

As the Knight Bus vanished with a final BANG, Hagrid pulled a slightly crumpled slip of parchment from his coat and handed it to Harry.

"Yer ticket fer Hogwarts," he muttered weakly, still looking a bit queasy. "First o' September – King's Cross – it's all on there. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Any trouble with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl—she'll know where to find me."

He offered Harry a faint, somewhat unsteady grin, his large hand briefly patting Harry's shoulder with far less force than usual.

"See yeh soon, Harry," he mumbled, before staggering off, clutching his stomach with both hands and muttering something about "never ridin' that ruddy bus again."

Harry watched him go, biting back a grin, before turning toward the Dursleys' house.

He glanced at the Hogwarts ticket in his hand, his fingers tracing the words slowly. A warm, quiet anticipation stirred in his chest.

For the first time, the sight of Privet Drive didn't matter. The looming house, the Dursleys, the small room upstairs—it was all just a fleeting memory.

Hogwarts was waiting. And Harry was ready.

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Anyways, let me know what you all think.

Remember spread Love, not Hate

With that Author-Kun is signing off.