Chapter 6
But before Harry could think too deeply about it, Hagrid ushered him away from the crowd, leading him toward a small, enclosed courtyard.
"Poor ol’ Professor Quirrell," Hagrid said as they walked. "Always twitchin’ and tremblin’ nowadays.”
“How long has he been the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?” Harry asked, curiosity getting the better of him.
“This’ll be his first year,” Hagrid replied, looking around as though searching for something. “Used ter teach Muggle Studies before, he did. Think he was better suited fer it, truth be told. Poor fella went off ter get some hands-on experience with Dark creatures, came back a mess. Ah, here’s my umbrella!”
As Hagrid tapped his pink umbrella against the brick wall to reveal the entrance to Diagon Alley, Harry’s mind raced. That piece of information—about Quirrell’s background in Muggle Studies—hadn’t been in the books. But before Harry could dwell on it further, the wall in front of him shifted and opened up to reveal Diagon Alley.
All thoughts of Quirrell vanished from Harry’s mind as he stood, wide-eyed, at the entrance to the most magical place he had ever seen. The bustling street was alive with witches and wizards going about their business, shop windows brimming with strange and wonderful items. Owls hooted from their perches, cauldrons clanged as they were sold, and broomsticks hovered temptingly in shopfronts.
Harry struggled to keep up with Hagrid, his head turning in every direction as he tried to take in everything at once. It was even more overwhelming than he had imagined. The narrow cobbled street was lined with shops selling everything from spell books to potion ingredients, and the sight of wizards dressed in long robes and pointed hats, which had once seemed like fantasy, was now his reality.
As they walked, Hagrid cheerfully pointed out various shops and sights, but Harry barely heard him. His attention was pulled in every direction—Ollivanders, where he would get his wand; Flourish and Blotts, the bookstore packed with magical tomes; and Gringotts, the towering wizarding bank run by goblins.
And then it hit him again—Gringotts. According to the books, Harry had a vault filled with money waiting for him. But now, knowing what he did, Harry wondered if there was more to the story. How did Dumbledore know that Harry’s parents had left him enough gold to last through his school years? How much control did Dumbledore have over Harry’s life?
As they neared the steps to Gringotts, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that, just like with the letters, Dumbledore had a far deeper role in guiding his life than Harry had ever realized. The headmaster seemed to be present in every corner of his existence.
He was about to find out.
“C’mon, Harry," Hagrid said, waving him forward. “Let’s get yeh some gold.”
Even though Harry knew from the books that goblins existed, seeing them in person was something else entirely. He couldn't help but stare at the sharp, cunning features of the goblins at Gringotts, only tearing his gaze away when Hagrid handed over his key to the vault. Harry frowned slightly. He knew from the book that Hagrid had the key, but during their trip Hagrid had mentioned that Dumbledore had only asked him to visit Harry the day before. That meant Dumbledore had the key to Harry’s vault too.
Harry couldn’t shake the growing unease. If he understood things correctly, the key was the wizarding equivalent of a bank card, something only the account holder—or someone with explicit permission—should have. Why did Dumbledore have access to Harry’s money? The more Harry thought about it, the more questions piled up. It seemed that every mystery he encountered led back to Dumbledore.
After their visit to Harry's vault—which was far more filled with gold than Harry had ever allowed himself to imagine—they headed to another vault to retrieve something Hagrid needed: the Philosopher's Stone. When the vault opened and Hagrid went inside to collect the small package, Harry turned to the goblin standing nearby.
"Why wasn’t there any green smoke in that vault, like there was in mine?" Harry asked, trying to sound casual despite his growing curiosity.
The goblin responded in a haughty tone, "Vault 687 was sealed until Harry Potter reached the age of eleven. It was established as a school fund by the head of the family. Other family vaults, without those security measures, won’t emit green smoke.”
“Family vaults?” Harry repeated, his heart skipping a beat.
"Yes, the Potters had several vaults," the goblin replied, sounding bored, as though this information was common knowledge.
Before Harry could ask more questions—questions that were now swirling rapidly in his mind—Hagrid returned with the small package, and Harry chose not to continue the conversation. The goblin looked as though he’d had enough of human chatter anyway.
Following the book’s script, Hagrid then led Harry to Madam Malkin’s for his school robes. Harry, still processing the goblin’s words, nearly forgot that he was about to meet Draco Malfoy for the first time.
When he entered the shop and saw the boy with pale blond hair that were almost white, Harry felt an odd twinge. He hadn’t really listened when Draco started talking, but Harry couldn’t help but scrutinize him now. There he was: Draco Malfoy, the boy Harry's book self had thought worse than Dudley. Even though the final chapter of the books hinted at some sort of truce between them, Harry saw Malfoy from a different angle now.
Malfoy had an air about him—not just of arrogance, but of someone who was not only cared for but indulged. Harry had to admit, begrudgingly, that part of his dislike for Malfoy stemmed from the boy’s clear privilege. Malfoy had parents who doted on him, who had the power and wealth to influence anything. Harry had never had an adult he could rely on like that. Malfoy’s repeated line, “My father will hear about this,” was a reminder of just how much he had that Harry didn’t.
“…I’ll probably get one of the new models, and then sneak it into Hogwarts,” Malfoy was saying, though Harry wasn’t really paying attention.
He remembered this conversation from the book and decided there was no point in letting it play out as it originally had. Instead, he interrupted.
“What’s the point of having your mother look at wands if they’re the ones that choose the wizard?” Harry asked, using the knowledge he had gained from the seventh book.
Malfoy seemed momentarily thrown off by the question and quickly changed the subject. “Do you know what house you’ll be in? I’m sure I’ll be in Slytherin—like my whole family.”
“Gryffindor,” Harry answered, already knowing from the books that he could influence the Sorting Hat’s decision if he asked. He was nearly certain he'd end up there.
Malfoy sneered. "Well, better than Hufflepuff, I suppose. Can you imagine? I’d leave if I was sorted into Hufflepuff." His eyes darted towards the window. "Look at that man!"
Harry followed Malfoy’s gaze and saw Hagrid standing outside, towering over the crowd with his huge frame. “That’s Hagrid,” Harry said, a bit of pride in his voice. “He’s the Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts.”
Malfoy’s sneer deepened. “My father told me all about him. He’s a bit of a servant, isn’t he? Not the sort of proper wizard want to associate with.”
Harry felt a surge of irritation but kept his expression neutral. He could easily retaliate but he chose not to. Instead, he simply replied, “Hagrid’s alright.”
“Really? Why’s he with you? Where are your parents?”
“They’re dead,” Harry replied, feeling a sharp edge to his voice despite himself.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Malfoy said, though his tone didn’t change. “But they were one of us, right?”
“My mum and dad were wizards, yes. But seriously, what’s your problem with Muggles?” Harry asked, growing increasingly irritated by Malfoy attitude.
“Well, they’re just… different from us, aren’t they? I mean, during the witch hunts…”
Harry cut him off, not wanting to hear more. “So, you’ve never actually met one, have you? I’m not saying every Muggle is great, but those hunts were centuries ago, and a lot has changed since then. Have you ever been to a cinema?”
Malfoy reaction showed clear confusion; it was obvious he wasn’t used to people disagreeing with him. His response came out more like an echo of disbelief. “Cinema?”
“Yeah, it’s one of the best things Muggles have invented. You’ve no idea what you’re missing,” Harry said with a grin. He’d only been to the cinema once, but it was one of his favorite memories from the years spent with the Dursleys.
At that moment, Madam Malkin came over, finished with Harry’s robes. “There you go, dear. All done.”
Harry stepped down from the stool and, still watching Draco carefully, felt a bit of satisfaction at the flustered look on Malfoy’s face. Malfoy clearly hadn’t expected Harry to turn the conversation on him, and it seemed like he wasn’t sure what to say next.
As Malfoy struggled to regain his composure, Harry turned and made his way toward the door, where Hagrid was waiting. “See you at Hogwarts,” he said over his shoulder, knowing full well that their rivalry was only just beginning.
After leaving Madam Malkin’s, Hagrid and Harry continued their shopping. They visited the apothecary for potion supplies, then Flourish and Blotts for books, where Harry marveled at the endless shelves filled with magical tomes. Finally, they stopped at the pet shop, where Harry picked out his first pet—a beautiful snowy owl.
“Hedwig?” Hagrid asked, raising an eyebrow as Harry carefully carried the cage.
“Yeah, that’s her name,” Harry confirmed with a smile, already feeling a connection to the owl. He kept up his role, continuing to play the part of the boy who had only learned about the wizarding world the night before. He asked Hagrid questions about Hogwarts, pretending to be wide-eyed and curious about everything.
But in the back of his mind, Harry’s thoughts raced. He couldn’t help but piece together all the things that didn’t quite add up. The letters, Dedalus Diggle, Mrs. Figg—all of them connected to Dumbledore. Hagrid, too, seemed to be following the headmaster’s orders. Then there was Professor Quirrell. Despite what Harry knew from the books, nothing had happened when they shook hands. Voldemort had been hiding under Quirrell’s turban, yet he hadn’t reacted at all to Harry’s touch.
And what about the Potter family vault? The goblin had mentioned that the Potters had more than one vault at Gringotts—something that had never come up in the books.
The questions swirled in Harry’s mind, but his focus was soon pulled back to the present when Hagrid said, “All we’ve got left now is yer wand.”
Harry’s thoughts quieted at those words. Ollivanders. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the one part of his shopping trip that felt truly magical. No matter how much he had already changed, this was something he knew would happen the same way it had in the books. His wand was waiting for him.
Hagrid led him down the narrow alley toward Ollivanders, the small, dusty shop nestled between larger buildings. The window was filled with a single wand on a faded purple cushion, and the air seemed to hum with anticipation as they stepped inside.
The shop was dark and quiet, filled with towering shelves that stretched to the ceiling, each packed with narrow boxes of wands. A thin layer of dust covered everything, giving the place an ancient, almost forgotten feel. The silence was thick, as though the shop itself was waiting for something.
And then, from the shadows, appeared Mr. Ollivander.
“Ah, Harry Potter,” Ollivander said softly, his voice like a whisper in the stillness. “I wondered when I’d be seeing you.”