Wow! I am Harry Potter

Chapter 2: Diagon Alley

I woke to the smell of salt and the gentle rocking of the shack. For a moment, I forgot where—and who—I was. Then reality crashed back as I noticed the enormous coat covering me and the giant man cooking sausages over a fire.

"Mornin', Harry," Hagrid greeted cheerfully. "Best be off. Lots ter buy."

The events of the previous night flooded back. This wasn't a dream—I really was Harry Potter now, and today I'd be seeing Diagon Alley for the first time. Not through pages of a book, but with my own eyes.

After a breakfast of slightly burnt sausages (which tasted better than anything the Dursleys had ever given me), we set off. Hagrid had arrived by flying motorcycle, but apparently, we wouldn't be returning that way. Instead, we took a small boat back to the mainland. I noticed Hagrid using magic to speed our journey, though he shouldn't have been allowed.

"Hagrid," I asked, carefully considering how much knowledge to reveal, "how are we getting to London?"

"Train," he replied simply. "Though it might be a bit difficult—never been too good with Muggle money."

On the train to London, I couldn't help but stare at Hagrid. He took up two seats and was knitting what looked like a canary-yellow circus tent. People stared, but he seemed oblivious.

"Still got yer letter, Harry?" he asked as we neared London.

I nodded, pulling it out to review the supply list, though I already knew it by heart from my past life. Cauldron, wand, books, robes—and an optional owl, cat, or toad.

"Can we really find all this in London?" I asked, maintaining my facade of ignorance.

Hagrid chuckled. "If yeh know where to go."

The Leaky Cauldron was exactly as I'd imagined, yet completely different. From the outside, it looked like nothing—a tiny, grubby pub that Muggles' eyes seemed to slide right past. Inside, it was dark and shabby, filled with witches and wizards in various styles of robes, some drinking from glasses that stirred themselves, others engaged in hushed conversations.

"The usual, Hagrid?" called the bartender, Tom, reaching for a glass.

"Can't, Tom. Hogwarts business," Hagrid replied, clapping a hand on my shoulder nearly sending me to my knees.

Then it happened—the moment of recognition. Tom's eyes found my scar, and his glass stopped mid-polish.

"Good Lord," he whispered, "is this—can this be—?"

The pub went suddenly still and silent.

"Bless my soul," Tom whispered, "Harry Potter... what an honor."

Before I could prepare myself, I was surrounded. Everyone wanted to shake my hand, to touch the Boy Who Lived. A pale, nervous-looking man with a pronounced twitch pushed forward.

"P-P-Potter," he stammered, "c-can't tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you."

"Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid exclaimed. "Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

"What sort of magic do you teach, Professor?" I asked, trying not to react to the knowledge that I was currently face-to-face with Voldemort's host.

"D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," he muttered, looking terrified at the mere thought. "N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?" He laughed nervously. "You'll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself."

After several more minutes of being passed around like a celebrity photo op, Hagrid finally managed to extract me from my admirers. We made our way through the pub and out into a small, walled courtyard where there was nothing but a trash can and a few weeds.

Hagrid pulled out his pink umbrella and tapped the wall, "Three up... two across..." he muttered. "Right, stand back, Harry."

The brick he'd touched quivered, then wriggled, then a small hole appeared in the middle—growing wider and wider until we were facing an archway large enough for even Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

"Welcome," said Hagrid, "to Diagon Alley."

I gasped, and this time it wasn't an act. The illustrations, the movies—nothing had prepared me for the reality of Diagon Alley. It was a riot of color and sound and magic. Shops selling cauldrons, telescopes, strange silver instruments I couldn't identify, windows stacked with barrels of bat spleens and eel eyes, tottering piles of spell books, quills, and rolls of parchment, potion bottles, globes of the moon...

"Gringotts," Hagrid announced, pointing to a snowy white building that towered over the neighboring shops. "Ain't no safer place, 'cept perhaps Hogwarts."

As we approached the burnished bronze doors, I noticed the small goblin in his uniform of scarlet and gold. He bowed as we walked inside, past a second set of doors—silver this time—with words engraved upon them:

Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed...

A pair of goblins bowed us through, and we entered a vast marble hall with countless more goblins sitting at counters, weighing coins, examining jewels through eyeglasses, scribbling in ledgers.

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

"You have his key, sir?"

Hagrid started emptying his pockets onto the counter—moldy dog biscuits, an owl treat, several dormice—"Got it here somewhere," he muttered. Finally, he produced a tiny golden key.

The goblin examined it closely. "That seems to be in order. And I understand you also have a letter from Professor Dumbledore?" he said, eyeing Hagrid shrewdly. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen?"

I knew what was in that vault—the Philosopher's Stone—but I maintained my innocent curiosity as Hagrid produced a letter.

After an exhilarating cart ride deep into the caverns beneath Gringotts (which was both terrifying and thrilling in a way roller coasters never were in my previous life), we reached my vault. When the goblin opened it, I couldn't suppress a genuine gasp. Mounds of gold Galleons, columns of silver Sickles, heaps of bronze Knuts.

"All yours," Hagrid smiled.

I filled a bag, trying not to appear too greedy but also knowing I'd need enough. Then it was back in the cart to vault seven hundred and thirteen. No key for this one; the goblin simply stroked the door with one long finger, and it melted away.

Inside was nothing but a grubby little package wrapped in brown paper. Hagrid tucked it inside his coat, and I pretended not to notice its significance.

Back in the sunshine of Diagon Alley, I looked at my list. "Might as well get yer uniform," Hagrid said, nodding toward Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? Hate them Gringotts carts."

I nodded, knowing I was about to meet Draco Malfoy for the first time. As Hagrid disappeared toward the pub, I entered Madam Malkin's shop alone.

Madam Malkin was a squat, smiling witch dressed all in mauve. "Hogwarts, dear?" she said before I could speak. "Got the lot here—another young man being fitted up just now, in fact."

In the back of the shop, a boy with a pale, pointed face was standing on a footstool while a second witch pinned up his long black robes. It was Draco Malfoy, exactly as I'd imagined—blond hair slicked back, expression already set in that superior smirk.

"Hello," he said, "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes," I replied, suddenly uncertain how to play this. In the original timeline, Harry instantly disliked Draco. But I had knowledge that this boy would eventually be caught up in events beyond his control. Could I change things here? Should I?

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," said Malfoy in 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."

I bit back a retort about his "bullying" comment. This was the Draco I remembered—privileged, entitled, unaware of how he sounded.

"Have you got your own broom?" he went on.

"Not yet," I replied, deciding to be polite but reserved.

"Play Quidditch at all?"

"Not yet," I repeated, "but I'm looking forward to learning."

"I do—Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play for my house, and I must say, I agree. Know what house you'll be in yet?"

This was my chance to subtly influence things. "I'm not sure, but I've heard good things about all the houses."

Draco looked at me as if I'd grown a second head. "Well, no one really knows until they get there, do they, but I know I'll be in Slytherin, all our family have been. Imagine being in Hufflepuff, I think I'd leave, wouldn't you?"

Before I could answer, Madam Malkin said, "That's you done, my dear," and I stepped down from the footstool, relieved to be finished.

"I'll see you at Hogwarts, I suppose," Draco said.

As Madam Malkin finished with my school robes, I straightened my posture slightly and adopted a more confident tone. "I'd also like to browse your selection of casual and formal robes, please. Something suitable for everyday wear and perhaps one set for more formal occasions."

Madam Malkin looked slightly surprised but pleased. "Certainly. Right this way."

Madam Malkin led me to another section of the shop while her assistant continued with Draco's fitting. "These are our current styles for young wizards," she explained, gesturing to various robes.

"I prefer something practical but well-made," I said, selecting three casual robes in navy blue, forest green, and a deep burgundy. "And this one for formal occasions," I added, pointing to a tasteful black robe with subtle silver embroidery around the cuffs and collar.

"You have excellent taste," Madam Malkin commented, not treating me as a novice anymore. "These are some of our finest materials."

As I paid for my purchases, I saw Draco departing with his mother, a tall, blonde woman with the same pointed features. He gave me one last curious glance before they left. I'd successfully avoided making either an enemy or ally too early. Better to keep my options open.

With my new wardrobe packaged neatly, I left the shop to find Hagrid waiting outside with two large ice creams.

"Here," he said, handing me one. "Chocolate and raspberry with chopped nuts."

"Thanks, Hagrid." I took a lick, savoring the sweet, cold treat—my first proper ice cream in this body.

"Got a bit extra, did yeh?" Hagrid nodded at my packages.

"Just some everyday robes," I explained casually. "Thought it would be good to have options besides the school uniforms."

Hagrid looked impressed. "Yeh remind me of yer father already. James always knew how to dress proper wizard-like, he did."

"What's next?" I asked, consulting my list again.

We visited shop after shop, gathering all my school supplies. At the Apothecary, I inhaled the strange smells of herbs, dried roots, and powdered animal parts. At Flourish and Blotts, I marveled at the books—spell books, charm books, books on creatures and potions. I was tempted to buy extras, knowing how helpful additional reading would be, but I restrained myself. There would be the Hogwarts library, after all.

"Just yer wand left," Hagrid said finally. "An' I still haven't got yeh a birthday present."

I felt myself blush. "You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to. Tell yeh what, I'll get yer animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago... An' I don' like cats, they make me sneeze. I'll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they're dead useful, carry yer mail an' everythin'."

Twenty minutes later, we left Eeylops Owl Emporium with a beautiful snowy owl asleep in her cage. I knew her name would be Hedwig, and the thought of having this companion—one I'd read about and watched in films—nearly brought tears to my eyes.

"Just Ollivanders left now," Hagrid said, pointing to a narrow, shabby shop with peeling gold letters reading Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

As Hagrid waited outside (the shop was too small for him), I entered alone. The shop was tiny, empty except for a single, spindly chair. Thousands of narrow boxes were piled neatly right up to the ceiling. The very dust and silence in the place seemed to tingle with secret magic.

"Good afternoon," said a soft voice. I jumped, though I'd been expecting it. An old man stood before me, his wide, pale eyes shining like moons through the gloom of the shop.

"Hello," I said awkwardly.

"Ah yes," said the man. "Yes, yes. I thought I'd be seeing you soon. Harry Potter." It wasn't a question. "You have your mother's eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work."

Mr. Ollivander moved closer, and I resisted the urge to blink or step back.

"Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it—it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course."

Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on my forehead with a long, white finger.

"And that's where... I'm sorry to say I sold the wand that did it. Thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands... well, if I'd known what that wand was going out into the world to do..."

I swallowed hard. This was more intense than I'd imagined.

"Well, now—Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

"I'm right-handed," I answered, knowing what was coming.

After measuring me from shoulder to finger, wrist to elbow, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and around my head, Ollivander began flitting around the shelves, taking down boxes.

"Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard's wand."

I tried wand after wand. Nothing happened with the first few, but I knew we were building toward the holly and phoenix feather wand—Voldemort's brother wand. Finally, Ollivander handed it to me.

The moment my fingers closed around it, I felt a sudden warmth. I raised the wand and gave it a wave, and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like fireworks.

"Oh, bravo!" cried Mr. Ollivander. "Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well... how curious... how very curious..."

He put my wand back into its box, still muttering, "Curious... curious..."

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

Mr. Ollivander fixed me with his pale stare. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother—why, its brother gave you that scar."

I swallowed, feigning surprise but feeling genuinely uneasy.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember... I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter... After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great."

I paid seven gold Galleons for my wand, and Mr. Ollivander bowed me from his shop.

The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky as Hagrid and I made our way back through Diagon Alley, through the wall, through the Leaky Cauldron, now empty. People stared at us on the Underground, laden as we were with all our funny-shaped packages, with the snowy owl asleep in its cage on my lap.

"Got time fer a bite to eat before yer train leaves," Hagrid said.

He bought me a hamburger, and we sat down on plastic seats to eat them. I kept looking around. Everything seemed so strange, yet familiar.

"You all right, Harry? Yer very quiet," Hagrid said.

I wasn't sure how to explain what I was feeling. How could I tell him that I was simultaneously overwhelmed by finally experiencing the wizarding world firsthand and distracted by the knowledge of what was to come? That I was already planning how I might change things?

"Everyone thinks I'm special," I said finally. "All those people in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Quirrell, Mr. Ollivander... but I don't know anything about magic yet. How can they expect great things? I'm famous and I can't even remember what I'm famous for. I don't know what happened when Vol— when You-Know-Who killed my parents."

Hagrid leaned across the table. Behind the wild beard and eyebrows was a very kind smile.

"Don' you worry, Harry. You'll learn fast enough. Everyone starts at the beginning at Hogwarts, you'll be just fine. Just be yerself. I know it's hard. Yeh've been singled out, an' that's always hard. But yeh'll have a great time at Hogwarts—I did—still do, 'smatter of fact."

I smiled back, feeling a genuine connection to this gentle giant. Whatever changes I might make to the timeline, I knew Hagrid would always be a true friend.

When it was time to board my train back to the Dursleys, Hagrid handed me an envelope. "Yer ticket fer Hogwarts," he said. "First o' September—King's Cross—it's all on yer ticket. Any problems with the Dursleys, send me a letter with yer owl, she'll know where to find me... See yeh soon, Harry."

The train pulled out of the station. I wanted to watch Hagrid until he was out of sight; I rose in my seat and pressed my nose against the window, but when I blinked, Hagrid had vanished.

As the countryside flew past, I looked down at my ticket. Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. In just over a month, I'd be boarding the Hogwarts Express, meeting Ron and Hermione, starting classes. But this time, I had an advantage. This time, I knew what was coming.

The question was: what would I do with that knowledge?