Hello, Drinor here. I'm happy to publish a new Chapter of The Dark Side of Magic.
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Chapter 4 (A Train to Hogwarts), Chapter 5 (First Day in Hogwarts), Chapter 6 (Force and Feathers), Chapter 7 (Force Illumination), and Chapter 8 (Shadows of the Sith) are already available for Patrons.
Harry stared at the letter, blankly, for what felt like a full minute. He read it again, four more times, just to be sure. But there was no mistake: the letter was real. It was telling him he had been accepted to a place called Hogwarts—a school for witches and wizards!
"Master, why didn't you tell me there's magic in this world?" Harry asked as soon as it dawned on him that his master might know something about all this.
"Harry, I have no idea what this is. I've never heard of Hogwarts. As for magic, the only kind I know is what the Nightsisters used, but even their powers are drawn from the Force."
"Nightsisters? Who are they?" Harry asked, confused. His master had never mentioned them before.
"I can't tell you much," Anakin replied, his voice carrying a slight tension. "I've only encountered them a few times, and it wasn't pleasant. But according to my master, the Nightsisters could tap into the Dark Side of the Force without being consumed by it."
Harry frowned at the mention of the Dark Side. His master had always been vague about it, only warning him to never use it. Harry had always wanted to learn more, but right now, he was more focused on the letter in his hand, and it didn't make any sense. "And what about this letter? It says I'm supposed to go to some place called Diagon Alley and buy all these things for Hogwarts. They couldn't have explained it a bit better?" he muttered in frustration. The whole thing seemed absurd, and for a moment, he wondered if it was all just a prank.
Then, a thought struck him. "Do you think Aunt Petunia knows something?"
"She might," Anakin said softly, as though someone else could overhear their conversation.
"She never talks about my parents," Harry muttered. "Every time I try to ask, she just yells at me, saying it's none of my business. But I have a feeling she might know something about this letter."
"That's a good start, Harrikins. You should ask her," his master replied, amusement creeping into his voice.
"Who the hell is Harrikins?" Harry groaned at the nickname.
"That would be you. Don't like it? I could call you what I used to call Ahsoka—Snips," Anakin teased, clearly enjoying himself.
"That's even worse! Just call me Harry, like always," Harry said, trying to sound firm, though he knew it was useless.
"Roger, roger, Harrikins," Anakin quipped, now openly amused. Harry decided to let it go and ignore his master's teasing—for now.
He turned on his heel and walked toward his room. Opening the door, he stepped through and turned right, heading downstairs to the first floor. He crossed the hallway and opened the door that led to the common room. As he expected, Aunt Petunia was awake, preparing breakfast for Dudley and Vernon. Normally, Harry wouldn't even acknowledge her, going about his day unnoticed, but today was different.
"Aunt Petunia, do you know anything about this letter?" he asked, holding up the Hogwarts letter. Her eyes widened in fear, and she flinched away from the oven as if she wanted to bolt from the room. Harry didn't need any more confirmation—she knew exactly what the letter meant.
"Tell me everything you know," he demanded, his voice sharper than usual. He didn't want to waste more time than necessary talking with her.
"Never!" she shouted, her face pale as though she might faint. "I always knew this day would come," she muttered under her breath, but Harry caught her words.
"What is this letter? I want to know everything—now." His voice boomed through the room, making the walls tremble and the chandelier above them shake as though it might crash to the floor.
Aunt Petunia stepped back, visibly frightened, and without much effort, Harry used the Force to pull a chair behind her. She stumbled backward, falling into it. He held her in place, ensuring she couldn't stand up, though she could still move her head and speak. Her panicked attempts to rise quickly subsided as she realized she was trapped.
"Now, explain everything. I want to know it all," he ordered again, his patience wearing thin.
For a moment, there was only silence. Harry considered what he might have to do to get her to talk when she finally spoke, her voice laced with bitterness. "Your mother was the same." The words dripped with disdain, a tone Harry was all too familiar with, but this time, it wasn't just about him—it was pure hatred aimed at his mother.
"My mother? Are you saying she got a letter like this?" Harry demanded, holding up the Hogwarts invitation.
"Oh, she did," Aunt Petunia replied, her voice dripping with venom. She let out a bitter laugh. "I still remember her wide-eyed excitement, twirling around with that letter in her hands. Then that old witch came and whisked her away to Diagon Alley. She came back with a wand, books, and all sorts of magical things. Your mother... you're just like her." Aunt Petunia spat the words, trying to stand, but the Force held her firmly in place as if a great weight pressed her down.
"She thought she was better than everyone. You do, too. Always trying to outshine Dudley, thinking you're special. Every year at that cursed school, she became more and more of a freak, waving her filthy wand around, making fun of me. And look where she ended up. Her and your filthy father—both of them thought they were special. Now they're both in the ground, where they belong, where they always—"
She didn't finish. A choked gasp cut her off as Harry's anger flared. His glare bore into her as his hand rose, though he stood across the room. Aunt Petunia struggled to breathe, clutching her throat, as if Harry's invisible grip was suffocating her. His green eyes flashed with a hint of yellow.
"YOU KNEW! ALL THIS TIME, YOU KNEW!" Harry roared, his voice trembling with rage. Aunt Petunia gasped and clawed at her throat, her face turning red.
"Harry, stop!" The sharp command echoed in his mind, causing him to stumble backward, his hand dropping to his side. Aunt Petunia collapsed, gasping for air, her hands still around her throat as she took in deep, ragged breaths.
"Harry, I understand your anger, but you must never use the Dark Side. Do you hear me? Only the Light Side of the Force," Anakin's voice was stern, but there was an underlying concern that cut through Harry's fury.
Tears welled in Harry's eyes. "I'm sorry, Master. I didn't mean to. I won't do it again," he said shakily. The thought of his master's anger, or worse, his disappointment, filled Harry with regret.
There was a long pause, and Harry feared the silence meant his master had abandoned him. "I forgive you, Harry," Anakin finally said, his voice softer. "But you must learn to control your emotions. The Dark Side is always waiting, ready to consume you. Never let it take hold."
"Have you... have you ever used it, Master?" Harry asked quietly, almost afraid of the answer.
Another moment of silence passed. "The Dark Side is dangerous, Harry. I lost myself to it once, and it took me years to find my way back. We'll talk more about it later. For now, focus on what you need to learn," Anakin said, his tone firm again.
Harry glanced back at Aunt Petunia, only now noticing she was no longer in the chair. In the chaos of the moment, he had lost control of the Force holding her down. But he knew she hadn't left the house—she was probably still lurking nearby, shaken, but hiding the truth.
Later
"Now, tell me everything you know," Harry demanded as Aunt Petunia sat at the table, nervously sipping her tea. Her eyes darted between him and the door. "I won't hurt you this time. That was... a mistake," he added, but there was no real regret in his voice.
She looked at him as if he were a ticking bomb about to destroy the house. "Your mother was a witch, boy. I thought that cursed letter explained everything to you," she spat, barely holding back her resentment.
"It says I've been accepted to Hogwarts, a school for witches and wizards, but it doesn't explain how to get my supplies or even how to get there," Harry said, his frustration growing. It seemed strange that the letter left out such important details, especially for someone who had no clue about magic.
"Why do you expect me to know how to get there? I'm not a witch, and even if I knew, I wouldn't have told you a thing," she replied with a smug grin. Harry clenched his fist, tempted to lash out, but his master's words echoed in his mind, and he held back.
"What about my mother? How did she get there?" he pressed, hoping she would slip and reveal something useful.
Petunia's face hardened as she took another sip of tea, her anger and fear barely contained. "An older witch came and took her away," she said gruffly. "Told her to follow her, and when your mother came back, she had all sorts of magical things—books, a wand, a uniform. And a cat, one that loved scratching me. Your mother thought it was hilarious every time. Then, on the first of September, she disappeared for a year. Came back in the summer with even more strange things. That's all I know," she said, her voice dripping with bitterness.
Harry's anger flared at the way his aunt spoke of his mother. He had never met her, but he imagined her as a kind, gentle woman—nothing like the cruel picture Aunt Petunia painted. But instead of lashing out, he turned away, head down in disappointment, and walked back toward his room.
"Master, what should I do?" he asked quietly. This whole situation was strange. The letter was vague, and the idea of a magical world he knew nothing about was overwhelming. But if his parents had been part of it, he wanted to be part of it, too. Maybe this world could offer him more than he had ever known.
"Your aunt mentioned someone coming to take your mother away—an old woman. I think you just need to wait for someone to come for you as well. You're not the only one who's been accepted to this school, and you're probably not the only one who doesn't understand all this. I believe someone will show up to guide you and help you get what you need," his master explained calmly. Harry nodded, finding comfort in the logic of his master's words.
With that in mind, Harry returned to his room, but something still bothered him. "Master, what did I do to Aunt Petunia? And why are you so against me using the Dark Side?" he asked cautiously. It was a topic Anakin rarely discussed, and when he did, it was always with a note of warning.
"Harry, the Dark Side of the Force is dangerous to anyone. I...I fell victim to it and did many bad things, Harry. The Dark Side of the Force can seduce you with its power. It promises power beyond your wildest imagination. It can promise you the power to defeat someone you think is impossible to defeat, but by using it, You open the door for it to influence you. You will not be yourself anymore if you use the dark side. So, listen to me. For now, you still don't have enough experience with the Force in general, so only use what I tell you, one day, I might tell you to use different Force abilities, but the Dark Side is something you should stay away from for now." Anakin explained with a hint of warning in his voice.
Harry didn't say anything. He still could feel the pain on his body; it's been two years since his uncle had last struck him, two years since he met his Master and two years since he first felt power. Harry liked it; he liked the feeling of being powerful and being able to control his fate. So many things would have been better if he always had power. He would have never felt pain from his so-called family, and he would have never had to live with fear. Power allowed him not to feel fear again; power allowed him to feed himself as much as he wanted, and power gave him the freedom he desired. It was power and his master who gave him all this, and the thought of having more power...Harry shook his head, burying those thoughts away.
The words of his master repeated in his head. He didn't know yet what the dark side was, and he doubted his master would explain more about his dark past, so Harry started rereading the letter he got from Hogwarts.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door downstairs. At first, Harry ignored it, focusing on his Force training. But just as he was about to move a toy with his mind, he heard a scream. Jolting to his feet, he rushed out of his room and ran downstairs, where he was greeted by a confusing sight.
Aunt Petunia stood pale as a ghost, while Vernon was pointing a gun at an elderly woman standing at the door. "Your KIND is not welcome here! Get OUT!" Vernon bellowed, his face red with rage, still holding the gun, though the woman paid him no mind.
Harry watched in awe as she discreetly waved her wand from under her sleeve, and suddenly, the gun in Vernon's hand transformed into a harmless flower!
"Holy shit! Master, did you see that?!" Harry shouted excitedly in his head.
"That's... new. This is not the Force. Whatever she did, it's something else," his master replied, and though Anakin had no physical form, Harry could sense his master's intrigue.
The woman at the door was quite old, her expression stern and regal. Her sharp features and high cheekbones gave her an air of authority, while her piercing blue eyes seemed to take in everything at once. She wore a long, dark green robe that draped elegantly to the floor, and her gray hair was neatly pulled back into a tight bun beneath a pointed hat. In her hand, she held a slender wand.
"Wow!" Harry whispered, staring at her in amazement.
"I said, get out!" Vernon shouted again, the flower slipping from his hand and falling to the floor. The woman still paid him no attention, her eyes now fixed on Harry.
"You must be Harry Potter," she said, her voice calm but firm as she looked up at him through her square glasses.
"Yes," Harry replied with a wide smile, hurrying down the stairs. "Are you a witch?" he asked, hoping she was the one meant to guide him to the Wizarding world and explain everything.
"Yes, Mister Potter. My name is Minerva McGonagall, Professor of Transfiguration and Head of Gryffindor House," she introduced herself, a small smile softening her stern expression.
"I got this letter today, but I don't really understand it. Can you explain more?" Harry asked, holding out the Hogwarts invitation. At this, Professor McGonagall's gaze shifted sharply to Vernon and Aunt Petunia.
"Did they tell you nothing about Hogwarts?" she asked, her voice tinged with frustration as she glanced back at Harry.
"Not much," Harry admitted. "When I got the letter, Aunt Petunia told me my parents went to the same school, but she said they died in a car crash."
At this, McGonagall's eyes flickered with anger, but she quickly composed herself, turning her attention back to Harry. "Mister Potter, would you like to come with me to Diagon Alley? We can get everything you need for Hogwarts, and I can tell you more about your parents," she offered kindly.
"Harry, you can trust her for now. I've met many people, and she seems like someone you don't need to be wary of," his master reassured him, and Harry immediately felt a wave of relief.
"Alright, but I don't have any money," Harry said quickly, realizing he was unprepared.
"Don't worry about that, Mister Potter," McGonagall said with a reassuring smile. "Now, follow me."
Harry nodded and walked past her, stepping out of the house. As he crossed the threshold, the old witch followed, closing the door behind them. Without a word, Harry followed her, ready to discover the world he had never known.
"Where are we going?"
"First to London, then to Diagon Alley. That's where you'll buy your supplies and learn how to get there on your own," Minerva replied. Harry nodded as they walked along the road together.
He couldn't help but ask, "Did you know my parents?"
"I did," she said, a hint of warmth in her voice. "Lily Potter was a wonderful witch, and your father, well, he was a bit of a prankster in his younger years, but he grew up into a fine wizard. What do you know about them?"
"They died in a car crash," Harry answered, glancing at her as they waited by the roadside. He wasn't sure what they were waiting for.
Minerva's expression softened, but her voice grew more serious. "Your parents, Lily and James Potter, didn't die in a car accident. They were... they were murdered."
Harry felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. "Murdered? By who?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
She hesitated for a moment, then spoke quietly, "By a dark wizard named... Voldemort." She shuddered at the name, her voice barely audible.
Harry noticed her fear.
Why would she be afraid of saying his name? Anakin wondered.
Then, out of nowhere, a woman's scream echoed in his mind, followed by a flash of green light. He had seen that flash before in his dreams but never understood it until now. The realization hit him—this dark wizard, Voldemort, had killed his parents. "Where is he?" Harry demanded, anger flaring in his eyes.
Minerva looked down at him, her eyes filled with concern. "Voldemort is gone, Mister Potter. You don't need to worry about him."
"Gone? What do you mean?" "Harry, calm down. Remember what I told you." "He killed my parents!!" "I understand your anger, Harry. Trust me. I do. But this is not helping you. Now take deep breaths and let the Professor explain it to you."
Harry took a few calming breaths, just as his master advised, and looked at Professor McGonagall, waiting for her to continue.
"No one knows exactly what happened," she began softly. "But on the night of October 31st, Voldemort attacked your home. Your parents were powerful, but they couldn't defeat him. Voldemort was the most feared Dark Lord of our time. Yet, that night, a miracle happened." She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
"A miracle?"
"Yes," she nodded. "When Voldemort tried to use the Killing Curse on you, it didn't work. No one understands how, but the curse backfired. That's why he's gone. He vanished that night." She gently brushed a strand of hair away from his forehead, revealing the lightning-shaped scar. "This is the only mark he left on you. You are the first and only person to survive the Killing Curse, Harry. That's why you're famous. That's why everyone knows your name. You're the Boy Who Lived."
Harry had so many questions swirling in his mind, but before he could voice any of them, Professor McGonagall raised her wand and pointed it upward, almost like she was signaling for a bus. Suddenly, a towering, three-story, bright red bus appeared out of nowhere, stopping right in front of them.
"Where did this come from?" "Where did this come from?"
"Come along, Mister Potter," she said calmly. Harry snapped his mouth shut and looked around, surprised that no one seemed to notice the giant bus. He quickly climbed aboard, and the moment the door shut behind him, the bus lurched forward at a breakneck speed.
Harry nearly toppled over, but Professor McGonagall caught him and shot a glare at the driver. "Slow down! We're not in that much of a hurry," she scolded sharply. The driver immediately eased the bus to a more reasonable pace, allowing Harry and McGonagall to find a seat and settle in.
"If only we could make an X-wing appear like that," his master mused in his head.
"What's an X-wing?" Harry asked, curious.
"It's a starfighter, Harry. You can fly it between planets and even out into space. Though, I doubt we'll find one in this world," Anakin added, sounding a little disappointed.
Harry was still a little shocked that his master talked about flying from planet to planet as if it were no big deal. He wanted to ask more questions, but first, he wanted to know more about his parents and the world of magic.
"Professor, can you tell me more about my parents?" Harry asked, his voice eager. Minerva nodded, though she seemed somewhat reluctant.
She began to explain, telling Harry about Hogwarts, his parents' time there, and how they were both talented witches and wizards. She spoke fondly of his mother and father, but when the conversation shifted to the war against Voldemort and his followers, her tone grew somber. She explained that people in the wizarding world were so terrified of Voldemort that they referred to him as "You-Know-Who" because most were too afraid to speak his name. She also mentioned the four Hogwarts Houses and told Harry he would be sorted into one on his first day, though when he asked how it would happen, she gave him a sly smile.
"A surprise isn't much of a surprise if you know about it beforehand, Mister Potter," she said with a hint of sass. Harry nearly rolled his eyes but decided to press on.
"Professor McGonagall, you said You-Know-Who disappeared after he tried to kill me. Why did he go after my parents?" Harry asked, hoping for some answers.
"I don't know, Mister Potter. But I suggest you ask Professor Dumbledore when you get to Hogwarts. He might know the truth," she replied evasively.
"You said I'm famous in the wizarding world." Harry said, still trying to wrap his head around everything.
"You are indeed," she confirmed with a small, teasing smile. "So don't be surprised if people stop you on the street to talk to you."
Harry was silent for a moment, trying to imagine what it would be like to be recognized by people he had never met.
Harry didn't like the thought of having a crowd of people around him asking questions.
"This is strange," his master suddenly spoke, pulling Harry from his thoughts.
"What is, Master?" Harry asked, his attention shifting from the old woman to the passing buildings outside the bus window.
"If you are as famous as she is making it out to be, why were you left with that horrible family? From where I come from, someone of your status would be left to be taken care of by the family or relatives of the family, but your relatives were horrible to you. Did they now know that? They should have made sure your relatives were the best option for you, and that's not to mention that you were raised in a family where magic is hated. This is like sending a force-sensitive youngling to be raised by someone who hates the Force. The younglings are taught from a young age on the ways of the force. They should have never left you to be raised by a Non-Magical family. I just can't understand why they would do that."
Harry realized his master was right. Either the wizarding world didn't care about him, or they were naive enough to believe his aunt would treat him kindly. He wasn't sure which was worse: their neglect or their foolishness. Memories of Vernon's hand slapping his face, the pain, and the shouting surged through him. All of that could have been avoided.
"Professor McGonagall," Harry said, his voice suddenly cold. The older witch noticed the shift in his tone immediately.
"Yes, Mister Potter?" she replied cautiously.
"Why was I left with the Dursleys? Why was I raised in a family that clearly hates magic? Didn't you know?" His gaze locked onto her, and the intensity in his eyes made her almost flinch. She couldn't believe how someone so young could speak with such icy resolve.
"After your parents' passing, Dumbledore thought it best for you to be raised with your blood relatives, away from all the fame," she answered, but her explanation sounded weak, even to her.
Harry's glare only grew sharper. He could feel his blood boiling, the memories of the pain and the coldness of his life flashing in his mind. All of that could have been avoided!
But then he remembered his master's teachings: he had to control his emotions. So, instead of exploding in anger, Harry looked away from McGonagall and focused on the view outside the window, letting the silence settle between them. He asked no more questions for the rest of the road to London.
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After the bus came to a stop, Professor McGonagall turned to Harry and said, "Now, we're heading to the Leaky Cauldron."
"That's a dumb name," Harry muttered, loud enough for the Professor to hear.
"Like father, like son," he heard her mumble under her breath.
As they walked through the busy streets, McGonagall pointed ahead. "There's the Leaky Cauldron."
Harry looked up and saw a dingy, worn-down pub. "That's it? Looks more like a morgue. Did someone die?" he remarked without thinking. McGonagall simply rolled her eyes at his comment as they approached. Harry noticed that no one on the street seemed to even glance at the sad-looking pub. Maybe they don't like how it looks, he thought, or maybe they can't see it at all.
"If they can use magic, you'd think they'd come up with better-looking buildings," his master chimed in his head, making Harry chuckle.
Before he knew it, McGonagall opened the door, and they stepped inside.
The pub was dimly lit and shabby, with a long bar and several shadowy tables tucked into the corners. A few people sat around, dressed in odd-looking robes and top hats. As they entered, the bartender looked up, and the entire place went quiet. McGonagall walked in, and several patrons greeted her with smiles—some genuine, some forced. Harry could always tell when a smile was fake, thanks to years of Vernon's insincere grins.
"Professor McGonagall, a pleasure to see you. I wasn't expecting you here today. What can I get for you?" the bartender asked warmly, not even noticing Harry standing just a couple of feet away.
"This place feels like one of those pubs Jabba would run," his master commented with a hint of boredom. "Only someone like him would create a place this dreary."
Harry looked around. The pub had a musty smell that reminded him of Dudley's room—unpleasant and a bit unsettling. Maybe there really is a corpse somewhere, he mused, half-joking to himself.
"Follow me, Harry," McGonagall instructed, leading him through the bar and into a small, walled courtyard outside.
Harry didn't find anything particularly interesting about the courtyard they had entered, aside from the blank brick wall in front of them.
"Stand back, Harry," McGonagall instructed, and he did as he was told. She tapped the wall three times with her wand. For a moment, nothing happened, but then the bricks began to shake and shift, pulling away from the center to form a large archway that led to a bustling street.
Harry's mouth dropped open in amazement. McGonagall glanced back at him, smiling with pride. He hurried through the archway, almost afraid it would close behind him before he could catch up. They stepped onto a cobbled street filled with life.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley, Harry," McGonagall said warmly. Harry was awestruck. There were shops everywhere selling all kinds of magical items. He looked around, trying to take it all in, afraid he might forget something if he didn't memorize it immediately. Harry saw owls, cats, and even rats as they passed a shop with animal cages in the window.
"Huh, I was wrong—this place does look pretty good," his master remarked, sounding amused.
Harry noticed a shop for brooms and another for wands. The thought of owning a wand and a broom to fly on filled him with excitement. He wondered if he could combine magic with the Force to create something new, something no one had ever seen before. Maybe he could make objects float or transform them from a distance, or even summon lightning as a weapon. Could magic make him invisible? His mind raced with possibilities, and McGonagall, as if sensing his thoughts, gave him a knowing smile.
They passed shops selling telescopes, strange swirling tubes, and globes of the Earth, except this globe had moving clouds and real-looking water. Harry wished he had more eyes to take in everything, but he noticed there didn't seem to be any magical creatures—just the owls, cats, and rats he had seen earlier.
Their first stop was at a large, gleaming white building that towered over the other shops. McGonagall pointed out the name: "Gringotts," the wizarding bank.
At the bronze doors stood a goblin. The creature was as short as Harry, with a clever, swarthy face, a pointed beard, and unusually long fingers and feet.
"Huh, are you sure these aren't aliens? They kinda remind me of Master Yoda, except they're not green," his master commented, intrigued by the goblin.
"Master Yoda?" Harry asked, puzzled. He had heard of Master Obi-Wan, but Yoda was a new name.
"Master Yoda was one of the greatest Force users I've ever known. He used only the Light Side, and it's said he trained Jedi for eight hundred years." Anakin spoke with respect, and Harry wondered how someone could live that long.
As they passed through the bronze doors, they ascended a silver staircase that led to another set of doors, these ones adorned with silver inscriptions.
Enter, stranger, but take heed.
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take but do not earn,
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
So, if you seek beneath our floors
A treasure that was never yours,
Thief, you have been warned, beware
Of finding more than treasure there.
"Gringotts is one of the safest places to store valuables, Harry," McGonagall said in a hushed tone as they walked through the grand entrance. "The vaults here are nearly impossible to rob. They're bewitched so that if anyone tries to enter without permission, the vault will seal them inside. And no one can escape, as all the vaults are protected by Anti-Apparation spells."
Harry listened closely, eager to absorb every bit of information about the magical world. He didn't yet know what Apparating meant, but he figured he'd learn soon enough.
They entered a vast marble hall with a long counter stretching across the far end and doors leading to other areas. Harry didn't pay much attention to the other people as they walked up to the counter. One goblin, who wasn't busy, looked up at them, and McGonagall cleared her throat, fixing her sharp gaze on him.
"Yes, ma'am?" the goblin asked.
"I'd like to see Mister Potter's vault," she replied, gently nudging Harry forward.
"Do you have the key?"
"I'm afraid not, but Harry Potter wishes to access the vault," McGonagall said quietly, trying not to attract attention. Still, Harry noticed several goblins behind the counter had stopped working and were now staring at him upon hearing his name.
"Is that so?" the goblin said with a sly smile, standing on his stool to get a better look at Harry as though trying to intimidate him. Harry met the goblin's gaze, unfazed, which seemed to disappoint the creature. With a slight huff, the goblin leaned back and sat down.
He rummaged through some drawers behind the counter before pulling out a small lancet. Extending his hand toward Harry, he said, "Give me your finger, boy. All I need is a drop of blood."
Reluctantly, he offered his hand. The goblin grabbed his finger roughly and pricked it with the lancet. A sharp, burning sensation followed as the small container filled with more than just a drop of blood. Harry winced but was relieved when the goblin finally let go, leaving faint red marks on his finger that slowly faded.
"Wait here," the goblin instructed before walking away. Harry and McGonagall stood waiting in the grand hall. Harry's mind wandered, wondering if she knew how much money his parents had left for him. He figured she wouldn't know, but the thought still lingered.
After what felt like an hour, the goblin returned, carrying a small black box. He led them into a nearby office and placed the box on the table in front of Harry.
"It matches the blood of James Potter and Lily Potter," the goblin informed them, eyeing Harry with interest. "Inside this box is your new key. Since your blood matches and there are no other living relatives, we've created this new key for you. The old one will no longer work."
Harry thought it all seemed a little too simple but decided not to question it. He opened the box and found the key resting on a soft velvet cushion. The key's head was shaped like a diamond, with a diamond-shaped hole in the middle. It was a rich green color, while the rest of the key gleamed with a golden hue.
"Has anyone accessed the vault since the Potters' unfortunate passing?" Minerva asked.
"No," the goblin replied. "No one has used the vault in eleven and a half years. The last person to do so was James Potter." He scrambled to his feet and led them out of the office.
When they arrived at Harry's vault, he was astonished to see an enormous pile of coins inside as the door swung open. Even Minerva seemed a little surprised at the sheer amount of wealth.
Harry stared at the coins, unsure how the wizarding currency worked. McGonagall explained, "The gold ones are Galleons. Seventeen silver Sickles make a Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts make a Sickle."
Since he hadn't brought a bag, the goblin handed him one, and Harry took as much money as he thought he'd need. Surprisingly, the bag felt light despite the heavy amount of coins inside, likely due to a spell.
Once they were outside Gringotts, they headed to their next stop: a bookshop called *Flourish and Blotts*. A large wooden sign above the door depicted books and quills, with the shop's name written in bold green letters.
Inside, a wooden counter hugged the right side of the shop, where an elderly man sat reading a book. Harry's attention, however, was drawn to the left side—the rest of the shop. It was massive, with shelves towering all the way up to the ceiling, much taller than the two-story Dursley house. Ladders lined the shelves, allowing customers to reach books that were otherwise out of reach.
Harry had never seen so many books in one place. Not even the library at his Muggle school came close.
"How many books do you want?" Minerva asked, noticing the excitement in his eyes.
"All of them," Harry blurted out without hesitation.
"I'm afraid that's not possible," McGonagall replied with a smile. "You're only allowed to get the books for your first year."
Harry was a bit disappointed but followed her instructions, picking out only the required first-year books. After paying for them, they stepped outside, ready to head to the next exciting stop—buying his wand.
As they continued walking down the street, Harry couldn't help but notice several girls around his age sneaking glances at him. When he turned to look at them, they giggled and quickly looked away, leaving him confused.
"Did you see his eyes?" one of them whispered.
"He's adorable," another cooed.
"I hope we get sorted into the same house," a third murmured as they walked off, still glancing back at him.
"Hmm, it seems girls already like you, Harrikins," his master teased in his head, making Harry groan loudly. Minerva glanced at him in confusion.
"Stop calling me that, Master! And I'm not here to make friends," Harry retorted in frustration.
"We've talked about this—you need friends. Everyone does, and you're no different," Anakin insisted, as he often did. Harry still couldn't understand why his master was so determined at this point.
"What would I even say to them? I don't know how to talk to girls," Harry grumbled inwardly. His master's insistence on making friends baffled him. Why waste time when he could be focusing on mastering the Force and magic?
"You could always try my ultimate secret technique for talking to girls. They'll be powerless against it," Anakin said, clearly amused. Harry had a sinking feeling that this so-called "secret" wouldn't be helpful.
"And what's that, oh great Master?" Harry asked sarcastically.
"Just tell them you don't like sand," Anakin replied.
Harry blinked, convinced he'd misheard. "Why... why...why would that ever work?" he nearly said out loud, utterly baffled.
"It worked for me," Anakin said casually.
"You're lying," Harry shot back in disbelief.
"I never lie, Harrikins. Jealous, are we?" his master teased, clearly enjoying the exchange. Harry pressed his lips into a thin line and sighed in frustration. McGonagall looked down at him, both confused and a little concerned.
"Are you alright, Mister Potter?" she asked.
"...Yes, just thinking about all the spells I'm going to use when I get home," Harry lied smoothly, even earning silent approval from Anakin for how convincing he sounded.
"Oh, I'm afraid that's not possible," Minerva said, her words feeling like a slap in the face to Harry as he looked up at her.
"What do you mean?" Harry asked, puzzled.
"Using magic outside of school is forbidden for underage wizards, unless you're on school grounds. You won't be able to use magic at home until you finish Hogwarts," she explained strictly, making it clear that even though Harry was famous, the rules applied to him, too.
"That's Bullshit!" Harry blurted out in frustration.
"Mister Potter," McGonagall said sharply, her eyes narrowing. "Do not use such language with me again. Are we clear?"
Harry clenched his fists, glaring for a moment before letting out a sigh of frustration. "Fine," he muttered.
"Don't worry, Harry," Anakin chimed in. "We'll discuss this ridiculous rule later. For now, focus on getting what you need."
Harry felt a bit better hearing that. He hoped his master would find a way around what he now considered a pointless and restrictive rule.
Minerva led Harry to a small, shabby-looking shop. Its columns on either side of the large bay window were gray with peeling paint, and through the dusty glass, Harry could see a single wand resting in a velvet box. Above the window, a faded gold sign read, *Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.*
Harry blinked and did a double take. "That's a long time."
"Yes, Ollivander is one of the finest wand makers in the world. This is something you'll need to do on your own, Mister Potter. Go ahead and choose your wand," McGonagall said with a nod.
Harry, now with enough coins from his vault, pushed open the door, causing a small bell to chime. The shop was cramped and lined with tall shelves stacked high with boxes of wands, all covered in a thin layer of dust. The only furniture was an old, rickety chair behind an even older desk, which was cluttered with odds and ends—candy wrappers, notes, a broken radio, quills, and a vase with a lone goldfish swimming lazily inside.
From behind the rows of wands, Harry spotted a silhouette. A frail-looking man with untamed white hair stepped forward, his silver eyes bright and sharp despite his age.
"Welcome to Ollivanders, Mister Harry Potter. How may I assist you?" the man said, his voice smooth yet full of intrigue.
Harry raised an eyebrow, wondering how Ollivander knew who he was so quickly. They had only been in Diagon Alley for about half an hour, and no one else had noticed him. "How do you know it's me?" he asked, though he felt a little foolish once he noticed the man's eyes linger on his forehead. Great, he thought, is everyone going to stare at my scar?
"Your scar, of course. It's quite famous," Ollivander replied with a hint of awe in his voice.
"Right," Harry muttered under his breath, not exactly thrilled at the idea of people constantly looking at his forehead. "I'm here to buy a wand, sir. Do you remember the wands you sold to my parents?" he asked, trying to be polite.
"I remember every wand I've ever sold," Ollivander said proudly. "It feels like only yesterday your parents were here. Your father had a mahogany wand, eleven inches. Your mother's wand was ten and a quarter inches, willow, with an unknown core." As he spoke, Ollivander moved closer, eyeing Harry with keen interest.
"So, how does this work? Do I just pick a wand, and...?" Harry asked, trailing off.
Ollivander smiled, shaking his head. "No, no. The wand chooses the wizard, Mister Potter."
He turned to the stacks of wands, running his fingers over the boxes before carefully selecting one. Opening the box, he presented a pale brown wand to Harry. "Dogwood, unicorn hair, twelve inches. Give it a wave."
Harry took the wand, unsure what to expect, and gave it a flick. Instantly, a loud bang erupted, and smoke poured from the tip. Ollivander quickly snatched the wand back and returned it to its box.
"Not quite. Let's try this one—chestnut, dragon heartstring, ten inches." He handed Harry another wand, this one feeling more flexible. Harry gave it a swish, and a cascade of cold water shot from the tip, soaking the front of Ollivander's robes.
"Interesting," Harry muttered as Ollivander retrieved the wand and handed him another. For several minutes, Harry tried various wands, each producing some odd or chaotic result—a rattling desk, flickering lights, or gusts of wind.
After the seventh wand (ash, unicorn hair, twelve and a half inches) caused the shop's desk to tremble, Ollivander paused, studying Harry intently. A thought seemed to strike him, and he hurried to the back of the shop. After unlocking a small safe, he carefully removed a box and returned to Harry, pausing as if considering something deeply.
Finally, Ollivander nodded to himself and opened the box, revealing a wand nestled inside. "Eleven inches... holly wood... phoenix feather core," he said softly as he handed the wand to Harry.
The moment Harry's fingers closed around the wand, a warm surge of energy coursed through him. Power radiated from the wand, and suddenly, every box and tool in the shop began to float. Harry felt his feet lift off the ground as he hovered slightly, suspended by the force of the wand's magic. Then, just as quickly as it started, the power receded. Harry landed back on the floor, and everything settled back into place.
Ollivander's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Interesting, very interesting." he murmured, watching Harry closely.
"What is interesting?"
"I remember every wand I made, Mister Potter. The phoenix feather that is used on this wand, the same phoenix, had another feather used in another wand. That wand was used by the same person that gave you that mark."
August
After purchasing his wand, Harry also bought a beautiful white owl, naming her Hedwig. He made sure to let her out of the cage as much as possible, not wanting her to feel imprisoned. To his surprise, Hedwig seemed to understand him well, often watching him curiously whenever he used the Force in his room.
"Master, you mentioned using magic outside of school. Do you have any idea how I might be able to do that?" Harry asked one evening, eager to test his abilities.
"I'm not sure how the magic laws work here, Harrikins," Anakin replied, ignoring Harry's groan at the nickname. "But when school starts, you could ask around, gather information, and look for a loophole."
"Are you suggesting I break the rules?" Harry asked with amusement, raising an eyebrow.
"Harry, sometimes rules are worth bending if it's for the greater good—especially to protect those you care about. I didn't always follow orders myself, particularly when it came to saving my friends. But for this situation, I'd suggest waiting until you have more information. That way, you can use spells without getting into trouble." Anakin's advice sounded wise to Harry.
Reflecting on his master's words, Harry decided to immerse himself in his books, studying spells and curses, eager to learn more. Hours passed as he pored over the pages, growing more and more tempted to try out his wand. Then, an idea struck him.
Spotting a glass on the table, Harry stood up and, without warning, pushed it off the edge. It shattered on the floor.
"Why did you do that?" Anakin asked, confused. But Harry remained silent, his focus now on the broken glass. He used the Force to make the tiny shards float in the air. Remembering the spell "Reparo," he mimicked the wand movement described in the book, though he didn't say the spell aloud.
Slowly, the shards of glass came together, reassembling until the glass was whole again as if it had never been broken.
"Well, I'll be damned. That was impressive, Harry," Anakin praised him, but Harry wasn't finished. He had something else in mind.
He remembered his Force training, where he had learned to manipulate stone. With that same focus, he now directed the Force into the glass, causing it to heat up and melt, turning into a glowing, liquid-like substance. Concentrating, he shaped the molten glass, molding it into the form of a knife. As the liquid cooled and solidified, the glass knife floated above his palm, crystal clear and almost invisible in the light.
"Harry, congratulations—you just did something I've never seen or heard of before," Anakin said, clearly impressed. Harry smiled brightly, his heart swelling with pride. The thought of combining Magic and the Force excited him. He couldn't wait to explore what else he was capable of.
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September arrived, and with Vernon's reluctant help, Harry stood before the train station that would take him to Hogwarts.
"Are you ready, Harrikins?" Anakin asked as Harry stood at the entrance, staring at the bustling platform ahead.
"I am ready," Harry answered with determination, stepping forward, eager to see what Hogwarts had in store for him.
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