After a bumpy ride, the trio finally arrived at the vault Harry's parents had left for him.
Griphook opened the vault door. A thick green smoke billowed out, and as it cleared, even Harry—who had seen plenty of awe-inspiring sights—couldn't help but gasp. Inside were piles of gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and mountains of bronze Knuts.
"All of this is yours," Hagrid said with a grin.
Harry pulled out three pouches, filling one with a handful of Galleons, another with more Sickles, and the last with even more Knuts.
"...Harry, you really don't need to take so much all at once..." Hagrid muttered, slapping his palm to his forehead at the sight of Harry's bulging money bags. "This amount of Galleons and Sickles could last you a whole year."
"Galleons? Sickles?" Harry looked at Hagrid, confused.
"Gold coins are Galleons," Hagrid explained. "Seventeen Sickles make a Galleon, and twenty-nine Knuts make a Sickle. Simple, eh?"
Having grown accustomed to the decimal system back in Faerûn, Harry tried doing the math on his fingers but gave up in frustration.
Hagrid turned to Griphook. "Now take us to Vault 713, but, uh, could you have the cart go slower this time?"
"There's only one speed," Griphook said flatly.
Vault 713 had no keyhole.
"Stand back," Griphook instructed solemnly. He extended a long finger and tapped the door lightly. It began to vanish, bit by bit.
"Anyone besides a Gringotts goblin who tries that would be sucked into the door and trapped forever," Griphook said proudly, puffing out his chest.
"How often do you check to see if anyone's stuck inside?"
"Every ten years or so," Griphook said, grinning maliciously.
Inside this ultra-secure vault, there was undoubtedly something extraordinary stored. Harry was certain of it. But since Hagrid didn't mention what it was, Harry decided not to pry.
Hagrid's expression grew more somber as they returned. No one spoke on the way back.
Finally, they emerged from the darkness and stood once more on the sunlit cobblestone streets outside Gringotts.
Harry glanced back. The silver doors of the bank gleamed in the sunlight, bearing the warning inscription:
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.
"Like I said, you'd have to be mad to try robbing Gringotts," Hagrid said beside him.
"Hagrid, would you mind if I went to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions by myself? I'm going to grab a drink at the Leaky Cauldron to steady my nerves after that blasted cart ride," Hagrid asked apologetically.
Harry noticed Hagrid still looked a bit pale, so he nodded.
"All right then, Harry. Meet me back at the robe shop later," Hagrid said before wobbling off. Harry, carrying his three money bags, stepped through the door of Madam Malkin's shop.
A plump, smiling woman in a purple robe greeted him warmly.
"Hogwarts uniform, dear?" she asked, ushering him in.
"We've got all styles of robes. If you don't mind, you can try them on and chat with your fellow student while you're at it," she said cheerfully.
Inside, Harry saw a pale, skinny, blond-haired boy standing on a stool as a woman pinned his robes.
"Stand here, dear," Madam Malkin gestured to the stool next to the blond boy. A measuring tape floated over and began taking Harry's measurements. Meanwhile, the plump woman started selecting suitable robes for him.
"Hey," a drawling voice came from the boy.
"You're going to Hogwarts too, aren't you?"
"Obviously," Harry replied, glancing at him.
The boy's tone was slow and deliberate, brimming with an affected air of superiority. It reminded Harry of someone back in Faerûn—a pompous noble who tried to use Lady Eileen to achieve immortality. That man, too, begged for mercy when Harry had him beheaded.
"I'm going to make my father buy me a broomstick," the boy declared. "It's ridiculous that first-years aren't allowed their own. Whoever made that rule should be tossed into the trash along with it! Mark my words, I'll find a way to bring one to school. Do you have a broomstick?"
"No," Harry said, shaking his head.
The blond boy prattled on, but Harry was quickly losing interest. His gaze wandered, and he spotted Hagrid through the window, grinning and holding two massive ice creams.
"Hey, look at that guy!" The boy suddenly pointed at the window. "I'll bet he's cursed or something. No money to fix himself—what a poor fool."
"That's Hagrid," Harry said. "He works at Hogwarts. I don't think they're skimping on his salary."
"Oh," the boy sneered. "He's a servant, isn't he? Filthy bottom-dwellers like that shouldn't appear in front of decent people like us—it's offensive to the eyes."
"He's the gamekeeper, not a servant," Harry said, his brows furrowing. He was starting to dislike this boy.
"Whatever. I heard he's a drunken oaf who lives in a shabby little hut on campus because he can't afford a real house. Apparently, he nearly burned the place down once while messing with some dodgy magic."
Ignoring the boy, Harry hopped off the stool and approached Madam Malkin. "Excuse me, could you make some adjustments to this part of the robe?"
"Rude little mudblood, isn't he?" the boy muttered behind him, barely audible.
Outside, Harry took the ice cream Hagrid offered—chocolate with raspberry and chopped nuts. Together, they strolled along the bustling cobblestone street.
At Flourish and Blotts, Harry picked up his schoolbooks. The shelves were packed with books reaching up to the ceiling—massive leather-bound tomes, tiny silk-covered books, some filled with strange symbols, and even a few blank ones.
Curious about this world's magical history, Harry asked the shopkeeper for recommendations and bought several books on the subject. Hagrid, growing impatient, eventually dragged him out of the store.
After over an hour of shopping, Hagrid double-checked Harry's supply list.
"Only your wand remains."
"Wand? You mean those little wooden sticks like the one Professor Snape uses?"
Harry reached out to play with the snowy owl he had just bought at Eeylops Owl Emporium, but the owl, annoyed at being disturbed, flapped its wings indignantly inside the cage.
The last shop they visited was small and shabby, with a faded gold sign over the door that read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C. Behind the dusty windowpane, a single wand rested on a faded purple cushion.
As they entered, a tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop. The interior was tiny, with nothing in sight except a single wooden bench.
Hagrid sat down on the bench to wait, while Harry began to examine his surroundings.
Focusing his senses, Harry attuned himself to the dense magical energy in the air. Soon, he discerned a particularly soothing aura and followed it to a cabinet tucked in the corner. Reaching out, his hand hovered just over a dusty gray box, ready to grasp its source.
"Good afternoon," a soft voice suddenly spoke from behind him, startling Harry. Hagrid, equally startled, jumped up from the bench, which creaked loudly under his weight.
Turning around, Harry saw an old man standing before them. His pale, wide eyes gleamed like twin moons in the dim light of the shop.
"Hello," Harry said awkwardly, quickly pulling his hand back. Taking someone else's unsold items without permission never felt right.
"Ah, yes," the old man said.
"Yes, yes, I knew I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter. Your eyes are just like your mother's. When she came here to buy her first wand, it was as if it happened only yesterday. Ten and a quarter inches long, willow wood, swished beautifully—a wand perfect for spellwork."
Mr. Ollivander led Harry to a small stool and motioned for him to sit.
"Your father, however, was quite different. He favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches, pliable, powerful, excellent for Transfiguration. Of course, while I say your father favored it, the truth is, Mr. Potter, it is the wand that chooses the wizard."
Mr. Ollivander leaned closer to Harry, so near that their faces were almost touching. Harry could see his own reflection in the cloudy depths of the old man's eyes.
"Ah, here it is," Mr. Ollivander murmured, reaching out with a pale, bony finger to trace the lightning-shaped scar on Harry's forehead.
"I am sorry. This scar is the result of a wand I sold—thirteen and a half inches, yew, exceptionally powerful. It fell into the wrong hands. If only I had known what horrors it would unleash..."
Shaking his head, he seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then, noticing Hagrid, he brightened. "Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid! Wonderful to see you again. Oak, sixteen inches, a bit bendy, wasn't it?"
"That's right, sir," Hagrid said.
"A fine wand, that was. But I suppose they snapped it when you were expelled?"
"Er, yeah, they did," Hagrid said, shuffling his feet. Then, with a small smile, he added, "But I kept the pieces."
"You haven't been using it, have you?" Mr. Ollivander asked sharply.
"Oh no, sir, wouldn't dream of it," Hagrid replied quickly, though Harry noticed how tightly Hagrid clutched his pink umbrella.
"Hmm," Mr. Ollivander said, his sharp gaze lingering on Hagrid. "Well then, Mr. Potter, let's begin. Which hand do you use for your wand?"
"I'm right-handed," Harry replied.
"Raise your arm. Good."
Mr. Ollivander began measuring Harry with a silver tape measure, starting from shoulder to fingertip, then wrist to elbow, elbow to shoulder, shoulder to floor, knee to armpit, and finally around Harry's head.
"Every Ollivander wand contains a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. This is the essence of the wand. We use unicorn hair, phoenix tail feathers, and dragon heartstrings. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are identical. And remember, the wand that belongs to another wizard will never work as well for you."
When the tape measure finished its job, it coiled itself up and fell to the floor.
"Now then," Mr. Ollivander said. "Let's try this one. Beechwood and serpent nerve, nine inches, nice and flexible. Give it a wave."
Harry took the wand and waved it, but Mr. Ollivander immediately snatched it back.
"No, no—not that one. Try this: maple and phoenix feather, seven inches, springy. Go on."
...
Harry tried wand after wand. He couldn't understand what Mr. Ollivander was looking for.
The wands Harry tried piled higher and higher on the bench. Yet the more wands Mr. Ollivander brought down from the shelves, the more excited he seemed.
"A tricky customer, eh? No matter. I'm sure we'll find the perfect match for you. Let me see…ah, yes, here we are. Holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple."
Harry took the wand and waved it. Nothing happened.
Mr. Ollivander frowned deeply.
"Curious…very curious," he muttered under his breath.
"Excuse me," Harry ventured hesitantly, "but…if you don't mind, could I try picking one myself?"
Mr. Ollivander blinked, surprised, then nodded. "Oh, by all means, Mr. Potter. Please, go ahead."
Following the magical sensation he had felt earlier, Harry walked to the cabinet in the corner and confidently selected a box. He opened it, took out the wand inside, and gave it a gentle wave.
A surge of powerful yet calming magic swept through the shop like a breeze.
"Sycamore, phoenix feather, eleven and three-quarters inches, remarkably flexible…" Mr. Ollivander murmured, staring at the wand in Harry's hand. "But…this doesn't make sense. It shouldn't be possible. Something must be wrong…yes, something is definitely wrong…"
He trailed off, lost in thought, as he gazed at the wand that had chosen Harry so perfectly.
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