"Hagrid, what were my parents really like?"
As soon as Harry smoothly changed the subject, Hagrid's mood began to settle. The fear in his eyes faded, replaced by a wistful, almost nostalgic look.
"They were good people, kind and gentle," Hagrid said softly. "Your father was a brilliant Chaser, and not just any player - he captained the Gryffindor Quidditch team, a real star of his time!
And your mum? She was even more extraordinary. Head Girl at Hogwarts, and a true Potions prodigy. Honestly, I've never seen anyone brew like her. A Potions Master in her own right…"
Hagrid went on, his deep voice rumbling warmly through the cart as they rode deeper into the vaults of Gringotts. Harry listened in silence, the light in his eyes dimming.
The more he learned about how amazing his parents had been, how warm and accomplished they were, the more hatred festered in his heart toward the one who had taken them from him.
He should have had a happy childhood. A family. A normal life.
Soon, the rattling cart screeched to a stop in front of Vault 713. Unlike the more mundane Vault 687, this one didn't even need a key. The goblin accompanying them merely tapped the bronze door, and it unlocked with a click.
But Harry didn't take that to mean it was less secure. Quite the opposite.
He felt something subtle woven into the metal, an arcane pulse beneath the surface and heard the crisp sound of mechanical gears shifting as the door swung open.
There was no doubt in his mind. Vault 713 was protected by magic and machinery far beyond anything the other vaults had. The protections here weren't obvious, but they were dangerous.
Inside was a small, grimy parcel wrapped in rough brown paper. Hagrid immediately reached for it and tucked it securely under his coat like it was a national treasure.
Harry narrowed his eyes. Even through the wrapping, he could feel a dense magical aura. It was undoubtedly an enchanted item—an alchemical artifact, most likely.
But still… it was hardly impressive. Compared to the artifacts stored in the Sanctum Sanctorum back in New York, this thing wouldn't even make the bottom shelf.
Harry sighed, disappointed again in the wizarding world's standards. Treasuring this as a priceless relic? Honestly, it was a little sad.
No. He shook his head. He was being unfair. Maybe powerful magical objects in this world just gave off weaker auras. Magic wasn't only about raw strength—it was about quality too. And if this world had one thing going for it, it was that the quality of magic here seemed unusually high.
With the package secured, they returned to the cart and rode back to the surface. Moments later, they emerged into the warm sunlight outside Gringotts.
Now it was time to shop.
Hagrid took the lead, guiding Harry through the crowded, winding street of Diagon Alley. He clearly knew the place like the back of his hand. Before long, they arrived at a tidy little shop with a painted sign overhead: Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
Hagrid scratched his wild beard and looked down at Harry.
"Off you go, Harry. Get your school robes sorted. I need a good strong pick-me-up. Those carts in Gringotts shook something loose in my stomach."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Want one too?"
Harry smiled politely. "Sure. If it's something local, I'd like to try it."
Inside the shop, Harry was greeted by a plump little witch in purple robes. She had a motherly aura, a bright smile, and reminded Harry a bit of Aunt May. Her name was Madam Malkin.
Before he could say a word, she beamed.
"Oh, hello, dear. Getting your Hogwarts uniform, I expect? Of course you are. Come right in. There's another boy in the fitting room already—perhaps you two will hit it off."
Harry nodded and walked to the back of the shop. Madam Malkin personally began helping him into a set of new robes, brushing off her assistants with a cheery "I've got this one."
Harry chatted with her easily, his open smile and friendly demeanor working their usual magic. People always warmed to him quickly, and Madam Malkin was no exception. Within minutes, she was giggling at his jokes and offering to throw in a spare set of dress robes, free of charge.
Harry, though he didn't need the gift, accepted it with grace. He knew not to reject sincere kindness.
Just then, a snooty little voice called out from a nearby stool:
"Oi. You going to Hogwarts too?"
The speaker was a pale, blond boy with a permanently smug expression. He spoke like he expected Harry to be honored he was being addressed.
Harry glanced at him, mildly amused by the arrogance. But he had no intention of picking a fight with a kid. So he smiled calmly and said, "Yes. First year."
The boy perked up. "Brilliant! Me too. Got your own broom? It's so unfair they won't let first-years bring one. I might sneak mine in anyway."
He went on, clearly fishing for admiration. Harry listened with polite silence, replying only when absolutely necessary.
"I don't have a broom."
"Have you played Quidditch before?"
Harry's brows knit slightly. He didn't know what that was, and he honestly didn't care. His mind was elsewhere, spinning through strategies.
What would be the best way to kill the Dark Lord?
The Blade of the Vishanti?
Telekinetic disintegration?
Soul-wipe followed by a banishment ritual to a collapsing pocket dimension?
Or perhaps drop him into a looped portal fall until he starved to death?
He was so lost in thought, he didn't notice the blond boy's increasingly annoyed glares. The boy had finished his fitting, but Harry was still ignoring him.
Finally, fed up, the boy shoved him hard.
"Hey! Filthy mudblood, I'm talking to you! Don't ignore me!"
Harry felt the spike of hostility a fraction before the push. His body, trained beyond human limits, reacted before his conscious mind did. Magical energy surged. A glowing rune matrix completed itself in an instant.
With a crack of air, Harry vanished from sight and reappeared behind the blond boy. The Sword of the Vishanti shimmered into existence, its gleaming edge resting gently against the boy's throat.
A single golden hair drifted down, landing on the blade. It split clean in two before it hit the ground.
A thin line of red trickled down the boy's cheek.
The entire shop fell dead silent.
Then Harry exhaled and pulled back. A glowing sigil formed over his palm as he reached out and brushed away the blood. In an instant, the wound was gone—erased as if it had never been.
"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I wasn't trying to ignore you. I was thinking through a problem. I apologize for reacting that way. If I hurt you, please tell me what compensation you'd like."
He tilted his head, curious. "Also… what exactly does 'mudblood' mean? I grew up in the non-magical world, so I don't really know all these terms."
The blond boy stood frozen, shaking.
Then, with a forced smile and a voice cracking from fear, he stammered, "It—it means... um, best friend! Yeah! Because, uh, we plant magical herbs in the mud... together. So, uh… really good friends. That's what it means."
Harry raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. He simply nodded, as if accepting the answer.
The boy's legs trembled, and somewhere beneath his robes… a small, dark stain began to spread.