The self-rowing boat glided smoothly to the dock. Magic, Harry had to admit, was awfully convenient.
No need for oars—just ride the waves.
Hagrid finished reading his newspaper, and Harry reviewed the shopping list. Beyond the various professional-looking magical textbooks, he noticed an item that stood out: dragonhide gloves.
One pair for every student… Were dragons that common in this world?
How did they stack up against the dragons of Westeros, from A Song of Ice and Fire? Which were stronger?
It was impressive, really, that wizards managed to keep such massive creatures hidden. Perhaps there was some handy spell that made it possible, or maybe a tightly run organization was behind it… though, more likely, it was just magic.
Maybe magical power worked like his own strength—guided by intent, where wanting something badly enough could make it happen. Or even further: if you believed you could do it, you could.
Last night, while discussing the Unforgivable Curses, Harry had noticed how much magic relied on willpower. The Killing Curse, for instance, wouldn't work unless you genuinely meant to kill. No accidental deaths there.
Hagrid, during the boat ride, had grumbled more than once about how useless the current Ministry of Magic was. Fudge, he said, was obsessed with outshining Dumbledore but was utterly incompetent, with no brains to speak of.
A Ministry led by someone like that probably wasn't much of an organization.
If even Hagrid thought Fudge was dim… Harry didn't dare imagine how bad it must be.
Harry was pretty sure his own intelligence surpassed Hagrid's. After all, he'd easily coaxed a ton of information out of him—a clear sign of intellectual superiority.
The two climbed the stone steps toward the street.
As they passed through the small town toward the station, passersby couldn't stop staring at Hagrid. Harry didn't blame them. It wasn't just that Hagrid was twice the size of a normal man—he kept pointing at ordinary things like parking meters, exclaiming loudly, "See that, Harry? What's that Muggle contraption, eh?"
As if he wanted everyone to know he was a wizard.
Harry, who hadn't seen modern gadgets in a while himself, was curious too, but he wasn't about to act so oddly.
He was certain of his own intelligence—reiterating to himself, though not out loud, that he was clearly smarter than Hagrid.
If this was the level of intellect among wizards… heh.
Harry couldn't help but smirk.
"By the way, Hagrid," Harry asked, "did you say Gringotts has fire-breathing dragons?"
"Aye, that's what they say," Hagrid replied. "Blimey, I'd love to have a dragon meself."
"You want a dragon? Can regular wizards keep them? If so, I want one too."
Harry found the idea of wizards raising dragons perfectly reasonable. His philosophy was simple: Targaryen blood gave you power, sure, but if you had enough strength of any kind, no dragon could stand in your way.
"I've wanted one since I was a kid," Hagrid said, then sighed. "But they're not allowed anymore—too dangerous, they say. I don't think they're dangerous at all. They're dead cute, dragons are."
"We could keep one in secret," Harry suggested.
"Good idea," Hagrid grinned.
They boarded the train, with Hagrid continuing to draw attention.
Harry glanced at the shopping list again. A note at the bottom read: Students may bring an owl, a cat, or a toad.
"Can we get all this stuff in London?" Harry asked loudly.
"If yeh know where to look," Hagrid replied. "I'd recommend a cat, but for convenience, an owl's great for sending letters…"
Harry nodded in agreement. He thought people who chose toads were a bit odd. Toads were just… ugly. Cats, on the other hand, were nice to look at.
If a cat killed a toad, the cat was the good guy. If a toad poisoned a cat, the toad was the bad guy.
England wasn't a huge place, so it didn't take long for them to reach London. This was Harry's first time in the city.
To a Brit, that might seem unthinkable—like a Japanese person who'd never been to Tokyo. But given Harry's upbringing, it made sense.
According to Hagrid, the wizarding shopping district, including Gringotts, was hidden somewhere in London. Harry was now convinced of magic's incredible ability to conceal things.
London was a city where every inch of space was valuable. Even without having been here before, Harry could imagine how difficult it must be to hide an entire street.
They passed bookstores, record shops, burger joints, and a cinema before arriving at a place called The Leaky Cauldron.
It was a grimy, cramped little pub that looked like it belonged in the Middle Ages, completely out of place among the modern shops around it.
People hurrying by didn't even glance at it. Their eyes slid from the large bookstore on one side to the record shop on the other, as if The Leaky Cauldron didn't exist.
Maybe you needed magical ability to see it. Without it, the pub was probably invisible.
For such a famous place, it was shockingly dark and dingy. A few old women sat in a corner, sipping sherry from small glasses, one of them puffing on a long pipe.
A small man in a top hat was chatting with the balding, walnut-faced bartender.
The moment they stepped inside, the chatter stopped abruptly. It seemed everyone knew Hagrid—they smiled and waved at him.
The bartender grabbed a glass and said, "The usual, Hagrid?"
"Not today, Tom. I'm on Hogwarts business," Hagrid replied, clapping the bartender's shoulder with his massive hand.
"My goodness," the bartender said, peering at Harry. The scars on both hands were different from the rumors, but the lightning bolt on his forehead was unmistakable. "Is this—could this be—?"
The Leaky Cauldron fell silent.
"Bless my soul," the bartender whispered. "Harry Potter—what an honor."
He hurried out from behind the counter, rushed toward Harry, and grabbed his hand, tears welling in his eyes.
"Welcome back, Mr. Potter. Welcome back."
Chairs scraped as people stood, and suddenly Harry found himself shaking hands with everyone in the pub.
"I'm Quirrell, Mr. Potter. Can't believe I'm finally meeting you."
"Such an honor, Mr. Potter, such an honor."
"I've been dying to shake your hand—my heart's pounding!"
"So thrilled, Mr. Potter. Words can't describe it. Dedalus Diggle, at your service."
The scene felt strangely familiar to Harry. It reminded him of returning triumphantly to a foreign land as a great figure, greeted with fervent admiration—a moment brimming with vitality, where everything seemed to burst with possibility.
He'd thought coming back home would make him a nobody again. Yet here he was, still worshipped by so many.
He remembered now—when he was younger, people in odd clothing had bowed or saluted him, but Aunt Petunia always insisted he'd imagined it.
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