Harry stepped into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
New students were required to wear a standard uniform, which had to be a black robe.
Faculty members faced no such restrictions.
Harry understood the reasoning behind mandating uniforms for students—preventing discrimination, fostering discipline, the benefits were endless. His own legion back in the other world had standardized attire as well.
Madam Malkin was a short, plump witch with a cheerful smile, dressed in vibrant purple robes.
"Here to get your Hogwarts uniform, dear?" she said before Harry could even open his mouth. "We've got plenty in stock. In fact, there's a young man trying on robes in the back right now."
In the rear of the shop, a pale, lanky boy stood on a footstool while another witch pinned up his black robe.
To be fair, he wasn't bad-looking. Among ordinary boys, he could even be considered cute.
Another Hogwarts first-year, the boy was busy boasting to Harry about his family's wealth, his father's accomplishments, and his own skill on a broomstick.
He sounded like the obedient son of a braggart father.
Harry, always eager to gather information, didn't brush off the boy's attempts to chat.
But within moments, the boy launched into an unfiltered rant, disparaging students from Muggle families. He declared that Hogwarts shouldn't admit witches and wizards from Muggle backgrounds, insisting the school should only accept those from ancient wizarding families.
He didn't even bother to ask Harry about his own background before spouting off.
Only afterward did he belatedly ask what Harry's parents did for a living.
In other words, he was probing whether Harry was pure-blood.
On one hand, this was rude—speaking first and asking questions later, as if Harry didn't matter.
And besides, Harry's parents were dead.
Harry wasn't pleased. What gives you the right to disrespect me like this?
Look into my eyes!
On the other hand, Harry couldn't help but think this kind of talk was typical of aristocrats, fitting their stereotype perfectly.
Compared to someone like Emperor Joffrey, that world-shaking fool, this little aristocratic twit was almost normal!
And indeed, the boy was nobility. He bragged about his family's storied past, claiming his ancestors weren't native to Britain.
They had come with William the Conqueror, providing magical support and earning a fiefdom. According to policies from William's era, receiving a fief also granted a title—earl or baron.
At this point, the boy's prejudice against Muggles conveniently vanished. In his eyes, it seemed only non-noble Muggles were beneath him, while fellow nobles were equals, and kings were above them all.
The boy even mentioned that in the 16th century, his great-great-grandfather, Lucius I, had courted Queen Elizabeth I.
Harry figured this was likely a romanticized version of events. The witch hunts had probably ended by then, and wizards' status had risen, hadn't it?
Having seen plenty of nobles in other worlds, Harry knew many didn't even consider non-nobles human.
The wizarding world was better in that regard. Muggle-born wizards weren't necessarily weak, and personal strength mattered more. This boy might talk a big game, but no matter how Harry looked at him, he didn't seem like a powerhouse. All he could do was grumble.
Without power, you can't change anything.
It was just a difference between worlds. The boy's words might have been normal in the Middle Ages, but in modern times, they were outdated—or at least, foolish to say out loud. Madam Malkin was visibly frowning as she overheard.
"Enough, quiet down, young man," Harry said. He wasn't the Mad King, so he didn't resort to smacking the boy in the street, but he also had no interest in continuing the conversation.
"Yes, sir."
The boy obeyed instinctively, then seemed to realize he'd lost face. He opened his mouth to say something but hesitated.
Catching Harry's intimidating glare, he faltered again.
Fine, fine. The boy backed off. This guy's eyes are too scary. I'll wait for my two lackeys to show up.
Leaving the robe shop, Harry rejoined Hagrid, and they continued ticking items off the school supply list. At Flourish and Blotts, they purchased the textbooks Harry would need for the year.
The bookstore's shelves were packed with books stretching up to the ceiling—leather-bound tomes as large as paving stones, silk-covered volumes the size of postage stamps, books filled with peculiar symbols, and a few that were entirely blank.
This year's textbooks weren't particularly strange, though Hagrid mentioned some professors liked to get creative with their materials. He seemed thrilled at the thought.
Harry had a feeling that if Hagrid ever became a professor, he'd do exactly that.
Abusing authority, huh?
Harry wanted to buy a book on curses, but Hagrid warned him that young wizards weren't allowed to cast spells freely—it would get noticed. Magic is such an inconvenient thing?
Fine, then. Back to hand-to-hand combat.
Hagrid also stopped Harry from buying an extravagant solid gold cauldron, sticking to the pewter one listed on the supply list.
They also picked up a set of scales, a brass telescope, and other school supplies.
Items like the gold cauldron would be unaffordable for most Muggle families if paid for in pounds, but exchanging pounds for Galleons made them accessible.
In essence, the wizarding world subsidized young witches and wizards to ensure they could complete their education. If you had pounds, you could exchange them; if you didn't, you'd get a stipend.
After all, any young witch or wizard admitted to Hogwarts was a valuable resource, unlike ordinary Muggles who could "pop out as many kids as they wanted." The system wouldn't let poverty prevent a wizard from studying.
With so few wizards, the British magical community hadn't executed one in years.
Voldemort, as a Dark Lord, didn't just kill Muggles, rebels, or famous wizards—he even killed ordinary wizards and his own followers. He wasn't just a bad wizard; he was a menace who demanded a heavy-handed response.
Hagrid glanced at the list. "Next up, your wand. Oh, and I haven't gotten you a birthday gift yet!"
"You don't have to—" Harry began, offering a polite refusal.
He noticed that despite Hagrid's scruffy, almost vagrant-like appearance, he was probably quite wealthy.
Considering Hagrid was a friend of his parents, his guide in this world, and had even held him as a baby, Harry's refusal wasn't entirely sincere.
When it came to navigating social niceties, Harry wasn't clueless.
Surrounded daily by courtly etiquette officers—each one system-certified as utterly loyal—Harry could play the part of a flawless diplomat when needed.
"Here's the deal," Hagrid said. "I'm getting you an animal. How about an owl? Kids love owls. They can carry your letters and packages."
Twenty minutes later, Harry was holding a large birdcage containing a beautiful snowy owl, its head tucked under its wing, fast asleep.
"Pretty nice," Harry admitted. Though he was fond of cats, he had to concede this owl was undeniably stunning.
Hagrid's voice was gruff with emotion. "Now all that's left is Ollivanders. They're the only ones who sell wands. You'll definitely find the best wand there."
Harry asked, "Is there really nowhere to buy a sword?"
Compared to a wand, Harry felt he needed a sword more.
Magic, aside from a simple Lumos spell, required further study.
But swordsmanship? He wasn't bragging, but he already had some skill.
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