"So," Harry said, riding shotgun on a flying motorcycle that definitely wasn't road legal, "you're telling me there's a hidden alley behind this pub that normal people definitely cannot see, full of wizards, goblins, and whatever else shit that might be out there?"
Hagrid, focusing on the road, or lack of it, responded "Aye, but be careful, there be people who'll be wantin' ta take advantage of ya, bein famous an' all"
"Sure..." Harry said, suddenly concerned
The first thing Harry noticed when they entered the pub was that no one found it strange that a literal half-giant had just Kool-Aid Man'd his way through the door with a scrawny eleven-year-old in tow.
The second thing he noticed was a man in a top hat yelling at a teacup.
"YOU CAN'T CONTROL ME, BARBARA!" the man shrieked. "I HAVE RIGHTS!"
The teacup didn't respond, which somehow made it worse.
Harry opened his mouth, then closed it again.
"Don't worry," Hagrid whispered. "It's enchanted. Used to belong to a politician."
Diagon Alley (a.k.a. Plot Dump)
With a few taps on a suspiciously under-maintained brick wall, the entrance opened to a street that looked like Etsy exploded after chugging five espressos and watching too much Tim Burton.
There were cauldrons stacked like traffic cones. A rat in a bowler hat playing jazz flute. A guy selling illegal broom insurance from a trench coat.
"Oh my God," Harry whispered. "I've died and gone to Fantasy Camden."
People stared.
A few gasped.
One old wizard fainted into a barrel labeled Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent (with a smiley face sticker on it).
"It's him!" someone whispered. "The Boy Who Lived!"
Harry gave a polite nod and a wave he'd seen used by B-list celebrities and confused zoo animals.
"Do they always do this?" he asked Hagrid.
"Just smile and wave. Or throw a smoke bomb and run, if ye can afford 'em."
Gringotts: Where Capitalism Has Teeth
"Now," Hagrid said, gesturing toward a white marble bank guarded by goblins who looked like they filed taxes for fun, "we'll get yer money. Your parents left you a right proper fortune."
"Wait—I'm rich?" Harry asked, eyes wide.
"Oh aye."
A pause.
"Wait. I've been sleeping in a broom closet and eating cold soup for ten years, and I was secretly loaded the whole time?"
"Yup."
Harry stared into the middle distance with the kind of expression reserved for people who just realized they've been living a sitcom.
Inside, Griphook the goblin led them down into the vaults via what Harry could only describe as the lovechild of a mining cart and a vomit simulator.
"You alright?" Hagrid asked after the ride.
Harry, ghost-pale, nodded. "Yeah. I'm just questioning gravity's personal vendetta against me."
Harry's Vault
The doors opened with an ominous clang, revealing enough gold to cause a dragon-induced housing bubble.
"I'm gonna buy so many bad decisions," Harry whispered.
Ollivanders "We Sell Wands, Not Regret (Mostly)"
The shop was narrow, dusty, and smelled faintly of old books and unwashed magic.
A man appeared from the shadows, like a cat who'd majored in Dramatic Timing.
"Ah, Mr. Potter. I've been expecting you."
"Okay. Creepy."
"I'm Mr. Ollivander. Wandmaker. Former wand model. Some say I look like a confused raisin in moonlight."
He pulled a wand from the shelf and handed it to Harry. "Try this."
The moment Harry touched it, the wand burst into flames, shot a laser through the ceiling, and knocked a mannequin into a display of "Beginner's Charms: Don't Lose Your Eyebrows!"
"Hmm. Not that one," Ollivander muttered.
Ten tries later, Harry stood amidst a warzone of rejected wands. One had tried to unionize. Another had whispered "Join ussssss" in Parseltongue and exploded into glitter.
Finally, Ollivander handed him a wand with a raised eyebrow. "Holly and phoenix feather. 11 inches. Curious… very curious."
Harry took it.
And the world... hummed.
A beam of golden light shot upward. The dust danced. The mannequins applauded. Somewhere in the distance, a choir of angels harmonized the Pokémon theme.
"That," Ollivander said, "is the wand for you."
Harry blinked. "I feel like I just got chosen as the next Avatar."
...
Harry left the shop dazed, wand in one hand, a suspicious chocolate frog trying to escape from the other.
"So," he asked, "does everything in this world have a 30% chance of bursting into flames?"
"Only the fun stuff," Hagrid said cheerfully.
As they passed a stall selling "Emotionally Stable Familiars (Now with Therapy Licenses)," Harry suddenly tripped—
—only for a stack of spellbooks to tumble down and land perfectly in his backpack.
He frowned. "That's... suspiciously convenient."
Hagrid shrugged. "Must have been the wind."
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