"Right," McGonagall said briskly, consulting her pocket watch with characteristic efficiency. "Now that the financial arrangements are settled, we should proceed to Diagon Alley. The sooner we begin, the more time you'll have to properly explore before your departure tomorrow morning."
She stood with the decisive authority of someone who had managed countless shopping expeditions for bewildered magical families, her emerald robes settling around her with practiced precision.
"Before we go," Aurora added with diplomatic care, producing what appeared to be a simple woolen cap from her bag, "there's one security consideration we need to address."
Harry looked up with immediate attention, his protective instincts engaging at any mention of security concerns involving his friends.
"What kind of security consideration?" Ben asked with paternal alertness, his steady warmth taking on the focused quality that emerged when his family's safety was potentially at issue.
"Nothing dangerous," Aurora assured them quickly, recognizing the protective tension that had immediately filled the room. "Simply... discretionary. Harry, you may find that you attract more attention in Diagon Alley than you're accustomed to."
"What kind of attention?" Harry asked with nine-year-old directness, though his voice carried a note of wariness that suggested he was already anticipating complications.
McGonagall and Aurora exchanged a look that carried the weight of a conversation they had clearly prepared for but weren't entirely comfortable having.
"Harry," McGonagall said gently, her Scottish accent softening with obvious care for his feelings, "in the magical world, you're quite famous. More famous than you realize."
"Famous for what?" Harry asked with growing concern, his green eyes—so remarkably similar to his mother's—reflecting confusion and the beginning of anxiety about unwanted attention.
"For surviving," Dumbledore had said simply during one of their earlier conversations, but the full implications of that survival had never been properly explained to a child who thought of himself as simply Harry Parker from Queens.
"Famous for defeating Voldemort when you were a baby," Aurora explained with careful gentleness. "To most of the magical world, you're not just Harry Parker. You're Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived—the child who survived the Killing Curse and ended the most dangerous dark wizard in a generation."
The room fell into absolute silence as this information settled over the group like a physical weight. The parents who had known Harry since he was not quite two years old struggled to reconcile the cheerful, ordinary boy they loved with the concept of magical fame and historical significance.
"Famous," Harry repeated slowly, his voice very small as he processed the implications. "Like... really famous? More famous than movie stars?"
"Considerably more famous than movie stars," McGonagall confirmed with academic honesty that didn't soften the impact. "There are books written about you, Harry. Songs sung. Children throughout the magical world grow up hearing stories about the night you survived and Voldemort fell."
"Books about me?" Harry's voice cracked with the particular dismay of a nine-year-old confronting the reality of unwanted public attention. "But I don't remember any of it. I was just a baby. What kind of books can you write about a baby?"
"The kind that focus more on legend than facts," May said with protective maternal anger, immediately understanding the implications for Harry's privacy and normal childhood development. "The kind that turn a traumatized infant into a fictional hero."
"Which is precisely why we recommend discretionary measures during today's shopping expedition," Aurora said diplomatically, holding up the simple woolen cap. "This will help you move through Diagon Alley without attracting unwanted attention."
Harry looked at the cap with the expression of someone being offered a disguise for a problem he'd never known existed.
"Will it work?" he asked quietly. "Will people really not recognize me?"
"Your scar is quite distinctive," McGonagall explained gently, gesturing toward the lightning bolt mark that was usually partially hidden by his perpetually unruly hair. "The cap and hood should obscure it sufficiently for casual shopping."
"Plus," Felicia added with characteristic confidence in favorable circumstances, "we'll all be together. Even if someone notices something, they probably won't expect to see the famous Harry Potter shopping with a group of American families."
"The famous Harry Potter," Harry repeated with growing distress, his voice carrying the particular anxiety of someone discovering that their private identity had become public property. "I hate that. I hate being famous for something I can't remember, something that happened because people I loved died."
Ben immediately moved to crouch beside Harry's chair, his steady presence providing the kind of anchoring support that had gotten them through every previous crisis and challenge.
"Harry," he said with quiet authority that brooked no argument, "you are not defined by what happened when you were a baby. You're not defined by other people's stories about you, or their expectations, or their need to make you into something larger than life."
"But they think they know who I am," Harry said with the kind of devastating insight that reminded everyone present that beneath his cheerful exterior, he carried the emotional complexity that came from starting life with such enormous loss. "They think they know me because of something that happened to me, not because of who I actually am."
"Then we make sure they don't get the chance to project their expectations onto you today," Ben replied firmly. "We keep you safe and anonymous so you can just be Harry, shopping for his friends' school supplies."
"I want to come with you," Harry said suddenly, his voice carrying the fierce determination that emerged when he felt his family was facing challenges without him. "I want to see the magical world. I want to understand where Peter and MJ are going to be living and studying. But I don't want to be stared at or asked questions or treated like some kind of... of curiosity."
"You won't be," May promised with maternal authority that suggested she would personally fight anyone who bothered her son. "We'll make sure of that."
Peter, who had been listening to this exchange with growing protective anger on Harry's behalf, suddenly spoke up with characteristic intensity.
"This is so stupid," he said with righteous indignation that made his voice crack with emotion. "Harry's the most normal person I know. He's funny and smart and he worries about everyone except himself, and he makes the best blanket forts, and he always shares his candy even when he really wants it himself."
"That's exactly who he is," MJ agreed with fierce artistic loyalty, her creative instincts clearly offended by the reduction of Harry's complex personality to a simple legend. "He's not some mythical figure. He's our Harry. He's family."
"And," Ned added with bubbling defensive enthusiasm, "anyone who can't see that Harry is awesome because of who he actually is, not because of something that happened when he was too little to remember it, is missing the point completely."
"The point being," Gwen concluded with systematic precision that carried emotional weight despite her analytical approach, "that Harry Parker from Queens is infinitely more interesting and valuable than any legendary version of Harry Potter that people have constructed in their imaginations."
Harry's expression brightened considerably at this fierce defense from his friends, the anxiety giving way to the kind of wonder that came with being reminded how deeply he was loved for exactly who he was.
"You guys are the best," he said with simple sincerity that carried the weight of absolute gratitude. "Okay. I want to come shopping. I want to see everything. I just... I want to be invisible while I'm doing it."
"That can be arranged," Aurora said with warm satisfaction, clearly pleased that they had found a solution that allowed Harry to participate while protecting his privacy. "The cap and hood should provide sufficient anonymity for a peaceful shopping expedition."
McGonagall stood with characteristic efficiency, gathering her belongings with the brisk movements of someone ready to transform discussion into action.
"Excellent. Shall we proceed to Diagon Alley?"
She led them toward what appeared to be an entirely ordinary brick wall at the back of the Leaky Cauldron's pub area. The wall looked like exactly the kind of unremarkable architectural feature that people walked past without noticing—aged brick, slightly weathered, with the patina of age and London weather that made it blend seamlessly into the urban landscape.
"This is it?" Phillip Watson asked with scientific curiosity that was clearly struggling with the mundane appearance of what was supposedly a magical gateway. "The entrance to the magical shopping district is just... a brick wall?"
"Not just any brick wall," McGonagall replied with what might have been amusement at his disappointment with the lack of obvious magical grandeur.
She withdrew her wand with practiced efficiency and began tapping specific bricks in a pattern that seemed both random and precisely choreographed. The bricks responded to her touch with little shimmers of light, like stones that had been waiting patiently for the correct sequence to unlock their secrets.
"Three up, two across, one down, four across..." she murmured, her wand moving with the kind of practiced precision that came from performing this particular magical operation hundreds of times.
The bricks began to move.
Not fall or crumble, but actually rearrange themselves with the fluid grace of a puzzle solving itself, sliding and rotating and repositioning with impossible coordination to create an archway that revealed a narrow cobblestone street beyond.
"Oh my God," MJ breathed with artistic amazement, her eyes wide with wonder at the architectural impossibility she was witnessing. "That's beautiful. That's like watching architecture become choreography."
"The engineering implications alone," Phillip Watson began with rapid-fire enthusiasm, then stopped as he actually looked through the archway and saw what lay beyond. "Oh. Oh, that's... that's not what I was expecting at all."
Diagon Alley stretched before them like something out of a fairy tale illustrated by someone with unlimited imagination and a complete disregard for conventional architecture. The street curved and twisted with organic irregularity, lined with shops that seemed to have been designed by committee of architects who had never heard of building codes and had agreed only that more stories were always better than fewer stories.
Buildings leaned against each other at impossible angles, their upper floors extending over the cobblestone street in ways that created a patchwork of shadow and sunlight. Signs swung gently in the breeze—some painted wood, some glowing with their own light, some that appeared to be changing their messages as they watched. Windows displayed goods that seemed to shimmer with their own internal light, and the overall effect was of a marketplace that had been designed by someone who understood that shopping should be an adventure rather than a chore.
"It's like a magical fever dream," Ned said with obvious delight, his enthusiasm bubbling over at the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing. "Like someone took every awesome fantasy marketplace ever imagined and then decided to make it real and put it all in one place."
"The structural engineering defies basic physics," Walter Hardy observed with security consultant precision, though his voice carried wonder rather than concern. "Those buildings should collapse under their own weight."
"Magic," McGonagall replied with her characteristic response to questions about architectural impossibility.
"At some point," George Stacy said with cop practicality tinged by genuine amazement, "I'm going to stop being surprised by things that shouldn't exist, right? This is just going to become normal?"
"Eventually," Aurora confirmed with diplomatic understanding of the adjustment process required for accepting magical reality. "Though most people find that the wonder never entirely fades."
"I don't want the wonder to fade," Harry said quietly, his voice carrying that particular tone of nine-year-old revelation that suggested he was processing something important about beauty and possibility and the way the world could exceed expectations in ways that made everything feel more magical. "This is the most beautiful place I've ever seen."
He was wearing the woolen cap Aurora had provided, the hood of his jacket pulled up to obscure his distinctive scar, but his green eyes were bright with uninhibited amazement as he took in the magical marketplace that represented so much of what he was only beginning to understand about his heritage.
"Diagon Alley," Peter said with scientific wonder, his analytical mind clearly working overtime to process the sensory input of impossible architecture, magical shop displays, and the general atmosphere of organized magical chaos, "is going to be the most educational shopping trip in human history."
"Human history might be understating it," MJ replied with artistic appreciation for the aesthetic impossibilities surrounding them. "This place looks like it was designed by people who had access to completely different laws of physics."
"Different laws of physics, same appreciation for commerce," Felicia observed with characteristic confidence as she took in the bustling marketplace activity. "I love places where interesting things are definitely going to happen."
As they stepped through the archway onto the cobblestone street, the sounds and smells of Diagon Alley enveloped them with sensory intensity that made ordinary shopping centers seem sterile by comparison. The air carried the scent of magical herbs, old parchment, something that might have been cauldron polish, and the indefinable aroma that suggested adventure and possibility.
Witches and wizards of all ages moved through the street with the kind of purposeful energy that characterized any successful marketplace, their robes creating splashes of color against the ancient stone buildings. Some carried ordinary-looking shopping bags, others had parcels that seemed to float alongside them, and a few were followed by what appeared to be small magical creatures helping with their purchases.
"Okay, that's definitely not normal," George Leeds said with engineering practicality as he watched a woman's shopping bags arranging themselves in neat aerial formation behind her. "Magical shopping assistance. That's... actually quite practical."
"I want magical shopping assistance," Helen replied with immediate appreciation for any system that made carrying multiple packages easier. "That looks incredibly convenient."
"Everything here looks incredibly convenient," May observed with wonder as she took in the various magical solutions to ordinary commercial problems, "which makes me suspicious about what the magical complications are going to be."
"The magical complications," McGonagall said with Scottish efficiency as she began leading them down the cobblestone street, "are generally limited to occasional price haggling with magically-enhanced shop owners and the challenge of choosing between seventeen different types of cauldron when you only need one."
"Seventeen types of cauldron?" Ned asked with immediate anxiety about decision-making complexity. "How do you know which kind to get? Are there specifications? Technical requirements? Compatibility issues?"
"Standard pewter cauldron, size 2, for first-year students," McGonagall replied with the kind of crisp efficiency that suggested she had answered this question approximately one thousand times before. "All other options are either unnecessary or prohibitively expensive."
"But what if the other options are better?" Peter asked with scientific curiosity about technological optimization. "What if there are performance improvements or enhanced safety features or—"
"Standard pewter cauldron, size 2," McGonagall repeated with the patient firmness of someone who knew that allowing students to over-analyze equipment purchases led to three-hour shopping expeditions and economic chaos.
"I like her," May said approvingly to Ben. "She's got that 'no nonsense' energy that keeps teenagers from turning simple shopping trips into philosophical crises."
As they made their way deeper into Diagon Alley, the shops revealed themselves in increasingly wonderful variety. Olivanders, with its peeling gold letters and dusty window, displayed a single wand on faded purple silk. Flourish and Blotts towered several stories high, its windows packed with books that seemed to glow with their own internal light. The Apothecary's jars lined the windows in neat rows, filled with ingredients that ranged from clearly botanical to utterly unidentifiable.
"Where do we start?" Madeline Watson asked with practical concern about managing a shopping expedition of this complexity with multiple children and numerous requirements.
McGonagall consulted what appeared to be a well-organized parchment list, her sharp eyes moving with professional efficiency as she calculated the optimal route through Diagon Alley's various commercial establishments.
"Books first," she decided with academic authority. "Flourish and Blotts will provide all your required textbooks, and we can assess the remaining requirements while they prepare your orders."
Flourish and Blotts was even more impressive from the inside than it had appeared from the street. The shop stretched both upward and backward with the kind of spatial generosity that suggested magical expansion beyond the building's apparent external dimensions. Shelves lined every available wall surface, reaching toward a ceiling that disappeared into shadows, packed with books that seemed to organize themselves according to principles that transcended alphabetical order.
Some books glowed softly with their own light, others seemed to whisper among themselves, and a few appeared to be actively trying to get the attention of potential readers by shifting position or changing the color of their bindings.
"This is incredible," MJ said with artistic wonder, her eyes moving across the visual feast of thousands of books organized in impossible profusion. "It's like a library designed by someone who understood that books are living things."
"Some of them actually are living things," McGonagall replied matter-of-factly, indicating a section where several volumes appeared to be breathing. "Those are advanced texts on magical creature care. They're quite helpful, though they do require feeding."
"Books that require feeding," Phillip Watson repeated with fascination, immediately pulling out his ever-present notebook to document this intersection of biological and literary principles. "What do they eat? How often? Is there a care manual for book maintenance?"
"Phil," Madeline said with gentle warning, recognizing the signs of her husband about to disappear into research rabbit holes, "we're here to buy textbooks for the children, not to start a dissertation on magical bibliography."
"But the implications for information theory are fascinating—"
"Dad," MJ interrupted with fond exasperation, "textbooks first, revolutionary approaches to living literature second."
The shop's proprietor approached them with the enthusiastic energy of someone who genuinely loved books and considered each sale an opportunity to share that passion. He was a wizard of indeterminate age, with the kind of ink-stained fingers and slightly disheveled appearance that suggested he spent more time reading his merchandise than organizing it.
"Hogwarts students!" he announced with obvious delight, apparently recognizing McGonagall despite the unusual composition of their group. "First years, by the look of them. How wonderful! New students, new minds eager to absorb knowledge. What can I help you find?"
McGonagall withdrew several identical parchment lists, each one carefully written in her characteristic precise handwriting with the kind of academic thoroughness that left no room for interpretation or omission.
"Standard first-year requirements," she said with professional efficiency. "Five students, complete sets of all required texts."
"Excellent!" The proprietor rubbed his hands together with commercial enthusiasm that was clearly motivated by genuine love of learning rather than simple profit considerations. "We have all the standard texts in stock, naturally. Let me just gather everything together..."
He began moving through the shop with the practiced efficiency of someone who had memorized the location of every book in his inventory, pulling volumes from various shelves with surprising speed and accuracy.
"*The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1*," he announced, placing several copies on the counter with reverent care. "*A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration*, *One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi*, *Magical Drafts and Potions*, *Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them*..."
Each title was announced like he was introducing honored guests, and indeed each book seemed to have its own personality—some settling quietly onto the growing pile, others seeming to arrange themselves for optimal display.
"*The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection*," he continued, placing a volume bound in midnight blue leather with obvious respect for its subject matter. "*A History of Magic*—comprehensive overview of magical civilization, quite fascinating if you approach it with the right mindset."
"How heavy is this going to be?" Ned asked with practical concern as he watched the pile of books grow to impressive proportions. "Like, are we talking about normal textbook weight, or magical textbook weight, which might be completely different?"
"Magical books tend to be quite durable," the proprietor explained with professional pride in his merchandise, "which sometimes requires more robust binding and higher-quality parchment. The weight is generally... substantial."
"Define substantial," Peter said with scientific interest in the practical implications of carrying multiple magical textbooks across a large castle on a daily basis.
The proprietor gestured to the completed pile, which was indeed quite impressive in both height and apparent heft.
"See for yourself," he suggested with the confidence of someone who was proud of his products' quality and durability.
Peter attempted to lift the stack and immediately understood the scope of the challenge.
"Oh wow," he said with genuine amazement at the weight of magical education. "These are really heavy. Like, this is going to be serious strength training just getting to class every day."
"I hope there are magical solutions for textbook transportation," Felicia said with characteristic confidence that problems would resolve themselves favorably, "because carrying this much weight around a castle with moving staircases sounds like a recipe for disaster."
"Book bags are enchanted for weight reduction," McGonagall assured them with the practical efficiency of someone who had watched generations of students struggle with textbook logistics. "You'll find carrying them considerably easier than you might expect."
"Magical weight reduction," Gwen repeated with systematic interest in the practical applications of magic to everyday problems. "That's brilliant. Why doesn't the non-magical world have weight reduction technology?"
"Because the non-magical world doesn't have magic," Aurora replied with diplomatic obviousness.
"But the principles might be adaptable," Gwen persisted with investigative curiosity about technological applications. "If you understand the theoretical framework—"
"The theoretical framework is magic," McGonagall said with Scottish directness that brooked no argument about attempting to reverse-engineer magical solutions for non-magical problems.
"Right," Gwen said, though her expression suggested she wasn't entirely satisfied with this explanation and would definitely be researching the topic further when she had access to magical theoretical texts.
As they completed the textbook purchases and arranged for the books to be delivered to their lodgings (another convenient magical service that made conventional shopping seem unnecessarily complicated), they became aware of increasing activity and conversation around them.
"Excuse me," they heard a woman's voice from nearby, pitched with the kind of excitement that suggested important news, "but did you hear? Harry Potter will be starting Hogwarts in just two years!"
Harry's head snapped up with immediate alarm, his green eyes wide with the particular anxiety that came from being discussed by strangers who had no idea he was listening.
"Really?" replied another voice, this one younger and equally excited. "The Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived? He'll actually be a student?"
"According to the Ministry announcements, yes! Can you imagine? The most famous wizard of our generation, walking the same halls, eating in the same Great Hall..."
"My daughter's going to be in his year," added a third voice with obvious pride and excitement. "She'll be able to say she went to school with Harry Potter himself!"
Ben immediately moved closer to Harry, his protective instincts engaging at the visible distress this conversation was causing his son. May flanked Harry's other side, and Peter, MJ, Ned, Gwen, and Felicia unconsciously formed a protective circle around their friend with the kind of instinctive loyalty that made their group bond so remarkable.
"I heard he's been living with non-magical relatives," the first voice continued with the kind of gossip-sharing energy that made private information sound like public entertainment. "Probably doesn't even know how famous he is yet. Can you imagine finding out that you're the most celebrated wizard alive?"
"The poor child," said the second voice with sympathy that somehow managed to sound both genuine and intrusive. "All that attention, all those expectations. I hope he's prepared for what it means to be Harry Potter at Hogwarts."
Harry's face had gone very pale beneath his woolen cap, his hands clenched at his sides with the particular tension that came from hearing strangers discuss his personal life and future as if it were public property.
"I want to leave," he whispered to Ben, his voice carrying the kind of distress that made parental protective instincts engage immediately. "I want to go back to the inn. I don't want to hear any more."
"We can leave," Ben said immediately with quiet authority, already beginning to guide their group toward a less crowded area of the shop. "We can come back later, or send someone else to finish the shopping."
"No," Harry said with sudden determination, straightening his shoulders with the kind of courage that characterized his approach to challenges that frightened him. "No, I want to stay. I want to see everything. I want to understand where Peter and the others are going to be living."
He paused, his young voice gaining strength as he processed his emotions and made a conscious decision about how to respond to unwanted attention.
"But I don't want to hear people talking about me like I'm not a real person," he continued with nine-year-old clarity that cut through the complexity of fame and public expectation to the essential human issue. "Like I'm just a story they heard instead of someone who has feelings and thoughts and people who love him."
"Then we make sure they don't get the chance to do that today," May said with maternal authority that suggested she would personally confront anyone who treated her son like a curiosity rather than a child.
MJ, who had been listening to this exchange with artist's sensitivity to the emotional dynamics of unwanted attention and public scrutiny, suddenly spoke up with practical solution-oriented thinking.
"Harry," she said quietly, "what if we think of this differently? What if, instead of hiding from the fact that you're famous, we use this trip to help you understand what kind of famous you want to be?"
"What do you mean?" Harry asked with curiosity that suggested he was willing to consider alternative approaches to managing public attention.
"I mean," MJ continued with the kind of thoughtful analysis she brought to complex creative problems, "those people are talking about 'Harry Potter' like he's a fictional character. But you get to decide who Harry Potter actually is. You get to decide what kind of person you want to be when you finally do go to Hogwarts."
"But they already have ideas about who I'm supposed to be," Harry protested with the particular frustration of someone whose identity had been constructed by others without his input or consent.
"So what?" Peter said with characteristic intensity, his protective instincts fully engaged on his friend's behalf. "Let them have their ideas. You know who you actually are. We know who you actually are. The people who matter know that you're Harry, who makes the best blanket forts and always shares his candy and worries about everyone except himself."
"And when you get to Hogwarts," Ned added with bubbling supportive enthusiasm, "the people who meet you will get to know the real you, not the legendary version. You'll make friends who like you because of who you are, not because of something that happened when you were a baby."
"Plus," Felicia said with characteristic confidence in favorable outcomes, "once people actually meet you, they're going to realize that the real Harry is way more interesting than any legend. The universe has a way of making sure that authentic connections happen when they're supposed to."
"And," Gwen concluded with systematic logic that carried emotional weight despite her analytical approach, "every time you show people who you actually are, you're replacing their fictional idea of Harry Potter with the reality of Harry Parker. Eventually, the real you becomes more famous than the legend."
Harry considered this perspective with the serious attention he gave to all important advice, his green eyes reflecting both the anxiety of unwanted attention and the possibility of reclaiming agency over his own narrative.
"So instead of being upset that people have ideas about me," he said slowly, working through the logic with nine-year-old determination, "I can just... be myself so obviously that their ideas have to change to match reality?"
"Exactly," Ben said with paternal pride at Harry's insight and resilience. "You be yourself so completely and confidently that anyone who meets you realizes that the real Harry is infinitely more interesting than any story they might have heard."
"I like that," Harry said with growing confidence, the distress giving way to the kind of quiet determination that characterized his approach to challenges that seemed insurmountable until he found the right angle of approach. "I like the idea of being so obviously myself that legends become irrelevant."
"Then let's continue shopping," May said with maternal authority that suggested the matter was settled. "Let's continue exploring. And if anyone else wants to discuss Harry Potter within our hearing, they can deal with the fact that we're much more interested in our Harry than in their legends."
As they prepared to leave Flourish and Blotts with their substantial textbook purchases arranged for delivery, the magical world felt simultaneously more complex and more welcoming than it had an hour earlier. Harry's fame would always be a factor in his magical education, but it didn't have to define his experience or limit his ability to form genuine relationships based on who he actually was rather than who people expected him to be.
"Next stop?" Aurora asked with professional efficiency, consulting her glowing schedule with theatrical precision.
"Cauldrons," McGonagall replied with Scottish practicality. "Standard pewter, size 2, despite whatever technological improvements Mr. Parker might want to research."
"I wasn't going to research technological improvements," Peter protested with wounded dignity. "I was just going to ask about optimal heat distribution and durability specifications."
"Same thing," MJ, Ned, Gwen, and Felicia said in unison, which made everyone laugh and reminded them that some things—like friends who knew you well enough to predict your scientific curiosity—were considerably more valuable than fame or legends or the expectations of strangers.
The magical world might be complicated, but it was also full of possibility. And with friends like these, Harry Potter from Queens was going to navigate that complexity just fine.
---
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