The self-sailing boat smoothly reached the dock. Magic certainly was convenient—no oars needed, just riding the waves.
Hagrid finished reading the newspaper while Harry reviewed the shopping list. Besides various professional-looking magical textbooks, he noticed the list actually included dragon hide gloves.
One pair per student... Were dragons common in this world?
Compared to the dragons of A Song of Ice and Fire, which were stronger?
Come to think of it, wizards could even conceal such massive beast populations—quite impressive.
Perhaps there was specialised magic to accomplish this directly; otherwise, it would require a tight organisation... Most likely still relying on magic.
Maybe magical power was like his stamina—capable of making thoughts reality, or even further, "If I think it can be done, it can be done."
When discussing Unforgivable Curses the night before, Harry had noticed magic's idealistic nature.
The Killing Curse couldn't accidentally kill—one had to truly decide to murder for successful casting.
While on the boat, Hagrid had repeatedly complained this administration was garbage. Fudge only wanted to compete with Dumbledore for prestige, being incredibly stupid without intelligence.
Under such leadership, the Ministry probably wasn't a formidable organisation.
Someone even Hagrid considered stupid... Harry didn't dare imagine.
Harry believed his intelligence was most likely higher than Hagrid's—he'd casually extracted plenty of information, proof of intellectual dominance.
The two climbed stone steps toward the main street.
As they walked through the small town toward the station, passersby stared fixedly at Hagrid.
Harry didn't blame them—not only was Hagrid twice as tall as ordinary people, but he kept pointing at common things like parking meters, loudly asking: "See that thing, Harry? What contraption have Muggles come up with now, eh?"
As if afraid people wouldn't know he was a wizard.
Actually, Harry also wanted closer looks at modern equipment after so long without seeing it, but wouldn't act so strangely.
Harry was certain his intelligence was very high. Again emphasising—though he didn't say it aloud—he clearly considered himself smarter than Hagrid.
If all wizards had only this level of intelligence... hehe.
Harry couldn't help but smirk.
"By the way, Hagrid," Harry asked, "you mentioned earlier that Gringotts has dragons?"
"Yes, so they say," Hagrid replied. "Blimey, I'd love a dragon."
"You'd love a dragon? If ordinary wizards can keep them, I want one too."
Harry found wizards keeping dragons perfectly normal. His philosophy was that Targaryen bloodline power was one kind of strength, but with sufficient other power, no dragon was undefeatable.
"I've wanted one since I was little—but unfortunately," Hagrid seemed to find a kindred spirit, "they stopped allowing it long ago because dragons are too dangerous... I think they're not dangerous at all—they're so adorable."
"We could keep one secretly."
"Good idea."
On the train, continuing to attract attention.
Harry looked at the shopping list again. The end noted: "Students may bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad."
"Can we buy all these things in London?" Harry asked loudly.
"If you know where to go," Hagrid said.
"I recommend buying a cat, but considering convenience, bringing an owl for messages is also a good choice..."
Harry thoroughly agreed—he also found people bringing toads rather odd... because toads were quite ugly while owls were beautiful.
Cats were practical for companionship, owls useful for communication - he couldn't see any advantage to bringing a toad.
Britain wasn't large. They reached London in reasonable time—Harry's first visit to London.
This seemed incredible to British people, like a person never visiting their country's capital, but considering his living environment, it was actually normal.
According to Hagrid, the wizarding shopping street, including Gringotts, was hidden somewhere in London... Harry was convinced of magic's powerful concealment effects.
London land was precious. Even without visiting London, Harry could imagine how difficult hiding an entire street in London would be.
They passed bookshops, record shops, hamburger joints, and cinemas, arriving at a place called the Leaky Cauldron.
This was a grubby little pub that seemed to exist in mediaeval times, completely out of place with the surrounding modern establishments.
Hurrying passersby didn't even glance at it, their eyes only falling on the large bookshop on one side and record shop on the other.
They seemed unable to see the Leaky Cauldron at all.
Probably required magical detection—people without magical attributes might not see this pub.
For a famous place, it was incredibly dark and dirty. Several old women sat in corners drinking sherry from small glasses, one smoking a long pipe.
A small man in a top hat was chatting with the pub landlord, who was nearly bald and looked like a shrivelled walnut.
As soon as they entered, the chattering suddenly stopped. Everyone seemed to know Hagrid, smiling and waving at him.
The landlord raised a glass: "The usual, Hagrid?"
"Not today, Tom, I'm on Hogwarts business," Hagrid said, patting the landlord's shoulder with his giant hand.
"Bless my soul," the landlord studied Harry carefully. Both hands bore additional scars, different from rumours, but the lightning bolt on his forehead was unmistakable. "This is—could this be—"
The Leaky Cauldron fell silent.
"Blimey!" the landlord whispered. "Harry Potter—what an honour."
He hurried from behind the bar toward Harry, grasping his hand with tears of excitement.
"Welcome back, Mr Potter, welcome back."
Then chairs began scraping as Harry suddenly found himself shaking hands with everyone in the Leaky Cauldron.
"Doris Crockford, Mr Potter, can't believe I'm finally meeting you."
"Such an honour, Mr Potter, such an honour."
"Been hoping to shake your hand—my heart's pounding."
"So delighted, Mr Potter, can't express my feelings. I'm Dedalus, Dedalus Diggle."
Harry felt this scene was familiar. He remembered returning triumphantly in the other world after becoming a great figure, with crowds welcoming him enthusiastically—truly occupying all advantages of timing, that vigorous, flourishing realm still before his eyes.
Unexpectedly, returning to his homeland thinking he'd become anonymous again, so many people still worshipped him.
He remembered now—as a child, many strangely dressed people had bowed and saluted him, but Aunt Petunia always said he'd seen wrong.