The self-driving boat glided smoothly to the dock. Magic truly was convenient.
Rowing a boat without oars—guided only by the waves. A clear demonstration of how seamlessly magic replaced manual effort in this world.
Hagrid had just finished reading the newspaper, while Harry reviewed the shopping list. Alongside the professional-looking textbooks, he noticed something curious—dragonhide gloves.
Every student was required to own a pair.
Are dragons really that common in this world?
How do they compare to the dragons from the world of Ice and Fire? Harry wondered.
Wizards must be incredibly capable if they managed to keep such massive creatures secret. Perhaps a powerful concealment spell existed—otherwise, maintaining secrecy would demand intense organizational discipline. But in this world, most problems could likely be solved by magic alone.
Harry pondered that maybe magic here worked like his own strength—an act of will manifesting reality. If he believed something could be done, then magic would respond accordingly.
That idea had struck him hard the night before, during his conversation about Unforgivable Curses. He'd realized that intent mattered deeply. The Killing Curse couldn't be cast by accident—it required a true desire to kill to work. Magic, in this sense, was a reflection of one's ideals.
As they sailed, Hagrid muttered complaints about the Ministry of Magic—how rubbish it had become. He insisted that Cornelius Fudge was obsessed with competing against Dumbledore, more concerned with public image than governance. He called him incredibly dim-witted and shallow.
If someone like Hagrid thinks Fudge is an idiot…
He must be catastrophically stupid, Harry thought.
Harry wasn't arrogant—well, not excessively—but he was confident that his intellect far surpassed Hagrid's. Just listening and observing had allowed him to deduce quite a bit about this world already. That alone proved a mental advantage.
As they disembarked and walked toward the main street, Harry noticed how people constantly stared at Hagrid.
He didn't blame them.
Not only was Hagrid twice as tall as a regular man, but he also had a booming voice and a habit of pointing at the most mundane things—like parking meters—and loudly exclaiming:
"Look at that, Harry! What's this new Muggle contraption, eh?"
It was as if he wanted everyone to know he was a wizard.
Harry, in contrast, also found modern technology fascinating—he hadn't seen much of it in years—but he kept his curiosity in check. That, he thought, was the difference between wisdom and foolishness.
If this is the average level of wizard intelligence… heh…
Harry smirked inwardly.
"By the way, Hagrid," Harry asked, "you mentioned Gringotts has dragons?"
"Yep! That's what they say," Hagrid nodded. "Oh, I'd love to have a dragon."
"You want a dragon too?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "If ordinary wizards can keep them, then I'd like one as well."
To Harry, it made perfect sense. The Targaryens' power came partly from their dragons—but that was just one type of power. If someone wielded magic strong enough, even dragons wouldn't pose a threat.
"I've wanted one since I was a boy," Hagrid said dreamily. "But it's been banned. They're 'too dangerous', they say… But I don't think so! They're adorable."
"We could raise one secretly," Harry suggested.
Hagrid's face lit up like a child at Christmas. "Brilliant idea!"
They boarded a train and continued drawing attention along the way.
Harry rechecked his supply list. At the bottom, it stated:
"Students may bring one owl, one cat, or one toad."
"Can we buy these in London?" Harry asked loudly.
"Only if you know where to look," Hagrid replied.
"I'd recommend an owl—they're great for delivering mail. But cats are fine too... handy for companionship."
Harry nodded. He agreed. Honestly, anyone who chose a toad must be a bit odd. They were ugly. Cats were elegant. Owls were useful. If a cat killed a toad, then good—survival of the fittest. If the toad somehow poisoned the cat, then the toad was evil.
Though it was surprising, this was actually Harry's first time in London.
It sounded unbelievable. Like a Japanese person who had never been to Tokyo. But, given his upbringing, it made sense.
According to Hagrid, the wizard shopping district—including Gringotts—was hidden somewhere within London itself.
Harry believed it. He was already beginning to grasp how effective magic was at concealment and misdirection.
Real estate in London was expensive and dense. The idea of hiding an entire street in the middle of the capital sounded absurd—yet not impossible with magic.
They passed bookstores, record shops, burger joints, and cinemas until they stopped in front of a worn, slightly crooked sign: The Leaky Cauldron.
The pub was filthy, cramped, and seemed like it had been there since the Middle Ages. It looked completely out of place among the modern cityscape.
What was stranger was how no one noticed it. Muggles rushed by, eyes fixed on the bookstore to one side or the record shop on the other. Not one person glanced at the Leaky Cauldron.
Maybe it's a magical filter, Harry mused. Those without magic can't even perceive it.
It was clever. A smart blend of illusion and selective invisibility.
But for such a famous location, it was shockingly shabby. A few old women huddled in a dark corner sipping sherry, one of them smoking a pipe nearly as long as her arm. A man in a top hat chatted with a pub owner whose face resembled a shriveled walnut.
As soon as Hagrid entered, the chatter died down.
Clearly, he was well known here.
Smiles broke out. Several patrons waved. The pub owner, spotting Hagrid, raised a glass.
"The usual, Hagrid?"
"Not today, Tom," Hagrid replied. "I'm on official Hogwarts business." He gave the man a gentle but heavy pat on the shoulder, nearly knocking him over.
Tom's eyes shifted to Harry. He noticed the boy's scars, and though they differed from rumors, the lightning-shaped one on his forehead was unmistakable.
His eyes widened.
"Is this—could it be—?"
A hush fell.
Tom whispered reverently, "Harry Potter… What an honor."
He rushed from behind the bar, seizing Harry's hand with surprising speed. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes.
"Welcome back, Mr. Potter. Welcome home."
Before Harry could respond, chairs scraped back. People surged forward.
One by one, they introduced themselves—each eager to shake his hand.
"I'm Codory, Mr. Potter! I never thought I'd meet you!"
"What an honor, sir, truly an honor."
"I've waited years for this—my heart is racing!"
"So glad, Mr. Potter. I can't express how I feel—I'm Diggle, Dedalus Diggle!"
Harry stood in stunned silence, shaking hands automatically.
It felt strangely familiar.
This scene reminded him of triumphant moments in his previous life—returning from war, covered in glory, greeted by cheers and banners. That feeling of being truly celebrated, of walking through a crowd that genuinely admired you.
He hadn't expected it here. He thought his fame had faded, that he was once again a nobody. But clearly… he wasn't forgotten.
Something clicked.
As a child, he remembered how strangely dressed people would bow or wave at him in public. Aunt Petunia always insisted it was his imagination.
But it hadn't been.
It was real.