"I've seen you before," Harry said. "Once, in a shop—you bowed to me."
"He actually remembers!" Diggle shouted, looking wildly around. "Did you all hear that? He remembers me!"
The man was so overjoyed that he dropped his top hat in excitement. Harry found himself shaking hands again and again, though now he could tell—their enthusiasm was genuine.
In the past, before his transmigration, Harry assumed that this kind of adoration would fade quickly once people realized he wasn't particularly special—just another student at Hogwarts. The illusion would shatter, their reverence would disappear, and reality would reassert itself.
But this time was different.
Now, with the demeanor of a king and 5 points of Charisma, Harry embodied their expectations. He wasn't just living up to the legend—they believed he was the legend. His every word and glance were like magnets for loyalty.
If I wanted to…
I could recruit some of these fanatical wizards and list them as members of my personal Mage Corps.
Some of them already showed signs of devotion. Perhaps he could make them his subordinates within the system—his eyes and ears in the wider world once school began.
Harry glanced sideways at Hagrid. There was still time before the term started. The Leaky Cauldron, constantly bustling with wizards, would be a perfect base for quiet recruitment. He could plant seeds now—gather intelligence and resources through trusted adults while he studied at Hogwarts.
Just then, a pale young man approached them. His eyes darted nervously. One of them twitched uncontrollably.
"Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid said brightly. "Harry, this is Professor Quirrell. He'll be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."
"P-P-Potter," the man stuttered, his hand reaching out. "It's in-in-indescribably g-good to meet you."
Harry narrowed his eyes.
There it was—that unmistakable murderous aura.
His body tensed instantly. He sensed it clearly: this man bore him deep hostility, perhaps even killing intent. But Quirrell's magical power was ordinary. Physically, Harry could overpower him at this distance in less than a second.
Still, this was the wizarding world.
Magic was the real threat—lethal spells could be cast with just a word or even a thought. Harry hadn't yet tested the limits of how divine strength or physical power could counteract magic.
Even so, from close proximity, Harry felt two distinct magical signatures inside Quirrell—but he couldn't identify what they were. One felt foreign. Wrong.
And something else didn't add up.
According to Hagrid, Harry had no enemies besides Voldemort. This clearly wasn't Voldemort himself—he lacked the presence. But the hatred in his aura? That was real.
Could he be a loyal follower? A Death Eater?
This man's aura was stained—impure. It reeked of cruelty, yet was tangled with fear—as though he was split in two. Harry suspected he'd taken many lives. Hundreds, even.
Voldemort himself? No, Harry thought. Even during his peak, Voldemort didn't dare enter Hogwarts openly. And now, weakened, would he risk such exposure?
No. A major villain doesn't run errands himself. That's what followers are for. Infiltration like this would be beneath someone like Voldemort.
If this was one of his subordinates, then the Ministry—and even Dumbledore—had been grossly negligent.
So much for the wisdom Hagrid keeps praising.
"What subject do you teach, Professor Quirrell?" Harry asked, staring directly into his eyes, his hand still gripping the professor's tightly.
"D-D-Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," Quirrell stammered, his voice shaking as though he'd rather not have said it. "B-but surely y-you won't be needing that, Mr. P-Potter?"
He forced a nervous laugh.
"I-I-I'm also here to b-buy a new book—on v-v-vampires. Could you please… l-let go of my hand?"
Harry didn't respond immediately. He was trying to calculate. Did Dumbledore know how strange this man was?
Probably not. There were children at Hogwarts. If Dumbledore knew, he wouldn't have allowed Quirrell to teach. It seemed the headmaster wasn't as omniscient as legend claimed.
Adequate, Harry thought, but not brilliant.
There was still time. No need to act hastily. Harry subtly increased his grip, channeling just a faint pulse of Lumos into Quirrell's palm—a subtle magical marker. Something to track him by later.
You won't slip away, Quirrell.
With that, Harry let go, then turned to leave the group of handshaking admirers.
He and Hagrid stepped through the bar and out into a small, enclosed courtyard. It looked unremarkable—just weeds, a wall, and an old trash bin.
Hagrid grinned at him.
"Didn't I tell you?" he said. "You're famous! Even Professor Quirrell was shaking in front of you—though, to be fair, he trembles most of the time."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Is he always that nervous?"
"Oh yes," Hagrid chuckled. "Used to be real sharp when he was a student. But he took a year off, went traveling for hands-on experience… Met some vampires in the Black Forest, got hexed by a witch. Came back a changed man. Jumpier than a Kneazle in a dog pound. Where's my umbrella…?"
Harry's mind raced.
Vampires? A witch? In the Black Forest?
Could it have been Voldemort? Perhaps he hadn't died—just hidden away for a decade, biding his time. Not fully resurrected. Not yet strong. Just clinging to life.
If I track Quirrell carefully… maybe he'll lead me straight to him.
But Harry needed to prepare first. Magic or not, this world's wizards—though lacking in street-smarts—still held immense combat power. He couldn't afford recklessness.
First, he needed to:
Recover his body to its peak condition.
Learn spells.
Equip himself.
Understand magical combat.
Develop an escape plan if things went south.
Mobility was a problem. Wizards could apparate—teleport on a whim. If Harry couldn't defeat them in battle, he might not even get a chance to run.
His thoughts were interrupted by Hagrid muttering beside him.
"Three up from the dustbin… two across… Right. Stand back, Harry."
He tapped his pink umbrella three times against a brick.
The brick shivered, then slowly shifted, revealing a hole in the center that grew larger and larger. In seconds, the solid wall transformed into a wide archway—tall enough for even Hagrid to walk through.
On the other side, a bustling, cobbled street stretched into the distance, winding and vibrant.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley!" Hagrid said proudly.
As they stepped through, Harry glanced back. The archway shrank and morphed, reverting into an ordinary brick wall. Just like that, they were hidden once again.
Harry tilted his head. "If you didn't have a wand, couldn't you just climb over the wall?"
Hagrid opened his mouth to explain—but then paused, looking Harry up and down.
"Well… normally the wall gets taller if someone tries that. It stops people. But you…"
He scratched his head awkwardly.
"…you could try."