Chapter 5: Memories of the Wizarding World

Harry woke very early the next morning. He opened his eyes to find the outside still gray, the sun not yet risen. He tried closing his eyes again, but his mind churned with no trace of sleep.

“Maybe this is Grandpa’s gift—a performance to make me believe I’m a wizard,” he told himself. “Maybe Miss Clara was in on it too. They just happened to find someone unusually tall, and that glowing spell was some strange chemical phenomenon. He fooled Ivy, but he won’t fool me.”

Harry rolled over and muttered, “But Clara isn’t my tutor anymore.”

“Hey, what if magic is real? What if my abilities aren’t coincidences or illusions—but I’m truly a wizard?” He sat up abruptly, counting on his fingers. “If even your physics teacher tells stories about magic, maybe magic really exists.”

“Bang! Bang!” A loud, rude knocking came at the door, startling Harry.

“Get up, Harry, we’ve got a lot to do today!” Hagrid’s booming voice rang from outside.

“You can’t do that, the young master is still sleeping...”

“It’s fine, Bates,” Harry called out. “Take Mr. Hagrid to breakfast. I’ll dress myself and come down shortly.”

When Harry reached the dining room, he found Hagrid wolfing down a loaf of bread, with five or six empty plates already piled beside him. Seeing Harry, he waved enthusiastically and shouted, “Hey, Harry, your bread’s amazing—tastes just like rock cakes!”

Harry sat down and slowly scooped up a spoonful of baked beans. “What’s a rock cake?”

“My specialty,” Hagrid said. “You’ve got to try one when we get to Hogwarts. But first—today we’re going to London to buy your school supplies.”

“Buy supplies?”

“Of course—the things listed in the letter: wand, robes, textbooks, that sort of thing.” Hagrid said. “Bring the letter—it has the list.”

“Alright, then I’ll need some money too.”

“Hahaha, lad,” Hagrid laughed. “Wizards don’t use Muggle money. First stop’s the bank—we need to withdraw some for you.”

“Withdraw money? Whose money?”

“Your parents’ money, of course,” Hagrid scratched his head. “Actually, it’s not just about money—I’ve got another task from Dumbledore to complete.”

Harry nodded. His parents were a foreign word to him. He’d only known they died in a car crash—but now he sensed there was more to it.

“You mean my parents left me some wizard currency?”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Hagrid said. “Poor child. I don’t know what they told you, but the truth is—your parents were wizards too. In fact, they were heroes.”

“Can you tell me more... about my parents?”

“Of course. You’re old enough to know now. I can’t let you go to Hogwarts knowing nothing.” Hagrid swallowed his last bite of bread, brushed crumbs from his hands, and leaned forward with arms propped on the table, elbows planted. Harry felt his side of the table nearly tipping up.

“In the wizarding world, there was once a terrible evil man—he was bad. Terribly bad. Worse than any evil you can imagine.” Hagrid swallowed hard. Harry couldn’t fathom what kind of person could make even this giant tremble.

“His name was Voldemort.” Hagrid whispered the name, then continued. “We don’t say it. We call him ‘You-Know-Who.’ He nearly ruled the whole world. Anyone who resisted he killed. It was terrifying. Hogwarts was the only safe place—and Dumbledore was the only one Voldemort feared. But back then, hardly anyone dared attend school.”

“Your parents were the finest wizards I ever knew. They were leaders at Hogwarts! You-Know-Who probably couldn’t persuade them... What we know is, on Halloween ten years ago, he suddenly appeared in your village. You were only one year old. He came to your house—and then, then...”

Hagrid suddenly pulled out a large, grimy handkerchief and blew his nose with a sound like a trumpet.

“Sorry!” he said. “It’s so heartbreaking—your parents were such wonderful people—”

“You-Know-Who killed them. Then something strange happened—he tried to kill you too, but he couldn’t. Never once have you wondered how you got that scar on your forehead? It’s no ordinary scar. It’s the mark left when a powerful dark curse struck you—and it protected you. The curse didn’t work on you. That’s why you’re famous, Harry. When he wanted someone dead, they died. But you lived. He killed some of the best wizards alive—but you survived.”

Something twisted in Harry’s chest. Hagrid’s story was nearing its end, and Harry faintly recalled, from deep in his memory, a flash of green light—clearer than ever before. He also remembered other things he’d never recalled before—a sharp, cruel, sinister laugh.

Hagrid looked at him sadly.

“I followed Dumbledore’s orders to pull you from the ruins and take you to your aunt and uncle’s home...”

Harry’s breathing grew heavy. “So You-Know-Who went after my aunt... the day I came back from the zoo? Oh, maybe Jacob and Ivy too... Good heavens!”

Hagrid scratched his head, puzzled. Then gently—though to Harry it still sounded loud—said, “Don’t worry, lad. Since that night, You-Know-Who hasn’t shown himself in years. Everyone says you defeated him.”

“He’s still hiding somewhere, plotting,” Harry said, still shaken. “But Tang Dun might be safe—we’ve got so many people, and Grandpa even lets everyone carry guns.”

“Muggle weapons won’t do much against him,” Hagrid said. “But don’t fear—you’re going to Hogwarts soon. Under Dumbledore’s protection, even if You-Know-Who’s still alive, he won’t dare touch you.”

“Alright,” Harry sighed in relief. Only then did he realize he’d talked so long with Hagrid that his baked beans had gone cold.

“Sir, your newspaper,” the servant Thomas said, placing a newspaper on a tray before Hagrid.

“Oh, the Daily Prophet,” Hagrid exclaimed. “You get wizarding newspapers here? That’s amazing.”

“If you mean owl-delivered papers, yes, we can receive them,” Thomas bowed slightly. “There’s always a bird feeder beside the estate’s mailbox. Sometimes pigeons come with letters too.”

Hagrid glanced at Harry, now buried in his food, and said nothing more. He unfolded the paper and began reading.

Harry saw the back of the paper—a man with slightly curly hair waving at him. It startled him.

“Hagrid, this photo?”

“Oh, don’t worry—they don’t move in Muggle eyes,” Hagrid winked. He flipped it over, glanced at the headline, and grinned. “Nice. I like Hack.”

Harry looked at the headline too: “Jim Hack Appointed Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” He vaguely remembered Hagrid mentioning this man last night. So the wizarding world had a proper government—maybe a Magic Queen and Magic Cabinet, or perhaps just a separate Ministry under the Cabinet.

Suppressing his curiosity, Harry quickly finished breakfast, changed into his outdoor clothes, and carefully tucked the parchment envelope into his inner pocket.

Hagrid had suggested taking the train, but at Carson’s advice, they took a car instead. The driver would park near the station and wait for Harry and Hagrid at a prearranged café.

London was as bustling as ever. Harry’s gaze drifted aimlessly along the streets. He couldn’t imagine a place here where one could buy “wizard robes, magical textbooks, wands, cauldrons”—things that seemed medieval.

But soon, following Hagrid’s pointing finger, he noticed a strange little shop. It was a pub—small, dirty, its faded sign reading “The Leaky Cauldron,” utterly out of place on the street.

Strangely, had Hagrid not pointed it out, Harry’s eyes would have slid past the bookshop to the record store on the other side, completely ignoring the place. Even now, like the moving photos, Harry suspected only wizards could see this pub.

“Come on—this is the famous Leaky Cauldron.” Before Harry could ask anything, Hagrid pulled him inside.

The pub was nearly empty. Only one man sat at the bar, wearing a long robe and a hood, slowly sipping sherry. The bartender nodded and smiled at Hagrid.

“Oh, Professor Quirrell,” Hagrid called out loudly. “Guess who I’ve brought today?”

The man turned. Harry noticed he was thin, his small eyes gleaming strangely.

“The famous Harry Potter. A pleasure to meet you,” he said slowly. “I am Quirinus Quirrell—your future Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher.”