Harry took the Hogwarts Express back to London.
There were very few passengers on board.
At this time of year, hardly anyone was out and about.
Outside the train, thick layers of snow covered the ground, untouched. The trees were frosted white, and their branches connected into what looked like one continuous wall of snow.
The view was beautiful, sure—but after a while, it became hard on the eyes. After leaning against the window for a bit and letting the cold air refresh his mind, Harry finally sat back down in his seat.
He passed the time by recalling the complex steps of advanced potion-making.
"Woooo—woooo—woooo—"
The train came to a stop.
Harry was wrapped in a long black cloak. He pulled the hood over his head, covering himself from head to toe—even his shoes were hidden beneath the cloak. If it had been night, he would've looked like a ghost drifting down the street.
He had his reasons.
Back when he first arrived at Hogwarts, the magical press had pounced on the news of his return like sharks smelling blood. Although the hype had died down, his mysterious identity still drew attention. In a few years, once people got used to "Harry Potter" popping up in newspapers and magazines, maybe then he could walk freely in the wizarding world.
For now, caution was key.
He also had to be wary of the Death Eaters.
Sure, Voldemort's followers didn't yet know their Dark Lord had returned and was secretly plotting his next move—but who's to say some lunatic wouldn't suddenly jump out of nowhere and blast him with an Unforgivable Curse?
Harry had to play it safe—for his own life's sake.
This was all because he was still too weak. When it came to controlling magic, he had some confidence. But when it came to actual combat, he knew—he was clueless about real power.
That weakness wouldn't last forever, though. He already had a plan. But that's a story for another time.
Once off the train, King's Cross Station came into view.
The buildings around hadn't changed at all.
And yet, everything felt different inside Harry.
Six months ago, in the sweltering summer, he'd left this station aboard the Hogwarts Express. Now, returning to it in the biting cold of winter, snow covering the ground… it felt like ages had passed.
He stood in place for a moment, then snapped out of it and muttered,
"Damn it, I'm only eleven—prime flower boy age. What the hell am I doing pretending to be deep?"
Then he strode confidently out of the station.
Under the cab driver's strange stare, Harry handed him a banknote and said, "Keep the change," then quickly got out of the car.
As he walked into the Leaky Cauldron, he mumbled to himself,
"You think I don't know Halloween's long over? If it weren't for my voice still sounding like a kid, you'd probably think I was either a criminal or a nutjob. Honestly, how do you function with a brain like that…"
The driver, long gone, had no idea he'd just been thoroughly roasted by an eleven-year-old.
Harry pushed open a door that didn't exist to Muggle eyes. The dirty glass on it looked like it hadn't been cleaned in decades.
There was snow on the floor of the pub, stomped on and discolored. As Harry looked down, he noticed patches of green showing through. That's when it hit him—the floorboards at the Leaky Cauldron weren't black… they were green!
The place felt just as cold and unwelcoming as ever, drenched in dark tones. Harry looked at the greasy tables and felt a wave of nausea.
Old Tom wasn't at the bar. A few people sat in the corners, cloaked in shadows. Silently, Harry walked toward the backyard.
He stood before the brick wall, reached out from his sleeve, and tapped a brick three times with his wand.
The wall rumbled, then peeled back to reveal a passageway.
Once again, Harry stood at the entrance to that winding, narrow street.
Diagon Alley felt like an entirely different world.
Despite the snow and cold, the street was alive with activity. Wizards and witches bustled in and out of shops, full of holiday energy.
Harry made his way straight to Gringotts.
It was the end of the year, so many people were there handling banking matters.
Just like last time, Harry showed a goblin his key, and another came to escort him to his vault.
After passing numerous doors, they stopped at one. The goblin opened it, and Harry found himself once more standing before the massive underground cavern.
His face paled slightly, but seeing the goblin already seated in the mine cart, he reluctantly climbed in.
WHOOOSH— The cart launched forward in an instant.
It was even more intense than a rollercoaster.
"Woooo—whooo…"
The wind slammed into his face, making Harry twist away from it.
The cart zoomed forward, and Harry couldn't shake the thought that it might fly off the tracks.
When they finally stopped, Harry stumbled out, holding onto the wall.
"Why don't you just install a few magical doors down here? Wouldn't that make things easier?"
The goblin snapped back, "For security. Doors would only make things less safe."
He unlocked the vault, and once again Harry saw the piles of gold Galleons, silver bars, and bronze Knuts!
This time, Harry was mentally prepared. He wasn't shocked—but he was definitely pleased. No wonder rich people loved staring at their wealth.
As he looked at the golden glow of the stone cavern, a thought suddenly struck him.
There was an old goblin saying: "Only the Galleons you spend count as real Galleons."
Leaving all this money locked away in a vault, without putting it to use, was as good as it not existing.
The more Harry thought about it, the more it made sense.
Even though it felt like he'd thought about it for a while, in reality, only a couple of seconds had passed.
He stepped into the vault and filled a sturdy cloth bag with coins.
Then he turned to the goblin and asked, "Can you give me an exact count of how much is in here?"
The goblin looked surprised by the request, pausing for a moment.
Then he nodded. "Of course we can."
.
.
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