Accio Paintbrush

Dawn broke over the tiny shack, and Harry woke to the tap-tap-tap of an owl against the window. As Hagrid paid it for the newspaper, Harry took a moment to study his giant companion in the morning light. There was no deception in those beetle-black eyes – Hagrid was genuine in his warmth and loyalty. The question was: loyalty to whom?

The journey to London was an exercise in restraint. Harry played his role perfectly, asking just enough questions to seem naturally curious but not enough to raise suspicion. He noticed how Hagrid's eyes would occasionally drift to his scar, how the giant's hands would clench slightly at mentions of "You-Know-Who." Every reaction was a brushstroke in the portrait Harry was mentally painting of the wizarding world.

The Leaky Cauldron was their first real test. The moment Tom the bartender recognized him, Harry felt the weight of dozens of eyes, all fixed on his scar. He allowed himself to appear slightly overwhelmed – it wasn't difficult, given the press of bodies and the endless hands reaching out to shake his.

"Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid's booming voice cut through the crowd. "Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."

Harry's artist's eye caught details others might miss: the slight tremor in Quirrell's hands, the way his turban was wound just slightly askew, and most importantly, the calculated nature of his stutter. In his previous life, Elias had known actors who could fake nervousness more convincingly than this.

The brick wall behind the pub transformed into an archway, and Harry permitted himself a genuine gasp. Diagon Alley was a masterpiece of architectural chaos – a Renaissance painting come to life, with impossible angles and colors that shouldn't work together but somehow did. His fingers itched to capture it all.

"Gringotts first," Hagrid announced, leading the way toward a snowy white building that towered over the neighboring shops.

The bank's security poem caught Harry's attention:

*Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed...*

He suppressed a smile, thinking of the gold bars in his Inventory. The goblins' warnings about theft were impressive, but they hadn't accounted for items that technically didn't exist in this dimension.

The cart ride to his vault was illuminating in more ways than one. Harry caught glimpses of other security measures, mentally mapping them for future reference. When vault 687 opened to reveal mounds of gold, silver, and bronze, he made sure to ask Hagrid about the conversion rates, filing away the information for later use.

The second vault – seven hundred and thirteen – piqued his interest even more. A tiny grubby package that Hagrid retrieved with such secrecy... Harry added it to his growing collection of mysteries surrounding Dumbledore.

Back in the sunlight, Hagrid still looking slightly green from the cart ride, Harry carefully suggested, "Might be best if we split up? You could have a pick-me-up at the Leaky Cauldron while I get my uniform fitted?"

"Well..." Hagrid hesitated, then glanced at the bank with a queasy expression. "Yeah, might be best. Madam Malkin's is right there – yeh'll be fine on yer own?"

Harry nodded earnestly, watching as Hagrid lumbered off toward the pub. Perfect.

In Madam Malkin's, he met Draco Malfoy – though the pale boy didn't introduce himself yet. Harry observed the expensive cut of his robes, the practiced drawl in his voice, the casual mentions of his father. Old money and older prejudices, wrapped in an eleven-year-old's attempt at sophistication. In his previous life, Elias had known plenty of Manhattan elite who carried themselves the same way.

He kept his responses neutral, noncommittal. Every piece of information Malfoy carelessly dropped was valuable – about the houses, about Quidditch, about the general attitudes of pureblood society. Harry filed it all away while maintaining his facade of naive curiosity.

After getting his robes, Harry began plotting his return visit. He'd need to come back alone, preferably early in the morning when the crowds were thinner. The gold bars would need to be exchanged carefully, perhaps at different times to avoid suspicion. He'd also need books beyond the standard curriculum – the glimpses of magic he'd seen so far had awakened a hunger in him that first-year texts wouldn't satisfy.

As he waited for Hagrid outside the shop, ice cream in hand, Harry watched the flow of people through the Alley. Artists notice patterns, and there were patterns here: the way certain wizards avoided others, the subtle differences in robe styles that seemed to indicate social status, the careful dance of old political allegiances playing out in public greetings.

This world had rules, just like any other. Rules that could be learned, understood, and – when necessary – broken.

Hagrid returned with a beautiful snowy owl in a cage, a birthday present that genuinely touched Harry. He named her Hedwig, after a name he'd found in A History of Magic. As they continued their shopping, Harry played up his excitement over each magical item while carefully noting which shops he'd need to revisit later.

The wand shop was last, and it was here that Harry's careful composure nearly cracked. As Mr. Ollivander measured him and spoke of his parents' wands – and more significantly, of Voldemort's – Harry felt the weight of destiny pressing down on him. When the holly and phoenix feather wand sparked in his hand, he understood that some things couldn't be planned or controlled.

But that didn't mean he had to be controlled by them either.