As they spoke, they arrived at Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. A short, round, pleasant-faced Wizard- in purple came to greet them: "Oh, welcome! A new set of robes for a young wizard? Term starts in just a few days — why so late to come?"
Harry removed his hat and face covering and stepped forward. "Sorry, ma'am — my previous set was destroyed, so I've come for a replacement."
"You're… Harry Potter?"
Madam Malkin looked startled. "I remember you came in about a month ago. Can I ask how they were destroyed? I take great pride in the quality of the garments I make."
"They… they were burned."
"Oh, good heavens." Madam Malkin swayed slightly, as though she might faint. "What sort of person burns a young wizard's school robes?"
Harry opened and closed his mouth, unsure what to say.
Bernadette spoke up: "It was an accident, ma'am. If you could please make him a new set, we'd be very grateful."
"Of course, of course."
She nodded. "I have your measurements on file — don't worry, I'll have it done in no time."
Madam Malkin gave her wand a light flick. A bolt of fabric unrolled of its own accord; scissors flew over and made a precise cut; then a dozen silver needles, trailing thread, began weaving rapidly through the cloth. In under a minute, the rough shape of a robe had already taken form.
Bernadette watched in quiet contemplation. Magic in this world was applied to everyday life far more extensively than in her own. For the wizards here, it was not merely a combat skill — it was a tool for living: cleaning rooms, making clothes, cooking meals and far more. She caught herself feeling a trace of envy. If only my world were like this.
She turned her attention to the shop and began taking it all in — the cluttered shelves, the tables, the display cases. Her gaze eventually settled on a small cabinet near the counter where a few accessories were laid out.
Seven or eight minutes later, Madam Malkin held the finished robe up for Harry and guided him in front of the fitting mirror. "What do you think? Does it fit?"
Harry looked, and nodded. "Better than the last one — I mean, they were both great!"
"So long as you're happy with it."
Harry was just about to take the robe off when his vision went blurry — someone had taken his glasses. Before he could work out what was happening, they were back on his face.
Or rather, they were not his glasses — there were no lenses in them, and his vision was still a blur. Then he heard the voice of Vincent say: "Ma'am, do you have a pair of lenses that would suit Harry?"
"We can use his original ones."
Madam Malkin flicked her wand. Harry's old lenses — cracked — snapped free with a small click and floated up into the air.
"Reparo."
With a soft gleam, the cracks vanished. Another flick of the wand adjusted their size, and they fitted themselves neatly into the new frames.
Harry could see clearly again. He looked at himself in the mirror: the new frames were a similar shape to the old ones, but bright and clean. Whether it was his imagination or not, he felt he looked sharper.
Bernadette stepped up beside him and smiled faintly:
"A back-to-school gift."
A gift?
For as long as Harry could remember, he had never received a real gift. Every birthday and every Christmas, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had handed him something purely symbolic — a pair of old socks, a broken coat hanger, a few coins. Every one of those "gifts" was loaded with scorn and contempt, yet Harry had no choice but to accept them and stand by in quiet envy as Dudley unwrapped present after present, filling the whole house.
His birthday this year had at least brought a chocolate cake from Hagrid — squashed, sticky, a sorry sight — but Harry had been delighted all the same. It was, by a wide margin, the best gift he had received in eleven years.
And today, these new glasses took its place.
He looked up at Vincent, heart full of gratitude, and it was a long moment before he managed quietly: "Thank you, Vincent."
"Mm."
They paid and left the robe shop, then made their way to Flourish and Blotts to replace Harry's textbooks. While there, Bernadette browsed through the shelves and picked up a few wizarding children's books for herself — titles like The Tales of Beedle the Bard, Little Loki's Adventures in the Muggle World, and The Child Raised by Fantastic Beasts.
Fanciful and absurd as they were, these picture-books were actually quite charming to read — and some of them reminded her of the fairy tales her father had once told her at bedtime.
"If I could use Mystical Manifestation in this world, a few of these books might lend me some rather interesting abilities."
She shook her head, passed the stack to Harry — who startled and quickly gathered them up in his arms — and followed him out of the shop.
"Anything else you need to buy?"
Harry shook his head. "Dudley only burned my robes and my textbooks."
He reached into his pocket and held out a handful of Galleons. "Vincent, this is for the robes and the books just now."
Bernadette accepted without refusing.
"I need to stop at the wand shop before we leave. You can come with me or have a look around on your own — up to you."
"Ah?"
Harry blinked. Vincent, you trust me a little too much. I'm an eleven-year-old child. There are probably kidnappers in the wizarding world too, aren't there?
He clutched his books and hurried to catch up. "I'll come with you."
Diagon Alley today was far quieter than his first visit — only a handful of people on the street, almost no young wizards in sight. This was no surprise; most young wizards wouldn't leave their shopping this close to term, for fear of running into stock shortages.
A few minutes later, they arrived at a small, battered shop. The gilt lettering above the door had peeled in places, but still read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.
In the window, a single wand lay on display — untouched, yet rotating lazily, as though presenting itself to any passersby.
This is the finest wand shop in the country?
A bell chimed as Bernadette pushed the door open. The interior was a jumble of narrow shelves stacked haphazardly with wooden boxes that looked as though they might topple at any moment.
An old man who had been dozing with his chin in his hands opened his pale, wide eyes. Instinctively, he said: "Good afternoon, welcome to Ollivanders—" He stopped. "Harry Potter?"
He hopped off his stool and stepped closer, his gaze dropping to Harry. "Feeling any discomfort with your wand?"
Harry shook his head quickly. "No, not at all… in fact," he said quietly, "I haven't managed to try using it yet."
"Oh, you'll get your chance very soon — and I've no doubt you'll find it fits you wonderfully."
Ollivander smiled faintly, then turned his pale, round eyes on Bernadette. "Vincent Moriraty. I remember you. Ebony wood, nine and three-quarter inches, nicely flexible."
He paused. "In for a wand service?"
True to Vincent's description, the man could not resist showing off his remarkable memory the moment he had a customer — every name, every wand material, every length, stored perfectly.
"No, Mr. Ollivander." Bernadette shook her head. "I would like to purchase another wand."
One that truly belonged to her.
To be continued…