I nodded understandingly, and a goblin in a tailcoat who was passing by grinned predatorily. Instinctively, I reached for the dagger on my belt—which, of course, wasn’t there. The memory fragments, reflexes not biological but mental, had taken over. My gesture didn’t go unnoticed by the goblin, and his grin widened. If the elf’s memory was to be believed, there was only one solution regarding this malevolent race: genocide. For the greater good, of course.

  Our line moved forward, bringing us one step closer to the customer service counter. The counter was absurdly high—yet another display of the goblins’ unfounded arrogance.

  "Besides that," McGonagall continued, "goblins are exceptional craftsmen of magical bladed weapons and other items made from various metals and alloys. The powers that be at the time decided it would be a shame to lose such skilled artisans."

  "And how long ago was the last goblin-made product created?"

  "Oddly enough, almost nothing new has appeared since the last uprising. But it’s worth noting, Mr. Granger, that their work is exceedingly expensive and primarily intended for combat. In our time, that branch of magic is dying out due to lack of necessity."

  Right. That’s what they wanted people to believe. If the elf’s memories were accurate—and there was no reason to doubt them—goblins used their most potent magic through mass sacrifices of intelligent beings with magical gifts. No possibility of rebellion meant no opportunity to capture wizards and other gifted individuals in large enough quantities. The similarities between those goblins and these were striking, aside from the clothing.

  "I see. The threat of another, bloodier uprising was deemed insignificant compared to the potential, albeit ephemeral, benefits of their artifacts."

  "There are other reasons, Mr. Granger, but they are less significant. And keep in mind," McGonagall said sternly as we moved up the queue, "I am by no means an expert in history or politics. I can only speculate about the motivations of the wizards of that time, but it certainly wasn’t pity. Those were different times."

  We finally reached the counter and quickly arranged the currency exchange. The rate was one Galleon to five pounds. The financial system here was quintessentially British—a confusing array of coins with non-multiple denominations: gold Galleons, silver Sickles, and bronze Knuts. The dwarf’s fragmented memories helped me see through the illusion: the "gold" was a magical alloy, and the precious stones the goblins sorted nearby were fakes. Everything here was a fa?ade, a theater for one audience.

  The next item on our shopping list was a student trunk—a functional and versatile item in the wizarding world. It could serve as a table, wardrobe, trunk, or suitcase, with expanded compartments for storage. The professor promptly shrank the trunk with a spell and tucked it away. I made a mental note to enchant my backpack with an expansion charm later.

  Next, we purchased sets of textbooks for the first three years and stored them in the trunk, briefly enlarging it again. Potion ingredients were also bought and sent directly to Hogwarts. Enough for three years—I’d have plenty of time to practice.

  We picked up various small necessities—parchment, quills, ink, tools, and a telescope—from a shop selling odds and ends, and a school uniform with several robes from "Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions."

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  Selecting a wand was an absurd process. The concept made sense—a wizard couldn’t simply choose any pre-made magical tool unless it was specifically crafted for them. This was especially true for wands made of organic materials. Wood that looked identical could have vastly different structural properties, affecting how energy flowed through it.

  In the dusty shop of Mr. Ollivander, I stood in the dimly lit hall, waving wand after wand as the eccentric old man handed them to me. He seemed bored, though I could see in his gaze—sometimes piercing, sometimes distant—that he understood the subtleties of magical energy. I wasn’t surprised when he finally handed me a thirteen-inch wand made of acacia with a unicorn hair core. As soon as I gripped it, a bright burst of multi-colored sparks erupted from the tip, and Ollivander’s face lit up with joy.

  "A marvelous wand, Mr. Granger! Powerful and versatile, though it rejects dark magic. What a pity you’ve lost two years of magical discovery in your childhood."

  Thanking Mr. Ollivander, the professor and I left his shop and headed back to the Leaky Cauldron—or rather, to the passage leading back to the Muggle world. At the threshold, I turned and gazed intently at Diagon Alley: the crooked wooden houses, the colorful signs, the oddly dressed wizards bustling about.

  "Mr. Granger?" Professor McGonagall stood beside me, waiting for me to step through first. "Is something wrong?"

  I compared what I saw to what I remembered. Magical cities from the elf’s memories—tall white towers of the human magical academy, gleaming spires, pristine streets, impressive architecture, and a thriving population. Even remote villages seemed no less advanced than modern cities. And here? A shabby, makeshift settlement.

  "Fugitives," I muttered.

  "Excuse me?"

  "The wizards are fugitives. What I see before me is a hastily assembled gypsy camp, flaunting its uniqueness as if proud of its dire situation."

  "I wouldn’t recommend voicing that thought among wizards," the professor said sternly as I turned to her. "Even if there’s some truth to it."

  She sighed, glancing around to ensure no one was nearby before continuing.

  "We wizards cling desperately to the false notion that we weren’t driven into a corner but chose to separate ourselves from the world. The truth is, we did choose—but was it truly of our own free will?"

  We returned the same way—pub, bus, home. My parents were still at work, which had become the norm. From what I gathered, shortly after I was transferred to Hogwarts for treatment two years ago, they had thrown themselves into expanding their dental clinic. It was growing rapidly, even opening new branches. Meanwhile, I had plenty to think about and work on.

  As I had planned earlier, I needed to perform a ritual to measure and attune my life energy. For this, I leaned out the window and plucked a few leaves from the tree growing nearby. By next year, its branches would be tapping against the window in strong winds.

  Easily folding my bony frame into the lotus position, I placed a leaf on each knee and held one in each hand. Concentrating on my internal energy, I found the "thread" that needed to be pulled to channel it. I directed a trickle of energy into the leaves, causing them to resonate, decompose into energy, and absorb it. This step was necessary, as the leaves themselves carried almost no energy.

  Once I mastered this stage, I realized my body wasn’t yet capable of storing energy. Ninety-five percent of it acted as a conductor, projecting energy from the soul but unable to retain it. It was both familiar and strange to focus on something as abstract as energy, trying to contain it where there was no natural reservoir.

  The next step was visualizing the "Accumulation-Transfer" seal within my body—a simple spherical seal composed of three concentric runic circles. Attempting to recall the precise design caused a sharp, stabbing pain in my temples. The seal had to be activated by the accumulated energy. I directed the life energy, tinged with neutral magic, into the seal. My body glowed faintly green.

  ---

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