Harry Potter: Returning from Hogwarts Legacy

While at school, Harry did indeed write to Uncle Vernon, but he hadn’t asked him to come and pick him up—he had merely sent a polite note saying, “I’m coming back.”

Of course… he had chosen his words very carefully, making sure to avoid offending his rather sensitive uncle.

What he hadn’t expected was that Uncle Vernon would actually send a reply via Hedwig, and even more surprisingly, he had asked when Harry would be returning.

That left Harry quite puzzled.

At the station entrance, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of Muggle currency.

He hailed a taxi and plopped himself into the seat.

His trunk was already packed away in a small pouch enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm, and Hedwig was keeping Poppy company, so he traveled light, with no heavy luggage to drag around.

Magic was truly marvelous.

“Nice weather today, isn’t it?”

The taxi driver, a middle-aged man, struck up a conversation as soon as Harry got in.

Harry glanced out the window. The sky was overcast and ambiguous, as if undecided on whether it would rain or not.

“Indeed, it is,” he replied.

The journey was filled with sporadic small talk, but traffic was terrible, and they hit one jam after another.

By the time Harry arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, nearly an hour had passed.

He stepped inside, and as soon as old Tom saw him, he hurried forward.

“Potter—Mr. Potter! What an honor…” he gushed.

“Hello, Tom,” Harry greeted him. “I need a room.”

Tom led him upstairs and arranged a room for him.

Once Tom left, Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out the Aging Potion he had prepared in advance.

Moments later, a seventeen-year-old Harry stood in the room.

He changed into a fresh set of clothes and tucked the remaining Aging Potion into his pocket for later use.

After some thought, he also pulled out a pair of black gloves and put them on before stepping out of the room.

The Leaky Cauldron was always lively, and the sudden appearance of a seventeen-year-old Harry didn’t attract any attention.

He walked up to the brick wall, tapped it in the correct sequence, and watched as the entrance to Diagon Alley unfolded before him.

His first stop wasn’t Knockturn Alley; instead, he decided to grab a bite at a restaurant in Diagon Alley.

He hadn’t eaten much during the ride, and the light breakfast he had in the morning had long since been digested.

After a satisfying meal, Harry stretched lazily before getting up and leaving the restaurant.

He had to admit—wizarding French cuisine was surprisingly authentic and delicious.

This time, when he entered Knockturn Alley, no one tried to give him trouble.

Dark wizards weren’t fools. Ever since Dawima had suffered a humiliating defeat, they had become more cautious—especially wary of men wearing glasses.

Harry had concealed his scar with a spell, but he was still curious.

Huh, why hasn’t anyone tried to pick a fight with me?

If this keeps up, how am I supposed to get wands?

After a quick calculation—one for Ron, one for Hermione, one for Neville, Seamus, Cedric… not to mention any new students who might join their group—Harry figured it was best to prepare ahead and stock up on extra wands.

But with no dark wizards stepping forward, things weren’t unfolding as expected.

After some thought, he decided to check out Borgin and Burkes first.

Pushing open the door, he found the shop as empty as usual, with no one standing behind the counter.

Harry walked up and rang the bell.

A moment later, Mr. Borgin appeared behind the counter.

“Oh! My most esteemed Mr. Sebastian!” Borgin oozed with exaggerated delight, extending both hands. “What an honor! What an absolute honor to see you again!”

His obsequious attitude wasn’t without reason. The last time “Sebastian—Mind Your Own Bloody Business” had visited, his companion, Dawima, had been turned into a Flobberworm and squashed underfoot, guts splattering everywhere.

Having run a shady business for years, Borgin had developed an exceptional knack for reading people, and the moment he laid eyes on “Sebastian,” he knew this was someone not to be trifled with.

Naturally, he also understood why Sebastian had such a bad temper—powerful people had every right to be irritable.

Harry gave him a perfunctory handshake before withdrawing his hand. “Mr. Borgin, I need some rare goods. Last time, I saw that you were a man of resources, so… I hope you won’t disappoint me.”

“But of course!” Borgin thumped his bony chest with pride. “Here in Knockturn Alley, there is nothing a customer desires that my shop cannot provide!”

“Good.” Harry casually wiped his holly wand with his gloved hand.

Borgin’s eyes locked onto the wand, his gaze momentarily transfixed.

But after two seconds, he retracted his stare.

“What can I procure for you today?” Borgin asked.

“Phoenix tears—do you have any?” Harry inquired.

“Yes.” Borgin nodded enthusiastically. “And cheaper than the market price. Just two Galleons and seven Sickles.”

As he spoke, he took out a small vial and held it up for display.

“I’ll take some,” Harry said. “Give me two ounces of phoenix tears.”

Borgin made some calculations and then said, “That will be nine Galleons and eleven Sickles.”

“Counting money is such a tedious task, isn’t it?” Harry remarked as he handed over the coins.

“Indeed, indeed,” Borgin agreed fervently. After verifying the payment, he smiled and asked, “Anything else, Mr. Sebastian?”

“I need a dragon’s heart.”

Borgin hesitated. “Ah… well…”

“What? Don’t tell me you don’t have one?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“No, no,” Borgin quickly assured him, grinning. “It’s just that dragon hearts are in high demand, and as for the price…”

“If it’s reasonable, I’ll buy it,” Harry said indifferently.

“Excellent, excellent.” Borgin nodded quickly. “I happen to have a Hebridean Black dragon heart. It’s a bit pricey—thirty-six Galleons, ten Sickles, and seven Knuts.”

“Why such an odd number?” Harry frowned. “How about this—if you sell it for thirty Galleons, I’ll take it.”

He had no intention of being ripped off. The last time he bought a dragon heart, it hadn’t been this expensive.

“That’s impossible!” Borgin wailed dramatically. “Mr. Sebastian, my dragon hearts are fresh! Less than two days old, freshly extracted and preserved with the finest magic. My price is absolutely fair and honest!”

“That price doesn’t work for me,” Harry remained unmoved, absentmindedly twirling his wand while examining the engravings at its base.

“Mr. Sebastian, think about it—where else in Knockturn Alley can you find a dragon heart?” Borgin tried to persuade him. “The Ministry strictly regulates their sale; you need a license and a valid reason. Who else but me can provide a dragon heart with no paperwork required?”

“Thirty Galleons,” Harry repeated, unfazed.

“Thirty-two, Mr. Sebastian,” Borgin sighed. “I’ll sell it at cost—just to make a friend.”

“Thirty,” Harry countered with a raised brow.

"Thirty-one!" Mr. Borgin sighed. "Don't make me lose too much money... Business in the black market isn't exactly profitable these days."

"Thirty Galleons." Harry remained unmoved.

Mr. Borgin took a deep breath.

"Alright, fine! I'll take a loss and sell it to you!" He gritted his teeth, as if this deal was costing him a fortune. "But since you'll be visiting my shop often, consider this a gesture of friendship!"

He turned around and retrieved a small enchanted box from beneath the counter.

"Inside here is the heart of a Hebridean Black Dragon." Mr. Borgin carefully opened the box and displayed it to Harry.

Harry, of course, knew exactly what it was. After confirming that the item was genuine, he shut the box and slipped the heart into his pocket.

Then, he placed thirty Galleons neatly on the counter.

"Much obliged, esteemed sir," Mr. Borgin said slickly.

Internally, he was laughing—this deal had earned him a solid six-Galleon profit!

Harry looked at Mr. Borgin with a knowing smirk. He was well aware that the man had made a profit from this transaction.

But he wasn’t one to push things too far. After all, acquiring a dragon heart was no easy feat, and letting the seller earn a little wasn’t an issue.

Besides, Mr. Borgin wasn’t lying—there was nowhere else to buy this item.

"One more thing," Harry said. "I need Basilisk fangs."

Mr. Borgin froze.

"Pardon?"

It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard—he simply couldn’t believe what Harry had just requested.

"I said, I need some Basilisk fangs." Harry spoke casually, picking up some sand from the table and rolling it between his fingers. "This is Sands of Time, isn’t it? Weigh out five ounces for me."

"Of course, esteemed sir." Mr. Borgin scooped out five ounces of the Sands of Time with a small shovel. Then, with an apologetic look, he added, "I’m sorry, Mr. Sebastian, but I don’t have any Basilisk fangs."

"Didn’t you say you could get anything?" Harry asked, watching him leisurely.

Mr. Borgin hurriedly waved his hands. "But Basilisk fangs aren’t included in that! Basilisks are magical creatures banned from breeding by the Ministry of Magic. If I had a source for Basilisk fangs, I’d certainly sell them—they’re not illegal to trade—but I simply don’t have a supplier."

"Then do you know where I can find a Basilisk?" Harry asked.

"That... I really don’t know," Mr. Borgin shook his head. "Basilisks are incredibly rare creatures. They can’t be tamed and only obey Parseltongue commands. But ever since the Gaunt family died out, who among us is a natural Parselmouth? No one raises them anymore."

The Gaunt family had died out?

Harry felt a moment of nostalgia, but not sympathy.

After all, aside from Ominis Gaunt, a rare ray of light in that twisted lineage, the rest of the family had been nothing but vile individuals.

Calling them mentally deranged would be a compliment.

"What about Greece?" Harry asked again. "I remember that Greek wizards were fond of breeding Basilisks. The infamous Herpo the Foul was the first to create one. Are you telling me there are none left in Greece either?"

"The Greek Ministry of Magic strictly forbids the breeding of such monsters," Mr. Borgin sighed. "Alas."

"Alas," Harry echoed, shaking his head. "What a shame that such a fine tradition hasn’t been passed down."

Mr. Borgin suddenly looked up and shot "Sebastian" a complicated glance.

Good grief, you...

What kind of ‘fine tradition’ is that? Do you have some kind of misunderstanding about the meaning of ‘fine tradition’?!

That said, Mr. Borgin did, in some way, agree with Harry.

Basilisk fangs and shed Basilisk skins were both rare commodities—every use diminished the already limited supply.

Everyone knew someone was secretly breeding Basilisks—such materials were simply too scarce.

But everyone also knew that raising a Basilisk was a one-way ticket to Azkaban. No one dared to leak any information.

"Well then, I’ll take my leave." Harry politely inclined his head toward Mr. Borgin. "May Merlin guide your path, Mr. Borgin."

"And you as well, Mr. Sebastian," Mr. Borgin replied with equal courtesy.

With this trip to Knockturn Alley, Harry had achieved half his goals.

All that remained for unlocking the Slytherin study was the Angel’s Feather stored in Gringotts.

And then, there were the wands he planned to acquire for his Duel House classmates—currently in the possession of Knockturn Alley's Dark wizards.

He could, of course, buy wands from Ollivanders.

But that would cost money, wouldn’t it?

Since he could acquire them for free, why bother paying?

Harry was nothing if not pragmatic.

He planned to borrow some wands from the Dark wizards.

And since they weren’t coming to him, he’d simply go to them.

With that in mind, Harry pulled his hood lower and strode forward.

Entering a dim alleyway, he looked around and spotted a tightly shut door.

"Revelio!"

With the detection spell, Harry saw the Dark wizard lying inside the house.

He politely knocked on the door.

"Who is it?"

A coarse voice came from within.

Moments later, the door creaked open, revealing a face that immediately marked its owner as a miscreant.

The wizard grinned menacingly.

"What do you want, kid?"

"Hello, I’d like to borrow your wand," Harry said, ever so politely.

At those words, the wizard flared with anger.

"Are you mocking me, you bespectacled brat?! Do you have any idea that I’m fresh out of Azkaban—"

"Oh, so you’re unwilling."

Harry raised an eyebrow and pointed a finger at the wizard’s chest.

"Then I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me—Imperio!"

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