Harry's curiosity got the better of him.
"Hagrid," he asked, "you're so tall, how come no one seems to notice you?"
Hagrid gave a gentle laugh and carefully patted Harry's hair with his massive, calloused hand.
"That's the Disillusionment Charm, Harry. You'll learn it in your fifth year. Bit tricky for now, though."
Harry nodded, thoughtful. The idea of such a spell sparked a flurry of possibilities in his mind. He could already think of a dozen clever ways to use it. Too difficult for him? Please. He was destined to become a master of the mystic arts. There wasn't a spell in this world he couldn't learn.
Before long, they reached Charing Cross Road in Westminster. On one side of the street stood a grimy, half-forgotten sign that read The Leaky Cauldron. Grease and soot clung to the faded letters, half-obscuring them from view.
Harry wrinkled his nose.
This place clearly hadn't seen a cleaning in decades. It was a far cry from the immaculate halls of Kamar-Taj. Did no one here believe in basic hygiene? Weren't there magical cleaning spells?
Inside, things didn't get any better. Dust coated the wooden beams. The air was thick with the scent of old ale and wet cloak. The pub felt like it had been plucked straight out of the Middle Ages, with not a trace of modern technology in sight.
Harry's face darkened a little. He suddenly realized that the wizarding world might be far more primitive than he had imagined.
He had expected wizards to be wise, powerful, forward-thinking. After all, even Kamar-Taj had adopted Wi-Fi the moment it became available. The Ancient One had always taught that true power came not just from magic, but from embracing all tools, science and sorcery alike.
But here? The wizards seemed perfectly content stuck in the past.
No electricity. No modern appliances. No sign of even the simplest technological comfort.
Were they seriously this out of touch?
A sudden thought struck him, maybe this whole world believed magic could solve everything. No wonder they'd fallen behind. That kind of arrogance always led to downfall.
Even Tony Stark, a man whose entire identity was built around technology, had nearly been destroyed by that kind of thinking. And that man could build a particle accelerator in a cave.
As Harry pondered the backwardness of it all, the pub's regulars began to notice Hagrid and greeted him cheerfully. Apparently, he was well-liked.
But the real shock came when Hagrid introduced Harry.
Suddenly, every head turned. The pub erupted in gasps, and before Harry knew it, he was surrounded. People pressed in on all sides, trying to shake his hand, muttering his name with wide eyes full of awe.
Harry remembered what Hagrid had told him earlier on the way here: that he was considered the Chosen One, the boy who had saved the wizarding world.
Honestly, Harry wasn't surprised. He was impressive. The Sorcerer Supreme had told him long ago he was destined for greatness. Still, the sheer intensity of the crowd's reaction caught him off guard.
One elderly witch, at least sixty years old, took one look at him, squealed, and fainted on the spot.
And then, as if things weren't strange enough, a man stepped forward and held out a hand.
His appearance was odd. He wore a turban wrapped tightly around his head and looked vaguely like someone trying a little too hard to seem mysterious.
Harry didn't think much of it at first. Wizards were weird, he figured.
But the moment their hands touched, Harry's pupils contracted sharply. His bright green eyes narrowed, and a flicker of killing intent sparked within them.
The man stammered out an introduction.
"P-P-Potter. S-s-so pleased to meet you. I'm Professor Quirrell. I-I'll be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts this year."
Harry didn't smile back.
He was too focused. In the brief contact, he had felt something, something wrong. Behind Quirrell's polite smile and nervous tremble, he sensed a second presence, something festering and malevolent lurking beneath the surface.
A soul. Twisted. Familiar.
He'd encountered such souls before. The kind that pledged themselves to the dread lords of dark dimensions. The kind who committed atrocities for power. Souls so blackened that even demons bartered for them.
For a split second, Harry considered drawing the Sword of Vishanti and beheading the man where he stood.
Even at thirty percent power, with some basic reinforcement spells, he could strike faster than Quirrell could blink. The professor wouldn't even know what hit him.
But he hesitated.
He was still new here. Still learning the rules of this world. Killing a Hogwarts professor on his first day probably wasn't the best way to introduce himself.
Maybe there was an explanation. Maybe the presence he felt was... temporary. Or contained. Or not what it seemed.
So, Harry forced a dazzling smile onto his face and replied smoothly, "Nice to meet you, Professor Quirrell. I'm looking forward to your class."
Quirrell gave a jerky nod, clearly relieved.
When the crowd finally dispersed, Harry and Hagrid made their way to the back of the pub. They stopped before an old brick wall.
"Now, watch closely," Hagrid said, crouching slightly. "Three bricks up, two across. Here we go."
He tapped a specific sequence with his pink umbrella.
The bricks trembled. A tiny gap appeared. Then the wall split open wider and wider, revealing a bustling alleyway full of strange shops, hurrying witches, and wizards in flowing robes.
Hagrid grinned and turned to Harry.
"Well, there it is! Diagon Alley! What d'you think? Welcome to the wizarding world!"
Harry didn't jump up and down or gasp in wonder.
Instead, he frowned.
Hagrid blinked, caught off guard by the boy's expression. "What's wrong, Harry? You alright? Maybe a bit of Pepper-Up Potion would help?"
Harry shook his head and stared down the alley with a hint of disappointment.
"Hagrid," he said slowly, "I don't understand."
"Understand what?" Hagrid asked, concerned.
"Why is everything so... outdated? I mean, Muggle technology is incredibly advanced. Why hasn't the wizarding world adopted any of it? Diagon Alley looks like it's been stuck in the same century for hundreds of years. No development. No innovation."
Hagrid scratched his head awkwardly. "Well, er... it's just always been like this, I suppose. Maybe that's something you'll have to figure out for yourself."
He cleared his throat and tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.
"Come on, let's get to Gringotts. We need to collect the gold your mum and dad left you before we can do any shopping."
Harry followed silently, deep in thought.
Whatever the reason behind this world's stubborn refusal to evolve, it was clear to him now: the wizarding world was not the shining, magical utopia he'd once imagined.
Any civilization that refused to grow, that ignored progress, was doomed to fade. Even the gods of Asgard weren't immune to stagnation. Why would this world be any different?
Harry made a silent vow to himself.
Once he understood how this place truly worked, once he had the power to act... he would change it.