Harry Potter: Magic and Guns

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"I'm Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

A towering figure, over three meters tall with arms as thick as a grown man's waist, cast a massive shadow. His booming voice made the chandelier tremble.

Despite his size, his expression was kind, with a tangle of beard framing a warm smile. His small, dark eyes gleamed with life and intelligence.

"What's going on here?"

Hagrid's gaze fell on Aunt Petunia, whose eyes were red and swollen, and the letter in her hand.

"Looks like you got Hogwarts' letter. That's why I'm here."

"Please, have a seat," Uncle Vernon finally snapped out of his stupor and gestured toward the empty sofa. Hagrid sat down heavily, taking up nearly the entire space. Even seated, his immense, wall-like presence was overwhelming.

"You're Petunia, right? I saw you ten years ago," Hagrid said after settling in. "You probably didn't notice me. I'd just pulled Harry from the wreckage. It was late, and I didn't want to frighten you, so I stayed back."

"You're the one who rescued me... from the wreckage?" Harry asked hesitantly.

"Found you, more like. Your mother protected you with her life. I pulled you out of the rubble, out from under a pile of stones. There was magic, a protective barrier—your mother's final spell."

Hagrid pointed to Harry's forehead with one of his enormous fingers.

"That scar of yours... it's a symbol of her protection and a mark left by that... monster."

"Voldemort?" Harry asked.

The sofa creaked under Hagrid as the giant flinched.

"Yes," Hagrid said, his face stiffening. "Few in the wizarding world dare say his name. We call him You-Know-Who."

"You-Know-Who?" Harry repeated, his lips twitching with a strange, indescribable emotion. "I don't even know who he is. Maybe he was a vile criminal, an absolute scoundrel, a mad tyrant and butcher."

"But at the very least, you shouldn't lose your courage. He's already been defeated. He's not invincible. I don't understand why everyone is so afraid of him, why you all fear someone who's disappeared."

"You don't know what he did," Hagrid quickly responded. "And not everyone lost their courage."

"What did he do? Commit genocide? Did millions die at his hands?"

Hagrid shook his head slightly. The entire wizarding world didn't have that many people.

"Then, did he conduct human experiments? Cut people open without anesthesia? Test corrosive gases on them, watching as their skin melted and muscles rotted? Or inject them with viruses and burn them, just to figure out how to cure them?"

Hagrid shuddered, shaking his head again, unsettling images briefly flickering through his mind.

"What exactly did he do?" Harry asked, staring intently into Hagrid's eyes.

"He..."

Hagrid wanted to say that You-Know-Who had killed countless innocents and tortured those who defied him with the Cruciatus Curse, but the words seemed to get stuck in his throat.

Harry opened a thick book titled The NC War Crimes Record and showed a series of black-and-white photos to Hagrid.

"Perhaps, when it comes to atrocities, our non-magical world has tragically won."

Harry shoved the book into Hagrid's lap. "Take a look at this. It's a glimpse into hell itself. Is your You-Know-Who really that terrifying?"

"For ten years, you've been too afraid to even say his name."

"You should be braver, big guy. You're ten times my size—you ought to be ten times as courageous," Harry said, locking eyes with Hagrid. "Right?"

"You pulled me out of that wreckage. You must have seen my heroic parents, lying dead before me."

Hagrid was silent, lost in Harry's resolute gaze.

"Yes," Hagrid finally admitted, his eyes dropping to the black-and-white photographs in the book. Although the people in the pictures were motionless, frozen in time, Hagrid felt as if their eyes—filled with despair and numbness—were staring right at him. The images of this man-made hell were soaked in a cruelty beyond imagining.

"Yes... Voldemort," he muttered.

This time, he said the name without trembling. Inside, far more horrifying images had pushed aside the fear of the Dark Lord. Pure torture and death paled in comparison to the extinction of humanity's compassion, rendering Voldemort's so-called terror insignificant.

Perhaps the small world of wizards limits their perspective, even their fear is constrained by it.

"I have one last question for you, Hagrid."

"What is it?" Hagrid put away the book Harry handed him, tucking it into his seemingly bottomless pocket.

"Is there a monument?"

"A what?"

Seeing the confusion on Hagrid's face, Harry waved it off.

"Looks like I need to visit it, Aunt Petunia."

Harry sat back down next to Aunt Petunia. "I need to go there, for myself and for my parents."

"Sorry, Dudley. You'll have to go to Smeltings on your own this time. But when I graduate, which will be at seventeen, right?" Harry glanced at Hagrid, who nodded in confirmation. "If I have time, maybe I'll try to join you at the Royal Military Academy. I'll still be under eighteen by then."

"I'll wait for you, brother," Dudley said, thumping his chest and nodding at Harry.

What Harry thought would take a lot of effort was settled quickly. He was decisive in action, and after thoroughly inquiring about the necessary knowledge for school, by nine o'clock that morning, Harry and Hagrid were standing in the Dursleys' small garden. They were off to Diagon Alley to purchase the necessary supplies for Hogwarts.

Uncle Vernon's car couldn't fit Hagrid, so they had to make their way to the nearest station and travel to London the Muggle way—Muggles, meaning people who couldn't use magic.

With Hagrid around, no public transport, however crowded, posed a problem. People instinctively moved aside to avoid the hulking giant, and even if they didn't, Hagrid easily made a path. Harry simply had to follow in his wake.

After nearly two hours of travel, they finally reached their destination—a slightly aged commercial street bustling with people. Music could be faintly heard from a record store, though it was too muffled to make out clearly.

"The Leaky Cauldron. Muggles can't see its door, but sometimes they wander in by mistake. It's a famous place," Hagrid said, pushing open a wooden door beside the record store that passersby seemed to instinctively overlook. He ducked inside, with Harry following closely behind.

They entered a dimly lit hall, where numerous oddly dressed patrons sat drinking. In one corner, a few wrinkled old women were sipping sherry, one of them puffing on a long pipe, exhaling pungent green smoke. The place couldn't be described as simply dirty—it was filthy. The floor felt like stepping on something squishy, as if a thick layer of fungus covered it, emanating a disgusting, sticky odor.

"When was the last time this floor was cleaned, Hagrid?" Harry asked, scuffing his boots with a frown.

"Probably decades ago," Hagrid shrugged nonchalantly. It had been like this the first time he visited too.

The bar's patrons seemed quite familiar with Hagrid. Everyone who saw him smiled and greeted him warmly.

"The usual, Hagrid?" the bartender, whose face was as withered as a walnut, called from behind the counter, his wrinkles smoothing out into a grin.

"Not today, Tom. I'm on Hogwarts business," Hagrid replied, clapping Tom on the shoulder with his enormous hand, nearly flattening the man in the process.

"My goodness!" Tom exclaimed as he righted himself, glancing at Harry. He inspected him closely. "Could it be... Is this...?"

The bar fell into a sudden hush.

"Blimey!" Tom whispered. "Harry Potter—what an honor!"

He rushed out from behind the bar, grabbed Harry's hand, and teared up with excitement.

"Welcome back, Mr. Potter. Welcome home."

All eyes were on Harry. Chairs scraped against the floor as people stood up, eager to shake his hand. Hagrid smiled at the scene, but Harry's expression grew colder.

"Voldemort."

The bar, which had just started to buzz with excitement, fell silent as if it had been hit by a Siberian chill.

"So, there really are only a few courageous ones left," Harry said, stepping forward. "It's been ten years, hasn't it? Where are the people who stood up to fight against the darkness?"

He scanned the room, but no one met his gaze.

"Let's go, Hagrid," Harry said, a touch of disappointment in his voice as he turned away.

Hagrid followed Harry as they walked deeper into the Leaky Cauldron, disappearing from the watchful eyes of the crowd.

(End of chapter)