The car rumbled down the motorway, the faint squeak of the windscreen wipers marking time against the drizzle. I sat in the back seat, staring out the window, my chin propped in my hand as grey London rolled by. Vernon's meaty hands gripped the wheel, his moustache twitching every so often as he glanced at me in the rear-view mirror.
Petunia sat rigidly in the passenger seat, lips pressed thin, eyes darting between her husband and me as though unsure which of us might snap first. Beside me, Dudley fidgeted with the seatbelt, round face pressed to the glass.
"Where are we going?" Dudley asked for perhaps the fifth time, his voice a mix of suspicion and eagerness.
"To the Leaky Cauldron," I said simply, not looking away from the window.
"What?" Vernon barked.
"The entrance to the Wizarding World," I replied, voice calm, even bored. "A pub, of sorts. Ordinary people like you would never notice it. Charms hide it from Muggle eyes."
"Muggles," Vernon muttered, the word sour in his mouth. "That's what you lot call us, isn't it? Like we're dirt."
I tilted my head, finally meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Not dirt. Simply… limited. Blindfolded, stumbling through a world you do not understand."
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing, focusing on the road instead.
At last, I directed him off the main road, through a series of smaller streets, until the buildings grew older, shabbier. Dudley pressed his face to the glass, wide-eyed at the crumbling brickwork, the dingy shopfronts. Petunia pursed her lips tighter with each turn, as though the very air was unclean.
"Here," I said suddenly. "Pull over."
Vernon parked with a grunt, engine ticking as it cooled. I opened the door and stepped out, the rain misting my hair. The others followed — Vernon lumbering, Petunia clutching her handbag like a shield, Dudley bouncing slightly on his heels.
I led them down the pavement to a soot-darkened building squashed between two newer ones. Its windows were grimy, its sign barely legible, swaying in the damp breeze: The Leaky Cauldron.
Vernon frowned. "That? Looks condemned."
"You can't see it," I told him. "Nor can she." I nodded at Petunia, whose eyes slid right past the building. "The charms are clever. They make your mind dismiss what it doesn't wish to notice. But if you follow me, you'll manage."
Before Vernon could argue, I pushed open the warped wooden door and stepped inside.
The air changed instantly. Warmth washed over me, tinged with smoke, stale ale, and something distinctly herbal. The room was dim, lit by oil lamps and a few flickering candles. A low murmur of voices filled the space, along with the clink of tankards and the rustle of cloaks.
Witches and wizards crowded the tables — some laughing, some muttering, some hunched over bowls of stew. Their robes were a riot of color: emerald and plum, faded mustard and deep sapphire. To the Dursleys' eyes, it must have looked as though they'd stumbled several decades — perhaps centuries — into the past.
Petunia stopped short, her face blanching. Vernon's moustache twitched violently as he stared. Dudley, however, gave a low whistle. "Blimey. Looks like a costume party."
Every head turned at once.
The laughter died. The muttering ceased. Silence spread like a stain across the room. Dozens of eyes fixed on us — four figures out of place, one of them unmistakably me. Whispers rose, urgent and hissing.
I ignored them.
Behind the bar stood a man as wizened as the wood itself, bald on top with straggling white hair around his ears, face creased like old parchment. His eyes crinkled as he set down a glass.
"Good morning," he rasped, voice dry but oddly cheerful. "Welcome to the Leaky Cauldron. What can I get you?"
"Nothing," I said evenly. "We're merely passing through. To Diagon Alley."
Recognition flickered in his eyes, though he said nothing, only nodding toward a door at the back. "Of course. Right through there."
"Thank you, Tom," I said, tilting my head. His brows rose at the name, but he nodded again.
The stares followed us as I led the Dursleys through the bar. Petunia kept her gaze fixed on the floor. Vernon puffed himself up, glaring at anyone who dared look too long. Dudley gaped openly at the owls perched in the rafters and the strange instruments scattered on shelves.
Through the back door, we stepped into a small, walled courtyard, damp and empty save for a few bins. Vernon scowled. "Well? Doesn't look much like a marketplace to me."
"Patience," I murmured, stepping to the wall. I counted bricks under my breath, then pressed three in quick succession.
The wall shivered. Bricks groaned, shifting, folding in on themselves until an archway yawned open. Beyond it, sunlight spilled onto cobblestones, and the roar of a bustling crowd burst through.
I turned, sweeping an arm toward the opening. "Welcome," I said softly, "to Diagon Alley."
We stepped through together.
The Dursleys froze.
Before us stretched a long, winding street alive with color and sound. Shopfronts leaned at odd angles, their signs creaking overhead: Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, Eeylops Owl Emporium, Quality Quidditch Supplies. Cauldrons of every size glinted in windows. Books stacked higher than Vernon's head filled another. Candies whizzed and popped in displays, while a witch with a tray of roasted nuts called out to passersby.
The crowd was just as varied — wizards in long robes of every shade, witches with pointed hats adorned with feathers, children tugging at parents' sleeves. A young man swept by on a broom, chased by a laughing shopkeeper shouting after him.
Dudley's jaw dropped. "Wicked…"
Petunia muttered something that sounded suspiciously unnatural.
Vernon only shook his head. "Bloody ridiculous. Looks like a circus."
"To you, perhaps," I said calmly. "But this is the heart of commerce for wizardkind in Britain. Outdated, yes — much of it still clings to fashions from the eighteenth century, if not earlier. But here you will find everything a witch or wizard could need. Clothes, books, brooms, familiars, charms, potions, and more."
As we walked, Dudley pointed constantly. "What's that one?"
"Brooms," I said. "Transportation. Faster than your cars, though less comfortable. That shop sells Quidditch supplies — a sport, more violent than your rugby. That one, Flourish and Blotts, is where schoolchildren buy their texts. The candy shop sells confections that will turn your tongue green, or make you levitate briefly. All trivial, of course. The true power here lies ahead."
I gestured down the street. At the far end, towering above the crooked shops, stood a massive marble building. White stone gleamed in the sunlight, its steps wide and sweeping, its bronze doors tall and forbidding.
"That," I said, "is Gringotts. The only bank in our world. Run by goblins."
"Goblins?" Dudley repeated, eyes wide.
"Greedy, clever creatures," I explained. "They pride themselves on their craftsmanship and despise wizards for their dependency. They will smile to your face while plotting to cheat you blind. Even in my past life, I loathed them."
We mounted the steps. At the entrance, a plaque gleamed in the stone:
Enter, stranger, but take heedOf what awaits the sin of greed,For those who take but do not earn,Must pay most dearly in their turn.
Vernon muttered, "Charming."
Inside, the grandeur only grew. The hall stretched vast and gleaming, with polished marble floors and towering chandeliers. Behind long counters sat goblins — small, sharp-featured creatures with pointed ears and hooked noses, their long fingers scratching across ledgers. Wizards and witches queued before them, some deferential, some impatient.
The goblins' eyes, cold and calculating, followed us as we entered.
Dudley whispered, "They look like… like bankers crossed with bats."
"An apt description," I murmured.
I approached an empty counter. The goblin behind it barely glanced up, his voice dry. "Business?"
"I require access to the Emrys account and the Potter accounts," I said evenly. "In addition, I will be performing a blood adoption and a formal name change."
The goblin's quill still. Slowly, he raised his head, eyes narrowing. "That will require… much work." His tone dripped with annoyance.
"Then I suggest you begin," I said.
He scoffed, muttered something in his own tongue, and gestured sharply. Another goblin appeared, glaring. "Escort them," the first said. Then, with a glance at Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley: "The Muggles will wait outside. They are not welcome here."
I turned my gaze on him, calm but cold. "If a single hair on their heads is touched, you will dearly regret it."
The goblin faltered, eyes narrowing further. But he said nothing, only motioned us to follow.
We were led down a corridor, doors shutting firmly behind us. At last, we entered a smaller chamber, guarded by two armored goblins. The one who had escorted us sneered.
"House claims are taken seriously," he said. "Can you prove you are from House Potter?"
I raised an eyebrow, noticing him ignoring the name of Emrys, then slowly touched the scar on my forehead, the lightning bolt etched deep over my eye. A scar that should be famous to all of the Wizarding World "I am Harry Potter," I said flatly.
The goblin sniffed, unimpressed. "We require more than scars. Blood will tell."
He barked a command. Moments later, a younger goblin hurried in, carrying a tray. On it lay a parchment, blank but glimmering faintly, and a small knife etched with runes along its blade.
The tray was set upon the desk. The goblin gestured. "Prove it."
I picked up the knife, weighing it in my hand, studying the faint shimmer of enchantments along the edge. Then, without hesitation, I sliced my palm. Blood welled crimson. I let it drip onto the parchment.
It hissed.