The Leaky Cauldron was everything James had imagined and nothing like he'd expected simultaneously. The pub was dark and shabby, lit by dim lanterns that cast dancing shadows across walls stained with centuries of smoke and grime. Small tables huddled in the corners like conspirators, their surfaces scarred and ancient. The smell of ale and something indefinably magical hung in the air.
Behind the bar stood Tom, the barkeep James recognized from the books. He was a wizened old man, completely bald, manipulating a rag with his wand to clean glasses while simultaneously chatting with a hooded figure in dark robes at the far end of the bar. The rag moved in rhythmic circles, polishing each glass to a shine without Tom ever touching it.
Professor McGonagall entered first, and Tom looked up with a gap-toothed smile. "Professor! Good to see you."
"Tom," McGonagall nodded politely, then gestured toward Michael. "Muggleborn family. First visit."
Tom's expression shifted to one of understanding. He nodded at the Actons. "Welcome to our world, then. Takes a bit of getting used to, it does."
McGonagall led them through the pub, past a witch reading a newspaper whose photographs moved and past a wizard whose pipe blew smoke rings that transformed into tiny dragons. James's parents walked close together, their eyes trying to take in everything at once without appearing to stare.
They emerged into a small, walled courtyard behind the pub. It looked utterly ordinary: brick walls, a dustbin, some scattered rubbish.
Nothing magical about it at all.
"Now," McGonagall said, pulling out her wand, "the Leaky Cauldron serves as the gateway between the Muggle and magical worlds. Tom, the barkeep, can grant you access if you come without James, though most Muggle parents prefer to wait for their children. The entrance requires a specific pattern."
She tapped the wall with her wand. Three up from the rubbish bin, two across. "You'll want to remember this. Three up, two across."
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the brick she'd touched quivered. A small hole appeared in the center, growing wider and wider. The bricks began to shift, rearranging themselves with a grinding sound that reminded James of stone on stone. Within seconds, a large archway stood before them, wide enough for several people to walk through abreast.
And beyond it...
Yara gasped. Michael took an involuntary step back.
Diagon Alley sprawled before them like something out of a fever dream.
It was far larger than James had imagined, far grander than any movie could have captured. The street was wide, easily accommodating the crowds of witches and wizards that moved along it.
Buildings rose on either side, four and five stories tall, their architecture a mad mixture of medieval timber framing, Georgian brick, and Victorian Gothic spires. Nothing matched, yet somehow it all worked together, creating something uniquely magical.
Shop windows glittered with enchantments. A cauldron in one display bubbled and changed colours without any visible fire beneath it. In another window, books flew in formation like birds. A third showed robes that modeled themselves, strutting back and forth on invisible bodies.
Signs hung from elaborate wrought iron brackets, many of them animated. A mortar and pestle ground itself endlessly. A quill wrote cursive loops in the air. A wand shot coloured sparks that spelled out the shop's name before dissipating.
The cobblestones beneath their feet were worn smooth by centuries of foot traffic, and James could feel a faint hum of magic rising from them, as if the street itself was alive.
"This is..." Michael's voice trailed off. He couldn't seem to find words.
"Diagon Alley," McGonagall said, a hint of pride in her usually stern voice.
"The premier shopping district for magical Britain. Most of what you'll need can be found here."
They walked slowly up the street, James's parents turning their heads constantly to take it all in. James tried to match their wonder, tried to seem as awestruck as someone seeing magic for the first time should be. But internally, his mind was cataloguing and comparing what he saw to what he remembered from the books.
There was Flourish and Blotts, its windows stacked high with books whose titles shimmered and changed. Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, with mannequins that waved at passersby. The Apothecary with its window displaying jars of ingredients James couldn't identify, things that moved and pulsed and glowed.
He spotted Eeylops Owl Emporium, from which emerged a cacophony of hoots and chirps. Quality Quidditch Supplies had a window display featuring a Nimbus 2000 that hovered in place, rotating slowly to show off its sleek design.
And there, narrow and ancient-looking, was Ollivanders. The shop where he'd get his wand soon.
But McGonagall was leading them in a different direction, up the slight incline of the street toward a building that dominated everything around it.
Gringotts.
The bank was magnificent. A snow-white marble edifice that towered over the neighboring shops, easily the tallest building on the street. It rose so high that the upper floors disappeared into clouds that seemed to hover permanently around its peak, as if the building created its own weather.
"Good God," Michael breathed, then coloured. "Sorry, Professor. It's just..."
"Quite alright, Mr. Acton. Gringotts is impressive, intentionally so. The goblins spare no expense when it comes to displaying their power and wealth."
A set of white marble stairs led up to burnished bronze doors so tall they seemed designed for giants instead of the rather short statured goblins. A goblin stood at attention beside them, dressed in a uniform of scarlet and gold. He was perhaps three and a half feet tall, with long fingers, a clever face, and eyes that seemed to assess the value of everyone who approached.
As they climbed the stairs, James studied the doors more closely. They were engraved with warnings:
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.So if you seek beneath our floorsA treasure that was never yours,Thief, you have been warned, bewareOf finding more than treasure there.
"Cheerful," Yara murmured.
"The goblins take theft very seriously," McGonagall said. "As do we all. Gringotts has never been successfully robbed."
They passed through the bronze doors into a small entrance hall, then approached another set of silver doors. These bore more straightforward engravings that nonetheless made James's father pause to look carefully.
Through these doors, flanked by more goblins in their scarlet and gold uniforms, they entered a vast marble hall that took James's breath away despite all his preparation.
The hall stretched so far back that the opposite end was lost in shadows and distance. The ceiling soared overhead, supported by marble columns so thick three people couldn't have linked hands around them. Long counters lined both sides of the hall, extending back as far as James could see. Behind each counter sat a goblin, and there must have been a hundred of them, all bent over ledgers or examining gems through eyepieces or counting coins with fingers that moved too fast to follow.
Doors set into the walls led off to vault passageways.
The whole place smelled of metal and stone.
"This is all above ground?" Michael asked, craning his neck to look up at the distant ceiling.
"Indeed," McGonagall confirmed. "The vaults themselves are deep underground, connected by a labyrinth of passages and tracks. But this building, this entrance hall, is the only structure in Britain that the goblins own on the surface. That's why they keep adding floors without limit. Every few decades, they add another story. Some say the building will eventually reach the stars."
"Don't stare," Yara whispered urgently to Michael, who had been openly gaping at a nearby goblin examining what appeared to be a ruby the size of a small melon.
They approached a free counter, where a goblin with particularly long fingers and a name plaque reading "Hawkclaw" looked up at them with sharp black eyes.
"How much?" he asked without preamble, his voice surprisingly deep for such a small creature.
McGonagall looked at Michael, who stepped forward and set the briefcase on the counter. "Ten thousand pounds sterling. I'd like to exchange for one hundred Galleons."
Hawkclaw's eyebrows rose slightly. He glanced at McGonagall, who met his gaze steadily. The goblin's expression suggested this was more than most Muggleborn families exchanged on their first visit.
McGonagall raised one eyebrow back but said nothing.
"Very well," Hawkclaw said. He pulled the briefcase toward him, opened it, and ran his long fingers through the bundled notes. The motion seemed casual, but James suspected the goblin had counted every pound through touch alone. "Exchange rate is one hundred pounds to one Galleon. One hundred Galleons total. You won't be able to exchange for anymore until the next year"
He reached beneath the counter and produced a small chest. When he opened it, James saw thick golden coins gleaming against dark velvet. Each Galleon was roughly the size of a fifty pence piece but much heavier, engraved with numbers and symbols James couldn't quite make out from where he stood.
Hawkclaw counted out one hundred Galleons with mechanical precision, stacking them in towers of ten on the counter. The sound of gold on marble rang through the hall.
Michael looked at the substantial pile of coins, then at McGonagall. "How do we...?"
McGonagall pulled out her wand and with a casual flick, conjured a leather pouch. It was supple and dark brown, with a drawstring top and a size that should have held perhaps twenty coins at most.
"This will hold them all," she said, handing it to Michael. "It's charmed with an Expanding charm, though a temporary one. It will last a week, so make sure you transfer the coins to a proper money pouch before then."
"What happens if we don't?" Yara asked.
"The pouch will disappear and the coins will spill wherever they are at the time. Quite inconvenient if you're in a crowded shop."
Michael carefully transferred the Galleons into the pouch. As promised, all one hundred coins disappeared into the small bag without making it appear any fuller. When he hefted it, his eyes widened. "It weighs nothing."
" Feather-light charm included," McGonagall said. "Standard for money pouches."
They thanked Hawkclaw, who had already turned his attention to his ledgers, and made their way back through the magnificent hall and out into the bright daylight of Diagon Alley.
James looked around at the shops, at the crowds, at the magical district spread before him. "Professor McGonagall? Could I get my wand first?"
"Typically, we purchase the larger items first so we have less to carry as we shop. A trunk would be advisable, I think."
"A trunk?" Michael asked.
"Wizards traditionally don't collect shopping bags from every purchase. Most serious wizards carry pouches or bags with extension charms. But for school supplies, a trunk is essential. It will give you somewhere to store everything as we shop, and James will need it for school anyway."
She led them down a side street, away from the main thoroughfare, to a large storefront with gleaming windows.
The sign above the door read "The Expandable Emporium" in gold leaf that seemed to shimmer and shift.
The windows displayed an array of trunks and bags, some rotating slowly in midair to show off lightening charms. One trunk in the center window was unpacking and repacking itself, clothes folding with military precision before diving back into compartments.
A bell chimed musically as they entered, and immediately James was struck by the smell of leather and polish, wood and metal and something indefinably magical. The shop was larger inside than it had appeared from the street, another extension charm. Trunks were stacked floor to ceiling along every wall, some floating in midair with small placards floating beside them listing their features.
Behind the counter stood a man who looked to be in his mid-sixties, with bright brown eyes that crinkled at the corners and a pipe clenched between his teeth. When he saw McGonagall, his face lit up with genuine pleasure.
"Minerva!" He pulled the pipe from his mouth and with a casual flick of his wand, vanished both the pipe and the smoke that had been curling around his head. "Always a pleasure to see you!"
James's parents stared at the casual display of magic, the way smoke and solid object had simply ceased to exist.
"Ardain," McGonagall returned the greeting with a warmth James hadn't seen her display before. "Muggleborn student, first year. Needs a proper trunk."
"Of course, of course!" Ardain Ackleston came around the counter, rubbing his hands together. "Welcome, welcome to all of you! Your first time in our world, I take it?"
"Is it that obvious?" Yara asked with a slightly embarrassed smile.
"Only because you're not trying to haggle yet," Ardain said with a wink. "Give it a year or two. Now then, let's find you something perfect."
He gestured around the shop with evident pride. "We have standard school trunks, of course. Single compartment, basic preservation charms, will hold about three times what you'd expect from the size. Very affordable at one Galleon."
"Three times?" Michael repeated.
"Extension charms," Ardain explained. "Makes the inside bigger than the outside. The standard school model has a mild one. But we also have much more sophisticated options."
He led them deeper into the shop. "Luxury trunks with built-in wardrobes, multiple compartments, some with potion storage and temperature regulation. Specialized trunks for different purposes. Creature-care trunks with climate control, apothecary trunks with stasis charms, Quidditch equipment trunks with padding and protective wards. And of course anything custom can be ordered as well"
They passed a display of antique trunks, their leather worn but their brass fittings gleaming. "These are pre-owned, of course, but many have historical significance. That one there belonged to a famous Auror in the 1800s. Still has the original blood-repelling charms."
"Blood-repelling?" Yara asked faintly.
"Dangerous profession, Auror work," Ardain said cheerfully. "Ah, and here are the accessories! Enchanted suitcases for travel, handbags with extension charms, document cases for Ministry workers. Money pouches that organize coins automatically and have anti-theft wards. Potion ingredient cases with stability charms."
He showed them a handbag that looked modest on the outside. "Extension charm on this one can hold enough to furnish a small apartment. Had a customer once who kept a tent, three weeks' worth of supplies, and an entire library in one. Very popular with travelers."
"How much does something like that cost?" Michael asked, eyeing the bag with interest.
"Oh, that particular model is quite dear. Forty Galleons. The charm work is extraordinarily complex."
They moved through the shop, Ardain showing them options while McGonagall offered practical commentary. When he tried to show them a trunk with seven different compartments and its own climate control system, McGonagall cleared her throat.
"Mr. Ackleston is an excellent salesman, but a first-year student doesn't need a trunk that could house a family of four. Something practical would be more appropriate."
"But if he'll need it for seven years..." Yara began.
"And potentially beyond," Michael added. "If these things last as long as you say, we'd rather invest in something he can use after Hogwarts as well."
Ardain's eyes gleamed. "A wise approach, sir. Many families think only of the immediate need, but a quality trunk will last decades. We have trunks in this shop that are over two hundred years old, still functioning perfectly. The preservation charms and protective wards mean they don't wear out like Muggle luggage might."
"So as long as it's not intentionally damaged, it will last forever?" James asked.
"More or less. The charms are self-sustaining, drawing on ambient magic to maintain themselves. You'd have to actively try to break one to cause permanent damage."
They spent the next twenty minutes examining options, discussing features, weighing practicality against cost. McGonagall steered them away from the most extravagant models while acknowledging which features were genuinely useful.
Finally, they settled on a trunk that made everyone happy.
It was handsome, finished in a dark stain that was almost black, with silver fittings that gleamed against the wood. The interior had been divided into multiple specialized compartments through a clever combination of extension charms and organizational magic.
The main section had a wardrobe with hangers that automatically kept clothes pressed and wrinkle-free. "Never worry about packing in a hurry," Ardain explained. "Just toss it in, the hangers will catch it and take care of the rest."
There was a compartment specifically designed for potion ingredients, with racks for vials. "Will this preserve the ingredients?" James asked.
"The compartment won't, no," Ardain explained. "Preservation is done by the vials themselves, often enchanted for specific potions. But this keeps everything organized and prevents breakage. Much safer than jumbling them in with your socks."
A bookshelf compartment would hold James's growing library, with a charm to prevent the books from sliding around during transport. A set of drawers for clothes, another for miscellaneous items, all protected by the trunk's overarching anti-dust charm.
"It won't accumulate dust?" Yara asked.
"Not a speck. Part of the basic preservation magic. You could leave it in an attic for fifty years and open it to find everything pristine."
The trunk also featured a work desk that folded out, complete with storage for stationary and school supplies. And the general compartment, the largest section, extended six feet deep with shelves that could be pulled out, eliminating the need to climb inside or bend over uncomfortably.
"High-grade anti-theft charms," Ardain said, tapping the lock. "It will only open for the person's touch. Even powerful unlocking spells won't work without the owner's permission."
The final touch was James's name, engraved in elegant script across the top: James Acton.
"Now," Ardain said, pulling out a ledger, "a standard school trunk would be one Galleon. This model, with the extension charms, specialized compartments, wardrobe magic, anti-theft wards, preservation charms, and custom engraving..." He tallied numbers on the page. "Comes to ten Galleons."
James winced. That was a tenth of their entire year's allowance.
But Michael barely hesitated. "It's a worthy investment. James takes care of his things, and if he'll use this for years to come, it's worth the cost."
Michael counted out ten Galleons from the pouch, the heavy gold coins clinking on Ardain's counter. The shopkeeper beamed, clearly delighted to make ten times what he'd normally earn from a Hogwarts student.
"Excellent choice, truly excellent! And Mr. Acton, young man, take care of this trunk and it will take care of you. Decades of faithful service, I guarantee it. Actually, I will also throw in a money pouch as well for free so you don't have to carry it in a transfigured bag"
"You can tell?" Michael asked.
"Of course, if I couldn't even tell the difference between conjured or created items what kind of enchanter would I be?" Ardain said with a large smile.
He shrank the trunk with a tap of his wand, reducing it to the size of a matchbox. "There we are. Just tap it with your wand and speak 'restore' to return it to full size. Convenient for travel."
James carefully pocketed the miniaturized trunk, marveling at the weight or lack thereof. The lightening charm made it feel like carrying nothing at all.
They thanked Ardain, who waved cheerfully as they left, and stepped back onto the street.
"Now," James said hopefully, "can I get my wand?"
McGonagall's lips twitched. "Yes, Mr. Acton. I suppose we've delayed long enough. Ollivanders it is."
She led them back toward the main street, past the shops with their enchanted windows and animated signs. The crowds had thickened as the morning progressed, witches and wizards going about their Saturday shopping.
James's heart beat faster with each step. His wand. Finally, his wand. Four years of practicing wandless magic, four years of preparing, and now he'd finally have the tool that every proper wizard needed.
Ollivanders stood exactly as he'd imagined it. The shop was narrow and shabby compared to its neighbors, squeezed between two larger establishments like an afterthought. But there was something about it, something ancient and powerful that had nothing to do with fancy storefronts.
Peeling gold letters over the door read: Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
The shop's display window contained only a single wand, lying on a faded purple cushion. Dust covered everything, giving the impression the shop hadn't been touched in years. Yet James knew better. This was the premier wandmaker in Britain, possibly the world.
McGonagall pushed open the door, and a bell tinkled somewhere in the depths of the shop.
Inside, it was tiny. Empty except for a single spindly chair in the corner and thousands upon thousands of narrow boxes stacked to the ceiling. The boxes covered every wall, piled precariously on shelves that creaked under their weight. Everything was covered in a thin layer of dust that seemed more decorative than neglect.
The air smelled of wood and magic, old parchment and possibilities.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, from the shadows at the back of the shop, a voice spoke.
"9½ inches, made of fir wood, and dragon heartstring core."
A man stepped into view, and James felt a shiver run down his spine. Garrick Ollivander was exactly as described: ancient, with pale eyes that seemed to glow in the dimness, and slightly unsettling.
"Professor McGonagall." Ollivander said, his voice soft and mysterious. "Always a pleasure. I see you've brought me a new student." Those pale eyes fixed on James. "And what an interesting one at that."
The wandmaker moved closer, studying James with an intensity that made him want to step back. But he held his ground, meeting Ollivander's gaze.
"Yes," Ollivander murmured, almost to himself. "Very interesting indeed."
And somewhere in the dusty depths of the shop, a box began to rattle.