For a while, Richard stared at the ladle of powder with open doubt. This method of travel struck him as utterly insane. He closed his eyes and did a brief breathing exercise to calm himself. Only then did the boy scoop up the Floo powder, toss it into the fireplace, and clearly pronounce:
"Diagon Alley!"
With his eyes squeezed shut, he jumped into the hearth. His heart hammered wildly in his chest, adrenaline surging through his veins. Richard braced himself for searing flames—but the pain never came. He cracked his eyes open and saw rooms and fireplace grates flashing past at dizzying speed. Soon the blur stopped, and Richard was spat out onto the grimy floor of a shabby pub with a distinctly medieval interior. Caught off guard, the boy failed to keep his footing and fell to all fours.
Getting back on his feet, Richard spotted his mentor waiting patiently nearby.
The elderly witch flicked her wand, and the soot and dirt vanished from Richie's clothes.
"It's always difficult to travel by Floo for the first time," the witch explained.
"Where are we, Tutor?"
"The Leaky Cauldron Pub," Madam Marchbanks replied. "If we step outside, we'll find ourselves in the Muggle world, on Charing Cross Road in London. Those who wish to get to Diagon Alley usually come through this fireplace—or through the fireplace in Knockturn Alley. Though I wouldn't recommend the latter: it's crawling with vagrants, criminals, and idlers."
Despite the early hour, several wooden tables in the pub were already occupied. At one sat two elderly witches who paid no attention to the newcomers. At another, a short, unpleasant-looking drunk with sparse red hair was knocking back whiskey. His darting eyes swept over Richard's outfit, clearly appraising its far-from-cheap value. The boy immediately found the man suspicious. First, he was obviously an alcoholic, drinking whiskey alone in the morning. Second, there was something in his mannerisms that suggested criminal ties. However, judging by the fright that crossed his face when he glanced at Madam Marchbanks, the wizard recognized her at once and immediately lost all interest in both Richard and his companion.
Madam Marchbanks crossed the bar, with Richie following close behind. Reaching the back courtyard, the old woman tapped the wall with her wand. The bricks slid apart, forming a passageway—a vast arch opening onto a medieval street.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley—the main shopping district of British wizardkind!" the old woman declared proudly.
"Are there other districts?"
"Of course, though none as large. For example, near Hogwarts, in the magical village of Hogsmeade, there are several shops, a third-rate pub, a tea shop, and one other quite decent pub. In Ireland and Scotland, there are places where magical fairs are held on Saturdays. But the bulk of commerce happens here."
Richard surveyed the surroundings—and found himself less than impressed. The cobblestone street twisted and stretched into the distance. On both sides loomed slightly crooked two- and three-story buildings of stone and timber. Small shops occupied the ground floors.
The first thing to catch the eye was a shop selling potion cauldrons; through its window, countless vessels of various shapes and sizes were visible.
From the opposite side came the hooting of owls, and the sign "Eeylops Owl Emporium" made it clear that animals were sold inside.
"Well… atmospheric," Richard muttered.
He regarded everything around him with skepticism. Had he been a small child, he would no doubt have been enchanted by the medieval trappings. But as a child of the future, he looked down even on the technology of the late twentieth century—so sights like these only made him wrinkle his nose.
Madam Marchbanks moved purposefully toward Mulpepper's Apothecary, from which an atrocious stench wafted.
As they walked, Richard examined the shops along the way and assessed the state of business there. His conclusions were bleak. Diagon Alley—the largest commercial hub of the magical world—hosted only small-scale businesses. There were few customers in sight, suggesting sluggish trade. On top of that, it was clear that businesses were inherited and that new players appeared here only rarely. The verdict: investing in local business was pointless. Any profits, if they existed at all, would be negligible.
Yet other thoughts took root in Richard's mind. He knew that, in the future, the world would face a threat from a powerful dark wizard. Unfortunately, he didn't know the nature of that threat—a fact he deeply regretted. Right now, he would gladly reread the old children's books about Harry Potter's adventures and rewatch all the ancient films and HoloSeries. But that chance was gone.
Still, facts were unforgiving things. Harry Potter existed. Wizards existed. The school of magic stood where it always had. Therefore, it was reasonable to assume that the dark wizard would appear—and that a threat to the world would take shape. And the first to be struck would be the children studying at Hogwarts.
Richard would gladly have gone to study at another school of magic, but unfortunately, from the information he managed to glean from his mentor, that wasn't an option. Officially, he was considered Muggle-born and therefore required to attend the local magical school—despite the fact that anyone with eyes could see he was a half-blood. Of course, Richie had alternatives: he could negotiate with the Minister for Magic or pressure her through Grandma Liz. He could even offer a bribe in the form of yet another parcel of land. But… what was the point of running anywhere if the danger threatened the entire Solar System? Or didn't it?!
That uncertainty was what frightened him most. If the transmigrator were almost completely certain that he had landed in the book version of the universe—where the dark wizard wasn't quite so dangerous—he would have shrugged it all off and gone to study magic in another country. And even then, there was no guarantee that everything in the books was as harmless as people claimed; after all, he had only heard about them secondhand.
Another major problem was that Richard was an aristocrat. He was obligated to set a patriotic example—and to study on British soil.
(End of Chapter)
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