Chapter 8: Into Diagon Alley
"Professor Flitwick, Mr. Fythorne — safe travels!"
The Knight Bus thundered away with a deafening BANG, leaving a faint purple shimmer in its wake. Russell stood frozen for a moment, clutching his stomach and swallowing down the rising wave of nausea.
He had been very wrong.
If he'd thought Muggle buses were rough, the Knight Bus was chaos incarnate — a three-story carnival ride without brakes or mercy.
Even Professor Flitwick didn't look much better. Had Russell not caught him mid-lurch during a particularly vicious swerve, the poor professor might've gone flying straight into the driver's seat.
Now they stood on a crowded London street, surrounded by a steady flow of pedestrians — yet in the middle of all that bustle stood a peculiar, timeworn pub. Its soot-black windows and crooked signboard read: The Leaky Cauldron.
To Russell's eyes, it stood out like a stain on reality. But strangely, not a single passerby seemed to notice it. People walked right past without even a glance, chatting and laughing as if the old building didn't exist.
Flitwick noticed his puzzled look and smiled. "A simple but clever bit of magic — the Muggle-Repelling Charm. It muddles their perception, makes them subconsciously ignore what shouldn't be there."
Russell nodded as they pushed the creaking door open and stepped inside.
---
The interior was cramped and dim, the air thick with the smell of ale and smoke. The wooden tables were scratched and warped by time, and a faint layer of grime clung to every surface.
Clusters of cloaked figures sat hunched together, whispering in low tones. When the door creaked, heads turned their way — cautious, measuring — before most returned to their conversations.
But not everyone.
In a shadowed corner, three hooded wizards exchanged uneasy glances.
"Bloody hell," one hissed under his breath. "What's Flitwick doing here? He's not supposed to interfere."
"Calm down, Goldfinger," came a raspy voice beside him. "Didn't you see the boy with him? Probably just another Muggle-born recruit. He's here for shopping, not Gringotts."
"Gringotts…" sneered the third — a squat man in royal purple robes, his tone dripping venom. "Hogwarts has fallen so far. Dumbledore's to blame. He's turned our sacred world into a cesspool of Mudbloods."
He clenched his fists beneath the table. He'd once belonged to one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, but years of failure had reduced him to drinking in dingy pubs with half-rate thugs.
How far the noble have fallen, he thought bitterly. His hand trembled slightly as it brushed over his forearm — where a faint, half-faded mark itched beneath the sleeve. A mix of longing and fear flashed in his eyes.
---
At the bar stood an ancient man whose age seemed to defy biology.
Tom, the barkeep of the Leaky Cauldron, was so wrinkled he looked like a half-dried walnut. His head was almost bald, his gums were bare, and when he smiled, it seemed like his face might collapse inward.
Russell had an irrational fear that Tom might keel over at any second — and though suing for compensation probably wasn't a thing in the wizarding world, he instinctively kept a cautious distance just in case.
"Tom, my old friend!" Flitwick greeted warmly as they approached the counter.
The two wizards exchanged pleasantries with an ease that spoke of long acquaintance. When Tom offered him a drink, Flitwick's eyes lit up — just for a moment — before he regretfully shook his head.
"Next time, Tom. Duty calls today."
With that, they made their way through a narrow hallway to the back courtyard — a small, walled space littered with dust and an empty rubbish bin sitting in the corner.
Flitwick pulled out his wand, tapped the bin lightly, and it immediately began to melt, slumping into a shimmering puddle that rippled across the cobblestones. Then, with a soft hum, the puddle rose beneath him like a living platform, lifting him neatly off the ground.
"Now, pay attention, Russell," he said, pointing at a particular brick on the wall. "Remember this position. You simply tap that brick with your wand — gently — and the gateway will open."
The wall began to shift even as he spoke, bricks rearranging themselves with mechanical precision until an archway formed before them.
And beyond that archway—
A world unlike anything Russell Fythorne had ever seen.
Shops bursting with color and motion, cauldrons stacked to the ceiling, owls hooting from their perches, the sweet scent of spellbooks and potion herbs thick in the air —
Diagon Alley.
It was alive with motion — stalls bursting with colorful merchandise, shop windows glittering with brass cauldrons and enchanted trinkets, the air thick with the scent of parchment, herbs, and fresh-brewed potions.
Russell's eyes widened in awe. "This is… incredible," he breathed, turning in slow circles as though afraid he might miss something.
Flitwick chuckled softly. "Quite the sight, isn't it? Every Muggle-born student reacts the same way on their first visit." He smiled warmly; at that moment, Russell truly looked like what he was — an eleven-year-old child standing at the threshold of a new world.
The professor reached into his robes and pulled out a small velvet pouch, the Hogwarts crest embroidered in gold upon its surface. He handed it to Russell.
"Here you are, my boy."
"Thank you, Professor." Russell accepted it carefully, the weight satisfying in his hand. Inside, the clinking of coins created a delicate, musical sound.
"There are thirty Galleons in there," Flitwick explained. "That should be more than enough to cover the essentials on your supply list."
Russell frowned slightly. He remembered Snape mentioning that even a single wand cost seven Galleons. Add in robes, textbooks, a cauldron, and other supplies — and that thirty would vanish in a heartbeat.
And he still wanted to buy a pet… and maybe a few gifts for the Addams family, who had treated him so kindly.
After a moment's hesitation, he asked, "Professor, is there anywhere I could exchange pounds sterling for wizarding currency?"
He patted the inside pocket of his jacket. His inheritance was tied up for now, but he still had a decent amount of cash at home.
I'm not poor — just temporarily liquid in Muggle money, he thought.
Flitwick followed his gaze and smiled. "Of course. Look there."
He pointed toward the far end of the alley.
There, towering above the surrounding shops, stood a gleaming white building that seemed to pierce the sky — Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
"Run by goblins," Flitwick said with a touch of amusement. "You won't find a safer place in the wizarding world — nor one more obsessed with gold."
---
The structure was magnificent: a tall, snow-white marble edifice set squarely in the center of the street. Its shining bronze doors reflected the bustle of Diagon Alley, and a wide stone staircase led up to the entrance.
Beside the doors stood a goblin guard dressed in scarlet and gold-trimmed uniform.
He was small and wiry, his skin the color of old parchment, his black eyes glinting sharply beneath a high brow. His fingers were long and elegant — built for counting money, not for shaking hands.
Beyond the bronze doors lay a second set of silver ones, with more goblin sentries standing watch on either side, motionless as statues.
And behind them…
A vast marble hall.
Hundreds of goblins sat perched atop high stools behind an endless row of counters. Some were weighing coins on tiny brass scales, others peering through monocles to inspect gemstones, and still others scribbling furiously in massive ledgers.
The constant clink-clink of metal filled the air like a steady heartbeat.
---
"Welcome, honored customer!"
A goblin, clearly bored before their arrival, suddenly perked up at the sight of Flitwick and Russell. He hurried over with a sharp-toothed smile. "My name is Pendant. How may I be of assistance today?"
He looked directly at Russell, not sparing Flitwick so much as a glance.
"I'd like to exchange some pounds for Galleons, please," Russell said politely.
The goblin's smile faltered.
"Ah… of course," Pendant said, voice stretching like cooled tar. His posture stiffened, enthusiasm draining from his face as he turned toward the counter. "Right this way."
Russell could practically feel the temperature drop.
He followed, trying not to wince.
The goblin's disappointment was obvious. He'd likely assumed Flitwick was bringing in a client for a large transaction — only to discover it was a currency exchange involving Muggle money.
To goblins, pounds were little more than worthless paper.
And though they could easily exchange them for gold in the Muggle world, they refused to — not out of practicality, but pride.
Goblins might technically serve under wizarding law, but in arrogance and disdain for Muggles, they were no different from the pure-blood supremacists who sneered at Muggle-borns like Russell.
Some things, it seems, Russell thought wryly, never change — magic or not.