Aren and Ciri stumbled out of the portal and into a narrow alleyway.
Behind them, the shimmering light snapped shut with a soft pop—
and immediately the stench of rot and stagnant water hit their noses.
Aren wrinkled his nose.
Ciri gagged.
Ahead of them, Triss was already striding toward the alley's mouth, hood up, moving fast.
Aren hurried after her, excitement in every step—
Right up until he stepped out onto the street.
"Huh…?"
His face fell.
This… was not the bustling magical wonderland he had pictured.
Broken brick houses slouched against each other like they were too tired to stand. Trash piled in the gutters. People in ragged clothes slumped on the ground or slept against walls. Even the few who weren't homeless looked grimy and exhausted.
"This can't be it," Aren muttered, catching up to Triss. "Triss—this isn't Diagon Alley. Please tell me this isn't Diagon Alley."
"Of course not," Triss said dryly, weaving through the crowd without slowing. "This is Gors Velen. The lovely little port city—if by lovely you mean 'smells like a troll's armpit.'"
"What a disappointment…" Ciri grumbled, pulling her hood lower. "And here I was excited to attend the festival at such a shithole."
"This is just the southern slum district," Triss said. "The wealthy quarter is on the other side. Gors Velen is actually one of the biggest western trade hubs."
"That's not the point," Aren said, nearly whining. "I thought we were headed straight to Diagon Alley."
"And we are," Triss said, finally stopping in front of an old, crooked-looking pub. "But there are several ways to get there. I want you two to learn the normal entrance. You'll need it eventually, unless you plan to rely on portals forever."
She pointed at the weather-beaten sign above the door.
The Leaky Cauldron.
"Remember this place," she said. "Until either of you learns to portal or Apparate, this is your best access point."
"…Leaky Cauldron?" Ciri stared up at the sign. "Isn't that name a bit too obvious?"
"It's magically enchanted," Triss said. "Non-magic folk can't see the letters at all."
Her eyes flicked—subtly—toward Aren.
"I can read it just fine," he replied, eyebrow raised—still inwardly reeling that the iconic wizard pub from the books was sitting in a shady little Witcher-world port town instead of London.
Triss only sighed, choosing not to question it further, and pushed open the door.
A wave of noise hit them immediately.
As Aren and Ciri stepped inside, the warm, smoky air was thick with voices, clinking mugs, and laughter. People in cloaks packed the wooden tables shoulder to shoulder; tankards sloshed, chairs scraped, and a raucous cheer erupted somewhere near the second-floor balcony.
"This pub is packed," Aren muttered, eyes wide. "Isn't it morning? Why are there so many drunkards already?"
"Because the Leaky Cauldron is always packed," Triss said, weaving expertly through the crowd.
"Ooh—look!" Ciri whispered, grabbing Aren's sleeve. "A bard!"
Sure enough, in the middle of the noisy tavern stood a dark-haired man draped in flamboyant pinks and purples, a lute slung around his neck like a badge of honor. He finished chugging an entire jug of beer in one heroic go, slammed it down with dramatic flair, and flashed the room a cocky grin.
"Is that…?" Aren muttered.
He recognized that face immediately. Jaskier—also called Dandelion—the most infamous bard from the Witcher stories of his previous life. A man known for songs, scandals, and getting punched in places he probably deserved. He was also canonically one of the few close friends of Geralt.
Although Geralt had never once mentioned knowing him, so maybe they hadn't crossed paths in this merged world… yet.
As Aren considered this, Jaskier planted one boot on a chair, lifted his lute, and began to strum a bright, lively rhythm.
"Oh hey there strangers, gather near,
Your favorite bard is finally here!
A tune of kings and fools and fire—
And maybe love, if you desire!"
His voice soared over the chatter, smooth and theatrical. He danced between tables, spinning the lute with a flourish before pulling a rose from his jacket and offering it to a busty barmaid, who accepted it blushing furiously.
"Wow—we're really about to see a bard performance!" Ciri whispered, clapping eagerly as half the tavern turned toward the show.
"Keep moving," Triss muttered, pushing through the crowd.
"Can't we stay just a few minutes?" Ciri pleaded, lips forming an impressive pout.
Aren was tempted too—not only because Jaskier was entertaining, but because this place… this was the Leaky Cauldron. The first major wizarding hotspot from the books.
And if canon held even a little true, this was the pub where Harry first met Professor Quirrell—already carrying Voldemort like a parasite.
Aren's eyes swept the room sharply, memorizing faces, scanning hoods and corners, alert for even the slightest hint of something off.
He wasn't stupid enough to approach anyone suspicious—but confirming whether Quirrell was even here? That could be valuable.
Jaskier's next verse rang out:
"Dragonlords once ruled the land,
Till fake-born dragons failed the test;
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named arrived
And cooked the King's landing… more or less!"
He chuckled at his own line — only a handful of drunkards joined him. Most people went stiff at the mention of the Dark Lord.
"This bard is so bold… singing about him in such a joking manner," Ciri whispered, wide-eyed.
"He's just a fool," Triss muttered, already pulling her toward the back. "Come."
Aren wasn't so sure.
In canon, Jaskier sang about anyone without a lick of self-preservation. Seeing the real version wasn't much different — the man had either the courage of a lion or the IQ of a goat.
He was openly singing about the end of Targaryen rule and Voldemort.
Hard to tell if that made him brave… or suicidal.
Jaskier hopped onto an empty table, lute flashing in candlelight, and belted out the next verse:
"But then a baby saved us all—
He drooled, he burped, the dark one fell;
The Boy Who Lived, the legend born,
Whose tiny cry broke evil's spell!"
This time the tavern erupted into cheers. Tankards slammed together. Even the drunkards sobered up long enough to clap.
"Oh! He's singing about Harry Potter!" Ciri said, stopping again to clap along.
Aren kept scanning the crowd — half-hoping the boy himself might be here — but it was far too crowded. And notably, no half-giants like Hagrid in sight.
Jaskier leapt down from the table and strutted through the crowd, the sea of bodies parting for him as if by magic. He slid right in front of Ciri and Aren, flashing them both a dazzling smile and a playful wink as he strummed a new rhythm.
"Now White Flame warms the Iron Throne,
With golden lions for his own;
He wants the east, he hungers north—
For all of Westeros he schemes—"
"Enough. We're leaving."
Triss grabbed both of their wrists with surprising strength and yanked them toward the back door.
"…To crown himself the king of kings!"
Aren caught only the final triumphant line before the door slammed shut behind them, cutting off the noise of the tavern.
"Was he singing about the Nilfgaardian Emperor?" Ciri whispered, still enchanted. "His voice is amazing… maybe he's using magic!"
Aren doubted it. Jaskier just had charisma—and zero survival instincts.
Still, the meaning behind the verse wasn't lost on him.
If you listened closely, the bard wasn't praising Nilfgaard's White Flame—he was warning people.
Subtle, but clear enough for anyone with a brain: the Empire was expanding west and north, sweeping through Westeros the same way the Targaryen's and Voldemort once terrorized the realm.
Triss had clearly picked up on that too.
No wonder she dragged them out in a hurry.
But the drunken wizards back in the pub?
Aren snorted inwardly. Most of them were too drunk or too dense to grasp the subtext. They would probably think Jaskier was complimenting the new Emperor… and then punch or blast him with their wands for being annoying.
"I don't think he used any magic," Aren said, patting his medallion. "It didn't react."
He tried not to pout about it, but he was mildly disappointed that the only canon face he had seen in the Leaky Cauldron was the Witcher bard — and no one from Harry Potter.
"He's a muggle—talented in all the wrong ways," Triss said flatly. "Stay away from him. Especially you, Ciri. He loves stringing along young maidens and leaving them heartbroken."
Ciri flushed pink."O-okay… I wasn't that interested. And didn't you say muggles can't even find this pub?" she asked, frowning.
"There are always… loopholes," Triss said, brushing the topic aside. Then she pointed ahead. "Now look carefully. This is one of the simplest entrances to Diagon Alley."
"A brick wall?" Ciri raised an eyebrow.
"Don't just look," Triss chided gently. "How many times must I tell you? Magic is often about feeling your surroundings."
Ciri inhaled slowly, calming herself, then her eyes widened a little.
"Oh… that one," she said, pointing. "There's some kind of enchantment on that brick."
Aren squinted. It looked like a perfectly normal brick to him.
"Good," Triss said approvingly. "And to activate it, you simply tap it three times."
She reached out and knocked thrice.
The wall shuddered—bricks shifting and swirling like pieces of a puzzle—until an archway split open, revealing a bustling, sunlit street beyond.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Triss said, stepping through with a small smile.
"Wow…" Ciri breathed, awe flooding her voice as she walked inside.
Aren couldn't speak. His heart was hammering so fast it felt like it might burst.
He was here.
Really here.
He stepped in after them, the archway sealing shut behind him as if it had never existed.
"You can think of Diagon Alley as the biggest magical marketplace in Westeros," Triss said as she guided them forward. "It's where you'll get all your Hogwarts supplies. Now stay close, and keep your hoods up."
Ciri nodded, adjusting hers as she took in everything with wide-eyed wonder.
Aren was easily the most excited of the three. His eyes darted everywhere, barely able to take it all in. He was finally standing in one of the most iconic places from the Wizarding World. His medallion hummed nonstop from the surrounding magic, but he barely even noticed.
"There are so many races here…" Aren whispered, turning in a slow circle as he took in the crowd. "Humans, Dwarves, Khajiit, Argonians—and even Elves."
Robed figures of all heights and shapes moved between storefronts, their clothes a riot of colors and styles. Khajiit—actual furry catfolk—bartered loudly with a potion vendor. A group of scaled Argonians carried crates past them. Dwarves haggled over metal tools. Elves—slipped through the crowd with graceful steps.
All the while various bips and bops in the stores flew or danced around magically in order to attract people's attention.
Diagon Alley wasn't just alive.
It was everything he had imagined—and more.
"It's mostly half-elves, dear," Triss murmured. "But yes—you'll find all kinds here from Westeros and beyond. Just… don't stare too much."
"If I'd known a place like this existed," Ciri whispered, practically vibrating with excitement as she clung to Triss's arm, "I would've begged you to bring me here ages ago."
Aren's gaze snagged on a newspaper stand. Moving photographs of dragons on the front page of the Daily Prophet flickered in monochrome.
THE TARGARYEN CHILDREN — STILL ALIVE?
"Hey—look! A Quidditch shop!" Ciri exclaimed, tugging his sleeve pointing at a large storefront glowing with enchanted lights. "Grandma never let me ride a broom. I've always wanted one…"
"Maybe we should check it out," Aren said, eyeing the gleaming brooms displayed behind the enchanted glass of Quality Quidditch Supplies, where a crowd of kids pressed eagerly against the window.
Triss shot them both a flat look.
"Don't even think about it. You two will probably blow every last coin on a broom and have nothing left for your actual school supplies."
"Aww… and here I thought I was rich now," Ciri grumbled, deflating instantly.
Aren was still tempted to explore the Quidditch shop—just for a peek—but he forced himself to follow the two. There would be time later. Hopefully.
"Alright," Triss said, pulling both of them toward a quieter corner between two shops, "take out your lists. We'll need to hurry if we plan to get everything done today."
Aren reached into his pouch and pulled out both letters, passing Ciri's to her. He opened his own envelope again, tucking the beautifully written acceptance letter—signed by Professor McGonagall herself—back inside. He had read it too many times already, but still… he couldn't wait to meet her.
There was a folded sheet tucked beneath it. The supply list.
He unfolded it.
"Let's see…" Aren scanned the parchment. "Three plain robes… one pointed hat… dragonhide gloves… sturdy boots… a winter cloak… a wand… one pewter cauldron… set of crystal phials… brass scale… mixing knives… parchment scrolls… a self-inking quill… a mana-meter crystal… a pouch of low-tier clear crystals… then a whole list of books, a lot of potion ingredients… and one Hogwarts-approved magical creature. Optional."
"Ugh, my head is spinning already…" Ciri groaned, staring at her own list like it had personally offended her. "Can't you just buy all of this for us, Triss? Just tell me the total later and I'll pay. Please?" she said with a bright, hopeful smile.
"Nope. Absolutely not." Triss smirked. "You two decided to attend Hogwarts—you're going to suffer the shopping like everyone else. And starting next year, you'll be doing all this on your own."
Ciri gasped dramatically.
"You're heartless."
"That, my dear, is absolutely true," Triss said cheerfully, grabbing her by the arm. "Now come on—first stop, Flourish and Blotts. They should have all your first-year books."
Ciri groaned but allowed herself to be dragged along.
Aren, however, was practically buzzing. He didn't care how long this would take—hours, a whole day, two days, even a week. He would happily explore every inch of this place.
After all…
this was Diagon Alley.
A place he had only ever visited in stories—
and now he was standing inside it, for real.
For the first time in two lifetimes, Aren felt it:
Magic wasn't something he dreamed about anymore.
It was finally within reach.