"Can British pounds be used in the magical world?"
"You can exchange Muggle currency for Galleons at Gringotts Wizarding Bank. The current exchange rate is roughly five pounds to one Galleon. However, there are strict limits to prevent economic disruption; the maximum you can exchange at one time is exactly one hundred Galleons," Professor McGonagall explained smoothly. Having handled Muggle-born admissions for years, she was intimately familiar with the financial logistics. Privately, she doubted the orphaned boy possessed much in the way of savings, assuming he merely had a meager stash of pocket money he wished to convert.
"Ah, I see. In that case, I actually have plenty of money," Alan noted with a faint smirk. Under Professor McGonagall's utterly bewildered gaze, he casually reached into his pocket and produced a remarkably thick, tightly rolled wad of British pound notes. Relying on the street-savvy habits he had developed while managing his orphanage gang's black-market funds, he flipped through the bills with practiced, rapid ease. "Yes, this should be more than enough. The extra cash can go toward buying a few other essentials on the way back."
Recovering from her surprise, Professor McGonagall led Alan out of the orphanage and swiftly turned down a nearby, deserted alleyway. "Under normal circumstances, I would escort you to Diagon Alley utilizing conventional Muggle transportation or the Knight Bus. However, the magical world is rather... unsettled at the moment. For our safety and efficiency, I am afraid you will simply have to endure traveling with me via Apparition."
With that, Professor McGonagall drew her elegant wooden wand and offered her free arm. "Come along now. Take hold of my arm tightly, Alan."
Alan firmly grasped her sleeve. With his past experiences as a soldier, that specific phrasing usually meant one thing: armed conflict or violent civil unrest.
Before he could ponder it further, a sharp, resounding *crack* echoed through the alley, and both Professor McGonagall and Alan vanished entirely from the spot.
"Ugh!" The absolute second Alan materialized at their destination, he violently stumbled forward, slamming his palms against a rough brick wall as a wave of intense nausea washed over him. He couldn't help but dry-heave. The physical sensation was absolutely horrific—it felt as though he had been abruptly shoved into a pitch-black washing machine set to the most violent spin cycle, while immense, claustrophobic pressure inexplicably squeezed him from head to toe. For a fleeting, terrifying moment during the transit, Alan had even hallucinated that his entire body was being forcefully compacted into the size of a golf ball.
"My sincere apologies. I did not feel particularly well the first time I underwent this method of magical travel either," Professor McGonagall said sympathetically. She extended her wand toward the hunched boy. A soft, warm stream of silver light flowed continuously from the tip of the wood, gradually merging into Alan's body and rapidly soothing his turbulent stomach.
Fortunately, Alan maintained exceptional physical fitness and possessed a highly disciplined sense of equilibrium from his rigorous martial arts training. Taking several deep, measured breaths, he quickly managed to regain his composure and stood upright.
'So, this is how high-level magic operates?' Alan inwardly complained, wiping a bead of cold sweat from his forehead. 'Why does it feel so violently different from the smooth transitions I imagined? Isn't it a bit primitive to crush someone through space instead of just opening a stable, magical portal for teleportation?' Despite his intense internal critique, his facial expression remained composed and stoic.
"Where exactly are we heading next, Professor?" Alan asked, his voice steady. "Do we need to undergo that teleportation process again?"
"That was not just teleportation ; it is officially known as Apparition and Disapparition. It is the most common form of travel magic utilized by fully qualified adult wizards. You will be taught how to perform it safely during your seventh year at Hogwarts," she corrected gently. "And you need not worry. We have already arrived."
Professor McGonagall led Alan out of the shadowy alleyway where they had materialized. After walking down a bustling London street for a short distance, they stopped right between a vibrant Muggle record shop and an unassuming bookstore. Alan, who had been sharply observing his new surroundings the entire time, immediately noticed a glaring anomaly. Sandwiched between the two modern shops stood an incredibly shabby, dilapidated pub with a dark, medieval aesthetic. It looked completely alien compared to the neighboring storefronts, yet the dense crowds of pedestrians walking past seemed to completely ignore its existence, their eyes sliding right over the grimy exterior.
"Can none of these people see this pub?" Alan asked, genuinely perplexed.
"An excellent observation, Alan. This establishment is heavily fortified with powerful Muggle-Repelling Charms and various concealment enchantments. Muggles simply cannot perceive the Leaky Cauldron," Professor McGonagall explained as she confidently guided Alan toward the heavy wooden door.
"Professor, what exactly do you mean by the term 'Muggle'? You've mentioned it a few times now. Does it merely refer to ordinary people who lack the ability to use magic?" Alan asked. He vaguely remembered watching fragments of the *Harry Potter* films in his previous life, but now that he was actually standing in this reality, he realized he possessed virtually no practical common knowledge of how this society functioned.
"Precisely, Alan. We generally refer to ordinary individuals who do not believe in magic, or rather, non-magical humans, as Muggles. Due to the strict enforcement of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, the global Muggle population remains entirely unaware of our hidden existence."
Professor McGonagall's lips tightened into a thin, grim line. Given the current, violent state of the British magical world, she couldn't help but privately fret over whether the fragile Statute of Secrecy would even manage to survive the coming years intact.
"Is that so? Then my parents must have been Muggles as well," Alan noted thoughtfully. He thought back to the sparse records he had uncovered at the welfare home regarding his birth parents, who had tragically passed away shortly after he was born. He had investigated their backgrounds previously and hadn't found a single unusual detail; they were completely ordinary, working-class citizens. Alan had always logically attributed his bizarre magical talents entirely to the metaphysical anomaly of his reincarnation.
"It is highly possible that one of your distant ancestors was a wizard or a witch. The magical gene can lay dormant for generations. Of course, children possessing immense magical talent can also be born spontaneously to completely non-magical parents. Hogwarts' primary responsibility is to teach young individuals like yourself how to properly control and refine that inherent magic."
Alan and Professor McGonagall continued their conversation as they stepped through the door and entered the pub. The interior of the Leaky Cauldron was exceedingly dim, shabby, and unkempt, suffering from terribly poor lighting and a pervasive layer of grime. A long, scarred wooden counter dominated the room, while a scattering of sticky tables sat half-hidden in the deep shadows of the corners.
Moreover, the establishment didn't seem to be enjoying much business. The hunched pub owner stood entirely alone behind the counter, silently and meticulously wiping down a dirty glass with a rag.
"Tom, how has business been lately?" Professor McGonagall asked, her tone indicating a long-standing familiarity with the aging bartender.
"What can I honestly say, Minerva? Things are just getting increasingly chaotic out there," Tom sighed heavily, his voice weary. "Just last night, a squad of Aurors clashed violently with *them* down in Knockturn Alley. The resulting magical explosions were so intense they nearly shattered every glass I own in here. Making an honest living is just getting harder and harder..." Tom rambled on, complaining non-stop as if he hadn't had a friendly soul to speak with in weeks.
"That is quite enough, Tom. We have a young gentleman present," Professor McGonagall interrupted firmly, cutting off his grim tirade.
"Ah, a new first-year student about to enroll?" Tom finally glanced over at Alan, his expression softening slightly. He clearly didn't find the sight of a young Muggle-born wizard unusual.
"Hello, sir. It is a pleasure to meet you," Alan stated clearly. Relying on the strict discipline and respect for hierarchy ingrained in him from his past life, he maintained a perfectly polite and respectful facade.
"Best hurry along inside, lad. The streets simply won't be safe once the sun goes down," Tom offered a kind, albeit ominous, reminder, clearly charmed by the boy's impeccable manners.
Professor McGonagall offered the bartender a curt nod of gratitude and promptly led Alan through the shadowy bar, stepping out into a small, walled courtyard positioned directly behind the Leaky Cauldron. "Just beyond this wall lies Diagon Alley. This is the primary commercial district where you will purchase all of your necessary school supplies for the foreseeable future. Watch my movements very carefully, Alan; you will have to navigate your way back here entirely on your own in the coming weeks."
"By firmly tapping a very specific brick on this wall with your wand—you must count three bricks up from the trash bin, and then two bricks across—you can grant yourself entry."
With deliberate precision, Professor McGonagall drew her wand and firmly tapped the exact brick she had indicated. Following her strike, the originally solid, dilapidated brick wall began to miraculously vibrate. The bricks flipped, folded, and shifted over one another in a mesmerizing architectural dance, gradually parting in the center to form a tall, wide archway.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley, Alan."
Alan's mouth fell slightly agape. He stood perfectly still and watched the impossible scene unfold, his analytical mind growing increasingly fascinated by the sheer limitless potential of this magical world. Looking directly past the newly formed archway, his eyes were met with a winding, bustling street paved with uneven cobblestones, flanked on both sides by a dizzying array of bizarre, colorful shops.
However, as Alan's tactical gaze swept over the environment, he quickly noticed that Diagon Alley wasn't nearly as bustling or vibrant as the stories usually implied. Several storefronts on either side of the street were heavily boarded up and permanently closed. Furthermore, there were numerous grim-faced pedestrians clad in heavy, dark trench coats actively patrolling the center of the road. Their vigilant posture and constantly shifting eyes suggested they definitely weren't casual shoppers; they moved with the distinct, coordinated grace of military personnel on active guard duty.
"Professor, those individuals in the trench coats don't exactly look like ordinary customers browsing for cauldrons. Could they be..." Alan voiced his immediate tactical observation. Combining this visual evidence with the highly concerning conversation he had just overheard between Professor McGonagall and Tom the bartender, a stark, foreboding realization was rapidly forming in his mind. This society was actively at war.
"Those men and women are Aurors—highly trained dark-wizard catchers employed by the Ministry of Magic to maintain order and public safety," Professor McGonagall explained, her voice dropping to a serious register. "The magical world has not been very peaceful as of late. However, because this remains the most prominent and heavily populated commercial street in wizarding Britain, it is still heavily guarded and very safe. They are merely on routine patrol duty. And you must not worry, Alan. You will be entirely safe once you are within the walls of Hogwarts. You have my solemn promise on that!"