Raven walked beside Tom through the Leaky Cauldron, the lingering scent of smoke and butterbeer clinging to the stone walls. She glanced down at the small card in her hand, the one she'd pulled from the Chocolate Frog box. "Hey, Tom, what is this?" she asked, turning it over in her fingers.
Tom chuckled as he peered at the card. "Oh, you got your wizard card. Let's see…" He leaned slightly to get a better look. "Wow, that's Dumbledore. That's a rare one."
Raven lifted her brow slightly. "Dumbledore? That's the headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, right?"
Tom nodded. "Exactly. Albus Dumbledore. He's the one in charge of the school."
He added, "The deputy headmistress is Professor Minerva McGonagall."
Raven tilted her head. "Can you tell me a little more about Dumbledore?"
Tom straightened slightly and listed off his titles without ceremony. "Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards. Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Order of Merlin, First Class. Renowned alchemist. Oh, and he's famous for defeating the dark wizard Grindelwald."
Raven listened quietly, then said, "That sounds like a lot of fancy titles." She turned the card in her fingers. "Oh… it's all written on the back, too."
As she walked, she reflected silently. These people have built an entire culture around magical commodities and prestige. It's a very different use of magic—status, hierarchy, and tradition—rather than power for survival or domination like in my world.
Tom stopped in front of a brick wall tucked behind the bar. "This is it, Raven Cross. Diagon Alley."
He gestured to the bricks. "Remember this pattern well."
Tom tapped three bricks up, then two across to the right. The stone rippled and shuddered, bricks folding inward and pulling apart with an earthy grinding sound.
"In the future, you can open it yourself," he added. "No need to find me."
Raven nodded respectfully. "I'll remember, sir."
The last stone clicked, and the enchanted archway opened fully, revealing a bustling, sunlit street beyond. Narrow shops, stacked oddly against each other, rose on both sides of a twisting cobblestone alley.
She stepped forward and paused at the threshold, her eyes narrowing. This entire area is layered with concealment charms. And the spatial fold is holding—this isn't just hidden, it's expanded. A pocket space hidden from non-magical eyes.
She spoke aloud. "This place isn't visible from the outside at all."
Tom chuckled lightly behind her. "Diagon Alley is one of the oldest wizarding districts in London."
He stopped just inside the archway. "I'll leave you to your shopping. I'm sure you have your list."
Then he offered a quiet warning. "And avoid Knockturn Alley."
Raven looked at him curiously, and he elaborated, "It's a dangerous place. Full of dark witches, wizards, and shady trade. Stay clear of it."
She offered a polite, measured smile. "No problem, sir."
Tom gave her a brief nod, the lines of his face relaxing. "That's my girl." With a small wave, he stepped back through the archway. The bricks behind him began sliding into place, sealing the entrance shut with a hollow rumble.
Now alone in Diagon Alley, Raven let her gaze drift down the long stretch of magical shops and colorful signs. The air was alive with movement—fluttering owls, floating packages, robes sweeping past her, and strange instruments ticking in shop windows.
She extended her senses and felt it at once—dense magical currents laced through the street, enchantments embedded in the very stones, charm work interwoven across every storefront and lantern post. The structure is impressive, she thought. But the application is crude. Compared to Trigon's dimensional sorcery, this is paint over canvas—powerful, yes, but grounded in tools and rules.
She felt her growing magical energy core pulse in resonance with the ambient energy. It was faint but present—her connection to Trigon.
Dimensional manipulation… reality corruption… demonic sorcery… energy domination across planes, she listed silently. If Trigon has no physical presence in this world, then that power might be unclaimed. Residual—but available.
She let the awareness settle, then turned her focus to the street. Her eyes passed over several key locations she recognized.
To her left, a crooked wooden sign read: Ollivanders – Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.
Farther down, the glittering windows of a bookstore shimmered beneath golden letters: Flourish and Blotts.
Nearby stood Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, its mannequins frozen mid-pose in enchanted robes.
And beyond them, looming like a white fortress: Gringotts Wizarding Bank, its entrance guarded by stern goblins with sharp eyes.
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