Harry's heart raced as he walked briskly down Charing Cross Road, his cap pulled low and his eyes scanning the busy street. He had no idea what he was looking for, but he trusted he'd know it when he saw it. The bustle of London was both exhilarating and overwhelming, but Harry kept his focus, weaving through the crowds with purpose.
He'd been walking for several minutes when something caught his eye. A man in robes—not the sort of robes you'd see in a church or at a fancy event, but proper robes like the man in Mrs. Figg's had worn. The fabric was dark and heavy, and the man moved with an air of confidence, as though he belonged there despite his unusual attire.
Harry slowed his pace, staying several steps behind the man. He murmured his Veil of Shadows spell under his breath, feeling the familiar shiver as the magic took hold.
The man walked with purpose, his robes swishing around his ankles as he navigated the busy street. Harry followed, careful to keep his distance. He wasn't sure where the man was going, but he had a feeling it was somewhere important.
After a few minutes, the man turned sharply and stepped into the doorway of a shabby, nondescript building. Harry stopped in his tracks, staring at the sign above the door. It read: The Leaky Cauldron in faded, peeling letters. The building itself looked old and run-down, the sort of place most people wouldn't give a second glance.
Harry watched as the man opened the door and stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him, and for a moment, Harry was left standing on the pavement, unsure of what to do. He glanced around, noticing that no one else on the street seemed to have paid any attention to the man or the strange building.
For several minutes, Harry lingered near the entrance, pretending to study a nearby shop window. He watched as people passed by, their gazes sliding right over the Leaky Cauldron as though it wasn't there. A group of tourists stopped to consult a map, standing directly in front of the door without acknowledging it. It was as though the building didn't exist in their world.
Harry's curiosity burned. This had to be it—the gateway to the magical world. He'd overheard Mrs. Figg talking about meeting someone outside the Leaky Cauldron, and now he'd found it. But what was inside? Was it a pub, like the name suggested? Or was it something more?
He shifted closer to the doorway, trying to get a better look without drawing attention to himself. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and a young woman stepped out. She was dressed in a long cloak, her arms full of parcels wrapped in brown paper. She glanced up and down the street before hurrying off in the opposite direction.
Harry's gaze returned to the door. He wanted desperately to go inside, but he hesitated. He wasn't sure what he'd find, and the idea of stepping into the unknown was both thrilling and terrifying. What if someone noticed him? What if they realized he didn't belong?
Instead, he decided to wait and watch a little longer. He leaned against a nearby lamppost, keeping the Leaky Cauldron in his peripheral vision. Over the next hour, he saw several more people enter and exit the building, all of them dressed in robes or cloaks. Some carried shopping bags or bundles, while others appeared empty-handed. None of them seemed to notice Harry, and none of the ordinary passersby seemed to notice them.
As the afternoon wore on, Harry's mind raced with questions. Was this where Mrs. Figg was planning to meet her buyer? Did the people going in and out of the Leaky Cauldron know about the magical world he'd glimpsed? And most importantly, how could he get inside without being noticed?
Harry's stomach growled, reminding him that he'd skipped lunch. He glanced at his watch, realizing he didn't have much time left before the school group would notice his absence. Reluctantly, he turned away from the Leaky Cauldron and started back toward the British Museum, his mind still buzzing with thoughts of what he'd seen.
That night, as Harry lay in his cupboard, he replayed the day's events in his mind. The Leaky Cauldron was real. The magical world was real. And he was closer than ever to discovering it.
~
The sweltering July heat marked the end of school and the beginning of the summer holidays. For most children, it was a time of adventure and excitement, but for Harry Potter, it was a season of isolation and chores. This year, however, fate seemed to be conspiring to give him an unexpected opportunity.
It started with Mrs. Figg. Harry was locked in his cupboard, attempting to balance one of his battered books on the edge of the shelf, when he overheard her voice drifting through the open kitchen window.
"A month-long cruise! I haven't had a proper holiday in years," Mrs. Figg was saying, her tone giddy. "The Mediterranean, no less. But, of course, I'll need someone to look after my cats."
Harry could almost hear the pause as she awaited an answer.
"Well," Aunt Petunia said, in a tone that sounded reluctant but calculating, "I suppose I could manage. Dudders loves your cats, after all."
Harry smirked at this. Dudley was terrified of Mrs. Figg's cats and avoided them like the plague. Harry knew his aunt was angling for some favour or payment.
"Thank you, dear," Mrs. Figg said. "I'll leave you the key and instructions tomorrow morning."
Harry's mind raced. If Mrs. Figg was away, her house would be empty. This might be the perfect chance to investigate her oddities further. The memory of the kneazles and her fireplace conversation came rushing back.
That evening, when Uncle Vernon returned from work, Harry was forced to squeeze himself deeper into his cupboard as the heavy thudding of Vernon's footsteps approached. He braced himself for the usual complaints about his existence, but Vernon's tone was surprisingly cheerful.
"Petunia! Dudley! Big news!" Vernon bellowed. "Pack your bags; we're going to America!"
A delighted shriek from Dudley followed. Aunt Petunia's voice was more measured. "Vernon, that sounds wonderful, but what about… the boy?"
Vernon snorted dismissively. "He's not coming with us, that's for sure, the company will only cover two rooms and I'm not letting that freak stay with Dudley. Just leave him here. Let him mind the house."
Harry was suddenly glad that they've developed more of an aversion to him since he started using his veil spell, he could only feel hopeful that his aunt agrees.
"But I told Mrs. Figg I'd look after her cats, I only said yes because I needed her to watch the boy if we went on holiday," Petunia said, concern creeping into her voice.
"Then let the boy do that too," Vernon replied, his voice laced with derision. "If he doesn't, he'll regret it when we get back."
Aunt Petunia hesitated, then sniffed. "Fine. But you'll make sure he knows the consequences if anything goes wrong."
"Oh, I will," Vernon said darkly. "He'll know."
Okay, maybe I should use the spell more often around Vernon, he thought, slightly worried at his Uncles malicious tone.
Harry's stomach twisted at the thought of being left behind, but a flicker of something else—a strange, tentative hope—surfaced as well. If the Dursleys were gone, he'd have freedom. Real freedom.
The next morning, Mrs. Figg arrived with a basket of cat food and a long list of instructions. Harry watched through the small vent in his cupboard as she handed Aunt Petunia a heavy brass key.
"If you need anything," Mrs. Figg said, "you can always reach me through the travel agency. I'll be back on the 16th"
Petunia plastered on a saccharine smile. "I'm sure it'll be no trouble at all."
Mrs. Figg turned to Harry, who had been summoned from his cupboard to haul the basket to the kitchen. She gave him a knowing look, her lips twitching into something that looked like satisfaction. But then she simply nodded and left.
Two days later, the Dursleys were packed and ready to leave. Aunt Petunia spent the morning shrieking at Harry about cleanliness and order.
"We'll be back in three weeks, boy, you're not to leave for anything other than Figgs and you're not to talk to anyone," Vernon growled as he hefted his suitcase into the car. "If the house isn't spotless, if a single thing goes wrong, you'll wish you were never born."
Dudley, grinning like a pig in clover, gave Harry a parting shove before clambering into the car. The engine roared, and with a squeal of tires, the Dursleys were gone.
Harry stood in the doorway, staring at the empty street. He couldn't believe it. For the first time in years, he was alone.
He stepped back inside, closing the door behind him. The house was eerily quiet. For a moment, he simply stood there, revelling in the silence. Then his stomach growled, reminding him of a more immediate problem.
He opened the fridge and surveyed its contents. His heart sank. A block of hard cheese, a few sad-looking carrots, and a handful of cans and a loaf of bread were all that remained. It was clear the Dursleys had deliberately left him as little as possible.
Harry's jaw tightened. He wasn't going to let them ruin this for him. He'd make do. He always did. He'd just have to dig into the money that he borrowed from Petunias purse.
After a quick and uninspired meal, Harry turned his attention to Mrs. Figg's house. He fetched the key from the counter and slipped it into his pocket. The Dursleys had made it clear he wasn't to leave the house unnecessarily, but Harry wasn't about to let that stop him.
Under the cover of dusk, he made his way across the street. Mrs. Figg's house was as eccentric inside as it was outside. The living room was cluttered with mismatched furniture, doilies, and framed pictures of her cats. The air smelled faintly of cabbage and mothballs.
Harry locked the door behind him and began to explore. He checked the kitchen, the sitting room, and the study, but found nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn't until he reached the spare bedroom that he stumbled upon something intriguing.
The wardrobe in the corner was slightly ajar, and inside, Harry found a collection of books. They weren't the kind of books he'd expected to find in Mrs. Figg's house—there were no romance novels or gardening guides. Instead, the titles were strange and cryptic: Magical Theory, A Compendium of Common Curses, and Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them.
Harry's hands trembled as he pulled out the books, one by one. He flipped through the pages, his eyes widening at the illustrations and diagrams. It was real. All of it. Mrs. Figg wasn't just an eccentric old woman—she was connected to the magical world.
He spent hours pouring over the books, losing himself in their contents. The spells were complex, the potions intricate, but Harry was determined to understand. This was his chance to learn more about who he was—what he was.
The next few days passed in a blur of study and experimentation. Harry divided his time between caring for Mrs. Figg's cats, sneaking food from her pantry, and practicing spells in the privacy of her house. He focused on small, simple things—a spell called Lumos—but each success filled him with a sense of accomplishment.
He sat cross-legged on the worn rug of Mrs. Figg's spare bedroom, the book titled Magical Theory propped open on his knees. A beam of late-afternoon sunlight illuminated the curling pages, and dust motes floated lazily in the golden light. Harry barely noticed them; his entire focus was on the words before him.
The opening chapter explained the basics: magic, according to the text, was an innate force that wizards and witches could channel. The book compared it to a river that could be diverted and shaped by the mind and will of its caster. A wand, the author argued, was the tool that made this process precise and efficient.
"Most witches and wizards struggle to channel raw magic without a wand," Harry read aloud. "The wand serves as a conduit, focusing the magical energy and allowing for greater control."
Harry frowned and leaned back against the wall. He'd never had a wand, yet he'd managed to levitate objects and even create fire in his hand. Was the book wrong? Or was he somehow different?
He flipped the page and found a passage on accidental magic. According to the text, young witches and wizards often performed magic unconsciously in moments of strong emotion. The author assured readers that with proper training and a wand, such chaotic displays could be channelled into purposeful spells.
"So it's all about control," Harry murmured, thinking back to the Old Snake's advice. The serpent had emphasized the importance of focus and intent, of drawing energy from within and shaping it with clear purpose.
He recalled the first time he'd successfully levitated his toy soldier. It hadn't been fear or anger that drove him then—it was curiosity and determination. He'd wanted to prove to himself that he could do it.
Harry turned another page and found a diagram of a wand. It detailed the wood, the core, and how these elements worked together to channel magic. The author described the wand as an "extension of the self," but Harry found himself sceptical. If wands were so essential, how had he managed without one?
For the next hour, Harry read voraciously, taking in every detail about spellcasting, magical theory, and the supposed limitations of wandless magic. But the more he read, the more questions he had. He began to wonder if the author—or the magical world itself—had underestimated what was possible without a wand.
Later that evening, Harry sat on the floor of Mrs. Figg's sitting room, multiple candles in front of him. The Old Snake's words echoed in his mind: You are your magic. The tool does not make the power.
He closed his eyes and focused, just as he had learned to do with levitation. He imagined the flame in his hand, feeling the heat and energy of it. The spark within him seemed to stir, a warm, thrumming sensation that spread from his chest to his fingertips.
When he opened his eyes, the flame in his hand was strong and he had to focus hard when he separated the flame to shoot sparks onto the candle wicks. It was slow but suddenly the fire flared and 4 sparks separated lighting the candles in front of him.
A grin spread across his face. He didn't need a wand. He didn't need anything but himself.
~
Harry's discoveries about magic consumed most of his time, but he couldn't shake his curiosity about Mrs. Figg. The books in her wardrobe had been a revelation, but they raised as many questions as they answered. Who was she, really? And why did she have such an interest in magic if she wasn't a wand waver?
One evening, while tidying up her cluttered study, Harry stumbled upon a wooden box tucked behind a stack of dusty books. It was locked, but the latch was old and brittle. He has been learning the Alohomora spell the last few days, practicing it on his cupboard with some success, so focusing on the lock he muttered a quick application of the spell, and it snapped the brittle lock open.
Inside were stacks of yellowed letters tied with string. Harry hesitated, guilt gnawing at him, but curiosity won out. He untied the top bundle and unfolded the first letter.
Dear Arabella,
I was sorry to hear about your new assignment. What a dreadful business! Fancy them ordering you to spy on a child. And not just any child—the boy who lived! I'd say no, but we both know that HE doesn't take no for an answer. Still, it's a disgrace. I'm sure the boy's a nightmare. They always are, without proper discipline.
Yours,
E.
Harry's hands trembled as he set the letter aside. Spy on a child? Could they mean him? What did it mean by the boy who lived? He grabbed another letter and began to read.
Arabella,
I've sold three of the "kneazle" kittens to that fool in Diagon Alley. He paid full price, can you believe it? Thinks they're purebred! If only he knew the father was Muggle stray. It's almost too easy. You should see the looks on their faces when I hand them over—like they're getting something precious. Idiots.
Speaking of idiots, how's the boy? Still feral, I assume? Honestly, it's lucky his aunt and uncle keep him in hand. Someone has to. I'd say let them keep him forever, but we know that's not possible.
Best,
E.
Harry's face burned with anger. The letters painted a picture of someone who despised him, who thought of him as a burden and a nuisance. And worse, Mrs. Figg seemed to share these views.
He pulled out another letter, this one written in a sharper, angrier hand.
E,
I've had enough of their high-handed ways. Cast out for being a squib, yet they expect me to serve their interests like some house-elf. Spying, cat-breeding, pretending to care about their wretched world. Do they think I'm grateful for the scraps they throw me?
I hate them all. And I hate him. That boy—that reminder of everything they took from us. I do my duty because I have to, but don't think for a second I'll ever care about him. He's their kind, not ours.
Arabella
Harry dropped the letter as if it had burned him. The words blurred as tears filled his eyes. He'd always thought Mrs. Figg was odd, but he'd never suspected she hated him. The realisation was like a blow to the gut. The letter was clearly meant to be sent this week but judging by the date, Figgs holiday interfered.
He sat back, the letters scattered around him, and tried to make sense of it all. Mrs. Figg's bitterness, her disdain for the magical world, and her loathing for him—it all stemmed from being a squib. Someone born into a magical family but without magic of their own.
And yet, despite her hatred, she still watched over him. Was it bribery? Obligation? Harry didn't know, and he wasn't sure he wanted to.
The next morning, Harry returned the letters to the box and replaced it on the shelf. He couldn't stop thinking about what he'd read, but he forced himself to focus on his studies. If Mrs. Figg's world didn't want him, he'd find his own way. He'd carve out his place with his own hands—and his own magic.
I don't need anyone anyway, I can look after myself! Harry thought to himself.
~
Harry stood in the overgrown backyard of the Dursley house, his hands stretched out in front of him as he concentrated on the fire in his palm. Flick, the small snake who had become his constant companion, coiled comfortably around his wrist, her scales gleaming in the afternoon light.
"Focussss," Flick hissed. "Feel the warmth within. The fire isss not jussst heat; it isss will. Command it."
Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air felt alive against his skin, and he could feel the spark of energy inside him, a flicker that was steadily growing stronger. He imagined the warmth expanding, making the flame bigger, shaping it into a circle. When he opened his eyes, a flame danced in his palm, large and exactly as he pictured it.
"Got it," he whispered, grinning.
"You are learning," Flick said approvingly. "The Mother'sss giftsss grow with you."
For months, Harry had been practicing the elements. Fire had come first—a natural extension of the sparks he had learned to summon months ago. Now, he was experimenting with water, trying to manipulate a bowl of it into shapes. He hadn't quite mastered it yet, but he was making progress.
The more he practiced, the easier the two elements came to him. Controlling the water was a lot easier than the fire but they both came from him, it made it easier somehow. Whereas fire that came from, say a lighter was much harder to control.
Gathering Flick and his supplies he made his way inside the house.
Harry sat at the table with a battered notebook he'd taken from the school's lost-and-found. He had filled its pages with notes and sketches about magic. He recorded everything he learned, from his own experiments to the advice Flick offered. The notebook had become his most prized possession, a roadmap to a life he was beginning to build for himself.
One spell, from one of Figgs books, had become his favourite: Alohomora. The unlocking charm had been detailed in a book he'd found in Mrs. Figg's collection, and Harry had practiced it on everything from the cupboard door to the rusty padlock on the shed in the backyard. Each success gave him a thrill of accomplishment and a sense of freedom.
But freedom required more than just magic. It required resources.
Harry's mind often wandered to Diagon Alley. One of Mrs. Figg's books had mentioned it in passing: a bustling marketplace for witches and wizards, hidden somewhere in London. Another book had hinted at Gringotts, a bank where muggleborns exchanged money for gold and stored their fortunes in underground vaults.
He needed to get there, but he'd need money first. Real money. And he knew exactly where to find it.
~
The Polkiss house was quiet when Harry slipped in through the side door. He'd used Alohomora to unlock it, the spell working with a soft click. He crept through the darkened kitchen, past the spotless counters and gleaming appliances, and up the stairs. He didn't have to be quiet, knowing the family was on holiday but he still wanted to be careful.
Piers Polkiss had bragged about his parents' safe more times than Harry could count. "Dad keeps loads of cash in there," Piers had once boasted. "Says it's for emergencies, but Mum's always dipping into it for her shopping sprees."
Harry pushed open the door to the master bedroom and went looking for the safe. It was tucked into the back of the closet, a large but sturdy box with a dial lock. Kneeling in front of it, he took a deep breath and focused.
You can do this, he told himself. He whispered the incantation for Alohomora, his voice steady and deliberate. He listened as the grinding of the dial came to a halt and the lock clicked open.
Inside were neat stacks of bills, bound with rubber bands. Harry's hands shook as he reached in and took a handful. He hesitated, guilt prickling at the edges of his mind, but he shoved it aside. This wasn't about greed. This was about survival. About freedom.
And they were nearly as bad as the Dursleys, he thought trying to justify his actions.
He stuffed the money into his pocket and carefully closed the safe, rubbing over where his fingerprints had been. As he slipped out of the house, heart pounding, he reminded himself of his goal: Diagon Alley.
When he finally made it to the safety of his cupboard, Harry counted the money. It was more than he'd expected—enough to exchange for wizarding currency and still have plenty left over for supplies.
He spent the next few days pouring over his notebook, adding new sections about Diagon Alley. He listed everything he'd learned from Mrs. Figg's books: the types of shops, the customs, the items he might need. He even sketched out a rough plan for navigating the area, complete with notes on how to avoid drawing attention to himself.
Flick watched him with an approving gaze. "You are preparing well," she said. "But do not forget your training. The Mother'sss giftsss will guide you, but only if you nurture them."
Harry nodded. He'd keep practicing. Fire, water, unlocking spells—they were all tools he could use to carve out his place in the world. And soon, he'd have the means to step into the magical world on his terms.
~
Harry's days alone at Privet Drive stretched out like a strange, liberating eternity.
Until he ran out of food that is.
Harry's first stop was the supermarket. He pulled on his baseball cap and an oversized hoodie he'd found in the cupboard.
He moved quickly through the aisles, picking up the basics: bread, cheese, some apples, sandwich meats and a carton of milk. He avoided the cashier by using the self-checkout machines, fumbling only slightly with the unfamiliar process. As he left the store, his bag of supplies slung over one shoulder, he then headed for the charity shop. His clothes were a constant source of discomfort; Dudley's cast-offs hung on him like sacks, and he was tired of tripping over too-long trousers. The shop was small and crammed with racks of second-hand clothes, but Harry didn't mind. He slipped inside, and searched for clothes his size.
He picked out a few items: a pair of jeans that actually fit, a plain T-shirt, and a sturdy jacket. He even found a pair of trainers that, while slightly worn, were far better than the battered shoes he'd been wearing. He paid for his purchases in cash, the woman behind the counter barely glancing at him as she handed over his change.
As Harry walked back toward Privet Drive, a strange sensation prickled at the edge of his awareness. It felt like being watched, though when he glanced around, the streets were empty. Flick, curled around his wrist beneath his sleeve, stirred.
"You feel it too?" Harry whispered.
"Yesss," Flick hissed. "Eyes upon usss. Be cautiousss."
Harry's heart quickened. He ducked into an alleyway, pressing his back against the wall. He closed his eyes and focused, extending his senses outward. It was something Flick had taught him—to feel the threads of energy around him, the subtle currents of life and magic.
There it was: a faint ripple, like a shadow moving just beyond the edge of his vision. Whoever was watching him was skilled, but not skilled enough to avoid detection. Harry tightened his grip on his bag and made a decision. He couldn't lead them back to Privet Drive. Not yet. Not when he was alone.
For the next hour, Harry wove through Little Whinging's streets, taking detours and doubling back in an attempt to shake his pursuer. He slipped through parks, darted down alleys, and even hopped a fence into someone's backyard. The sensation of being watched faded and then returned, like the ebb and flow of a tide.
Finally, he reached a small, wooded area on the edge of town. Harry crouched behind a cluster of bushes, his breath coming in quick bursts. "Whoever you are," he muttered, "you're not catching me."
Flick hissed in agreement. "They will not sssee what is hidden. The Mother'sss giftsss will protect usss."
Harry cast the veil spell again, layering it with as much intent as he could muster. He waited, his body tense, until the feeling of being watched gradually faded. Whoever had been following him had given up—for now.
Now back at Privet Drive, Harry unpacked his purchases in the quiet of the kitchen. He stored the food carefully, making sure to leave no trace that might alert the Dursleys upon their return. Then he took his new clothes to his cupboard, changing into the jeans and T-shirt with a sense of relief. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt comfortable.
But the incident with the pursuer lingered in his mind. Someone had been watching him, and it wasn't the first time he'd felt that eerie sensation. Could it be Mrs. Figg's friends? Wizards? Or was it something else entirely?
Harry resolved to be more cautious. He couldn't afford to be careless, not when he was so close to achieving his goals. That night Harry fell into an uneasy sleep.
~ Mundungus POV ~
Mundungus Fletcher leaned against a lamppost, scratching the back of his neck as he squinted down Privet Drive. He'd always hated these kinds of jobs—boring, thankless tasks that had him lurking in neighbourhoods where everything looked painfully neat and orderly. But Arabella Figg had asked him, and though he wasn't one to jump at doing favours, her persistence had worn him down.
"Just keep an eye on the boy while I'm gone," she'd said, her voice firm but tinged with desperation. "You don't need to get involved, just make sure he's safe."
Mundungus had grumbled, but he'd agreed. Figg had her reasons, and though he couldn't fathom why she was so desperate for the safety of a brat she hated, Fletcher didn't fancy being on the wrong side of her temper.
He spotted Harry Potter exiting the house, his small frame dwarfed by an oversized hoodie and a baseball cap pulled low over his messy hair. Mundungus yawned and adjusted his position. "Right, kid," he muttered to himself, "where're you off to now?"
Following Harry was easier than he'd expected. The boy didn't seem to notice him at first, moving purposefully down the street toward town. Mundungus kept his distance, careful to duck behind corners or blend into the crowd when Harry glanced over his shoulder. He was used to shadowing people—it was a necessary skill in his line of work—but this felt different. It wasn't a mark he was tailing, just a scrawny kid.
Still, something about the boy's movements unsettled him. Harry didn't wander aimlessly like most kids his age. He moved with intent, slipping through the streets with a quiet determination that made Mundungus' job unexpectedly challenging.
The first real problem arose near the charity shop. Harry paused, looking over his shoulder, and Mundungus froze, cursing under his breath. The boy's gaze lingered on the alleyway where Mundungus had taken cover, and for a moment, Fletcher was certain he'd been spotted. But Harry turned away and entered the shop, leaving Mundungus to wipe the sweat from his brow.
"Blimey," he muttered. "This ain't worth it."
When Harry emerged, carrying a bag, Mundungus resumed his pursuit. But the boy was moving faster now, taking unexpected turns and doubling back in ways that made Fletcher's head spin. By the time they reached the small wooded area on the edge of town, Mundungus had lost sight of him entirely.
He stood in the middle of the path, hands on his hips, scowling. "Bloody slippery little…" He trailed off, glancing around the trees. There was no sign of the boy.
Flicking his wand out of his pocket, he muttered a spell to enhance his vision. The area shimmered faintly, but there was no trace of movement. Harry Potter had well and truly given him the slip. Even the point me failed.
Mundungus' irritation quickly turned to resignation. Figg didn't need to know he'd lost the kid, did she? As far as he was concerned, the boy was fine. No harm had come to him, and Fletcher had better things to do than chase after a clever brat who clearly didn't want to be followed.
"I'll just tell her he stayed in the house, nice and quiet-like," Mundungus muttered, already thinking of the excuses he'd use when Figg returned. "Didn't see nothin' unusual. All's well, right?"
Satisfied with his decision, he pocketed his wand and turned away from the woods. There was a shipment of cursed trinkets waiting for him in Knockturn Alley, and he'd already wasted enough time playing babysitter. Figg didn't need to know he'd abandoned his post. She'd never find out, anyway. And it's not like he would waste his time watching a kid for a whole month.
With a spring in his step, Mundungus Fletcher strolled off, already planning his next deal. Watching Harry Potter might have been a bust, but there was always profit to be made elsewhere.
~ Harry ~
It had been a week since the Dursleys had left, and Harry felt more prepared than ever. His magic had grown stronger since finding the books, his knowledge deeper, and his confidence steadier. Flick coiled loosely around his wrist beneath his jacket sleeve, a comforting presence. He'd spent hours meticulously planning his journey, pouring over maps and bus routes in the library to ensure every step was accounted for.
He might have been a bit anxious since feeling that presence following him a couple of days ago, but he hadn't felt anything since.
As the morning sun peeked over Privet Drive, Harry slipped out of the house with his bag of supplies. He wore the same oversized hoodie and cap he'd used before, his clothes nondescript and his movements cautious. His money was tucked securely in his pocket, and his thoughts buzzed with anticipation.
The bus ride into London was uneventful, the hum of the engine and the quiet murmur of passengers offering a soothing background to his swirling thoughts. Harry gazed out of the window, the scenery shifting from suburban neatness to the sprawling chaos of the city. When the bus finally stopped near Charing Cross Road, Harry stepped off, his heart pounding in his chest.
Charing Cross Road was a whirlwind of noise and activity. Bookshops lined the street, their windows filled with colourful displays, and cafes spilled over with morning patrons sipping coffee and chatting. Harry weaved through the crowd, his eyes scanning for the sign of the Leaky Cauldron.
Coming across the shabby building he strode confidently towards the entrance. The door creaked as Harry pushed it open, stepping into a dimly lit room that smelled faintly of wood smoke and herbs. The pub was cosy and cluttered, with low wooden beams and mismatched furniture. The patrons were an eclectic mix of people: an elderly witch in a pointy hat nursing a cup of tea, a group of goblins huddled over a parchment, and a wizard with a long beard flipping through a dusty tome. Conversation buzzed softly, creating a strange yet welcoming atmosphere.
Behind the bar stood a bald, toothless man polishing a tankard. He looked up as Harry entered, his face breaking into a friendly grin.
"Morning, young man," he greeted, setting the tankard down. "New face, eh?"
Harry nodded, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. "Er, yes. I'm… a muggleborn," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I've read about Diagon Alley and wanted to see it for myself. Can you help me get in?"
The barman—Tom, Harry recalled from his reading—beamed. "Course I can! Always happy to help someone new. What's your name, lad?"
Harry hesitated for a split second. "Evan," he said, choosing a name at random. "Evan Birch."
"Well, Evan Birch, welcome to the Leaky Cauldron!" Tom gestured for Harry to follow him. "You're in for a treat, my boy. Diagon Alley's one of the wonders of our world."
Tom led Harry through the pub, weaving past patrons and tables until they reached a small, bricked-up courtyard at the back. Harry's eyes darted around, taking in every detail: the cracks in the bricks, the faint shimmer of magic in the air, and the worn grooves in the cobblestones underfoot.
"Now, watch closely," Tom instructed, pulling out a battered wand. He tapped the bricks in a specific sequence—three up, two across—and stepped back. The wall shuddered, and then, with a ripple of energy, the bricks folded in on themselves to reveal a bustling street beyond.
Harry's breath caught in his throat. Diagon Alley unfolded before him like a page from a storybook, a riot of colours and sounds. Shopfronts jostled for space, their signs swinging gently in the breeze: "Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands," "Flourish and Blotts," "Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions." Wizards and witches bustled about, their robes swishing as they moved between shops and stalls. Owls hooted from a nearby post office, and the scent of baked goods wafted from a bakery.
"Incredible, isn't it?" Tom said, his voice tinged with pride.
Harry nodded, barely able to tear his eyes away. "It's… amazing."
"Well, you enjoy yourself, lad. If you need any help, you know where to find me." With that, Tom clapped Harry on the shoulder and retreated back into the pub.
Harry lingered at the entrance for a moment, taking it all in. He felt a surge of excitement and determination.
He stepped into Diagon Alley, his heart racing as he took in the bustling scene. The air was alive with chatter, the jingling of coins, and the occasional squawk of an owl from the post office. The vibrant shopfronts seemed to sparkle under the sun, their signs painted in rich golds, reds, and greens. He felt like he'd walked into a completely different world.
His first priority was clear: he needed to exchange the money he'd brought into wizarding currency. He'd read enough to know that Gringotts was the place to do this. Following the directions from his books, Harry weaved his way through the crowd, his eyes wide as he passed shops selling cauldrons, potion ingredients, and spellbooks. He longed to stop and explore each one, but he forced himself to stay focused.
Gringotts stood at the end of the street, a towering white building with marble columns and large bronze doors. The sight of it took Harry's breath away. Goblins stood guard at the entrance, their sharp features and pointed ears lending them an air of authority. Harry paused, remembering what he'd read about goblins and their importance in wizarding society. They were masterful bankers, fiercely intelligent, and deeply proud.
One of the goblins caught Harry's eye as he approached. The goblin raised a thin eyebrow, clearly waiting for something. Harry hesitated, then remembered the books' emphasis on manners. He gave a small bow, lowering his head respectfully.
The goblin's expression flickered with surprise before it settled into something that might have been approval. "Welcome to Gringotts," he said in a gravelly voice. "What is your business today?"
"I'd like to exchange some Muggle money for wizarding currency," Harry replied.
The goblin nodded, stepping aside to let him in. "Proceed to the teller at the main desk."
The interior of Gringotts was even more magnificent than the outside. The marble floors gleamed, and crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling. Goblins sat behind long counters, their sharp quills scratching against parchment as they tallied sums and examined jewels. The air smelled faintly of ink and polished stone.
Harry approached one of the tellers, a goblin with a monocle perched on his long nose.
"Excuse me," Harry began, "I'd like to exchange some Muggle money."
The goblin peered down at him, his monocle glinting. "Do you have the funds with you?"
Harry nodded, pulling the wad of pound notes from his pocket and placing it on the counter. The goblin's eyes widened slightly as he thumbed through the stack.
"Three thousand pounds," the goblin murmured. "The current exchange rate is £4.93 to one Galleon. That will be six hundred and eight Galleons and 52 Sickles. Will you accept this exchange rate?"
Harry did the mental math quickly, awed at the amount and nodded. "Yes, that's fine."
The goblin snapped his fingers, and another goblin appeared with a small wooden tray. The teller counted out the coins with precision: large golden Galleons, silver Sickles, and a few smaller bronze Knuts. Each coin gleamed, and Harry couldn't help but marvel at their weight and craftsmanship.
"Your exchange is complete," the teller said, pushing the tray toward Harry. "Do you require a vault? Or you can purchase a coin bag for three Knuts"
Harry hesitated, then shook his head. "No, but I will take the coin bag please."
The goblin gave a curt nod. "Very well. To acquire the amount needed, stick your hand in the bag and think of it or say it out loud. Enjoy your visit to Diagon Alley." Leaving Harry to feel a little overwhelmed.
As Harry stepped back outside, he couldn't help but glance around, half-expecting someone to challenge him for having so much money. But the witches and wizards bustling around paid him no mind, too absorbed in their own errands.
He ducked into a quieter corner to count his coins again. The Galleons were heavier than he expected, their golden surfaces catching the sunlight. The Sickles and Knuts were smaller but just as intricately designed. Harry pocketed a few coins for easy access, leaving the rest safely stashed in his bag.
With the weight of wizarding coins jingling in his bag, Harry's excitement bubbled over as he began to explore the shops lining Diagon Alley. He decided his first stop would be the bookshop he'd seen earlier: Flourish and Blotts. Its display window had been crammed with books of all shapes and sizes, and Harry's curiosity burned to see what else lay inside.
The shop smelled of parchment and ink, a scent Harry found oddly comforting. Shelves towered from floor to ceiling, crammed with books on every subject imaginable. Titles glinted in gold, silver, and deep jewel tones, some so old their spines looked ready to crumble. A middle-aged witch in deep purple robes fussed over a display of new arrivals near the entrance.
Harry's eyes roamed over the shelves, stopping to examine a title here and there. "Practical Defensive Magic for Beginners," "The Complete Guide to Magical Etiquette," and "A Concise History of Magical Britain" all caught his attention. He added them to the growing pile in his arms.
As he moved deeper into the store, he found sections devoted to every imaginable topic: charms, potions, magical creatures, and even wizarding politics. Harry was particularly drawn to a book titled "Customs and Politics of the Modern Wizarding World" and another called "An Introduction to the Magical Hierarchies." Both seemed invaluable for understanding this new world he found himself in.
By the time Harry reached the counter, his arms were trembling under the weight of at least sixteen books. The shop assistant, a young wizard with wire-rimmed glasses, gave him a bemused look as he placed the stack down with a relieved sigh.
"Quite the selection you've got there," the assistant said, flipping through the titles. "Beginner spellbooks, magical history, politics… starting fresh, are you?"
Harry nodded. "I'm… catching up. I didn't grow up knowing about magic."
The assistant raised an eyebrow but didn't press. "Well, you've picked some good ones. That'll be nineteen Galleons and twelve Sickles."
Harry winced slightly at the cost. He'd known books wouldn't be cheap, but it still stung to see so much money disappear at once. As he dug into his pouch, the assistant glanced at the stack and added, "You might want to invest in a trunk or an enchanted bag if you're planning on carrying all these around. Can't imagine hauling these through the Alley."
Harry paused, considering. "Where would I find something like that?"
"There's a shop two doors down," the assistant said, pointing toward the window. "They specialize in enchanted luggage. Tell them we sent you, and they might give you a bit of a discount."
"Can I leave the books here so I can go get one?"
"Sure kid, better hurry before the alley gets busy!"
Harry grinned. "Thanks!" Then he was rushing out of the shop back into the alley.
The shop two doors down was smaller but no less fascinating. The sign above the door read, "Bag's Delight: Magical Luggage and More." As Harry stepped inside, a bell chimed, and a cheerful wizard with a thick beard greeted him.
"Welcome! Looking for something specific, young man?"
"I need something to carry books and maybe a few other things," Harry said, glancing around at the array of trunks, bags, and cases. "Something that's not too heavy but can hold a lot."
"Ah, I've got just the thing," the wizard said, leading Harry to a row of satchels hanging on a rack. "These here are standard enchanted bags. Light as a feather, but they can hold more than they look. This one"—he picked up a brown leather bag with brass buckles—"has a basic organisational charm. Keeps everything neat so you're not digging around for hours."
Harry examined the bag, running his fingers over the smooth leather. "What about security? I don't want anyone stealing what's inside."
The wizard nodded approvingly. "Smart lad. In that case, you'll want something with a locking charm. This one here—" He grabbed a dark green satchel with runes etched along the straps. "—has a charm that only lets the owner open it. Perfect for keeping your things safe."
"How much?" Harry asked, glancing at the price tag.
"Seven Galleons," the wizard said. "Bit more than the others, but well worth it for the extra security."
Harry hesitated. He didn't want to burn through his money too quickly, but the green satchel seemed perfect. After a moment's thought, he nodded. "I'll take it."
The wizard beamed, wrapping the bag in brown paper before handing it to Harry. "Pleasure doing business with you! And if you ever need repairs or upgrades, you know where to find us."
Back at Flourish and Blotts, Harry asked the assistant for the books and carefully loaded them into his new satchel. He was amazed by how light the bag felt, even with all sixteen books inside. It settled comfortably against his side as he adjusted the strap.
Harry couldn't wait to start reading, but he knew he'd have to pace himself. There was so much to learn, and he wanted to absorb every detail.
Clutching the strap of his new bag, Harry made his way back down the alley, his attention was caught by a dazzling display in a nearby window. Broomsticks of various shapes and sizes were propped up on stands, surrounded by posters of Quidditch players mid-air. The shop's name, Quality Quidditch Supplies, was emblazoned in gold letters above the door. Harry lingered for a moment, fascinated by the sleek designs of the brooms and the energetic images of flying players. One day, he promised himself, he'd learn more about this wizarding sport and maybe when he gets away from the Dursleys he can get a broom.
A little further down, he noticed a shop with an ornate sign that read "Occulus: Magical Optics and More." Curious, Harry peered through the window at racks of spectacles and strange instruments. He thought about going in but decided to save it for another visit.
Instead, his attention was drawn to Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. The interior of the shop was bright and inviting, with bolts of fabric in every colour imaginable stacked neatly along the walls. Harry stepped inside, marvelling at the variety of robes on display.
"Good afternoon, dear," a plump witch with a kind face said, bustling over to him. "Looking for school robes?"
Harry shook his head. "Not yet. I'm… looking for something to wear, though. Something wizarding. I don't have any robes."
Madam Malkin's expression softened. "Oh, I see. You're a little young for Hogwarts, aren't you? But you want to fit in, don't you?"
Harry nodded, feeling a little self-conscious. "Yes, please. I'm not sure what to pick."
"Not to worry! Let's find you something practical and comfortable." She led him to a fitting area, where a magical measuring tape sprang to life, taking his measurements while she selected fabrics.
"This one's durable and easy to clean," she said, holding up a deep navy robe with subtle silver trim. "And this one—" she showed him a dark green robe with simple embroidery along the sleeves—"is more formal but still practical."
After trying on a few options, Harry settled on the navy robe. Madam Malkin added a few extra touches, like a pocket with an undetectable extension charm. "For your essentials," she explained with a wink.
"How much?" Harry asked nervously.
"Ten Galleons for the robe, and a Galleon for the charm work," she said. "Would you like a matching cloak as well? It's only four Galleons extra."
Harry hesitated but decided it was worth it. "Yes, please."
Madam Malkin clapped her hands. "Excellent choice, dear. You'll look quite the young wizard."
As he left the shop, Harry felt excitement at having his own clothes. He had bought some muggle ones from the charity shop, but the robe fit perfectly, and for the first time, he truly looked like he belonged in the magical world.
Harry's exploration of Diagon Alley had been thrilling so far, but as the afternoon wore on, his stomach began to remind him of something he'd neglected in his excitement: lunch. The tantalising aroma of baked goods and something savoury wafted through the alley, and Harry's nose guided him to a cozy little cafe tucked between a potion supplies shop and a parchment emporium.
The sign above the door read "Merriweather's Magical Morsels" in curly gold script. Hesitant, Harry glanced around before stepping inside. The interior was warm and inviting, with small round tables covered in deep red tablecloths. The walls were adorned with floating candles that emitted a soft, golden glow. A few witches and wizards sat scattered across the room, chatting softly over steaming cups and plates of food.
Harry shuffled to the counter, where a cheerful witch with a kind smile greeted him. "First time here, dearie?" she asked, noting his nervous demeanour.
Harry nodded, his eyes darting around to ensure no one was paying too much attention to him. "Er, yes. What… what would you recommend?"
The witch's eyes sparkled as she leaned closer. "Well, the pumpkin pasties are fresh out of the oven, and our stew of the day is always a favourite. Comes with crusty bread, of course. How about it?"
"That sounds good," Harry said, fumbling in his pocket for some coins. He pulled out a galleon and some sickles, unsure of what the total would be. "How much is it?"
"Two sickles and three knuts for the stew, dearie. Would you like a pumpkin fizz to go with it?"
"Um, sure," Harry said, handing over the coins.
The witch handed him a small wooden token with the number "4" on it and pointed to a nearby table. "Take a seat, and we'll bring it right over."
Harry chose a table near the window, where he could keep an eye on the street outside. As he waited, he listened to the murmur of conversations around him. The other patrons seemed absorbed in their own worlds, and Harry let out a small sigh of relief. No one appeared to take any undue interest in him.
Moments later, a young wizard in an apron brought his food. The stew was rich and fragrant, with chunks of meat and vegetables swimming in a thick, savoury broth. The bread was warm and crusty, perfect for dipping. The pumpkin fizz was sweet and slightly fizzy, reminding him of a carbonated drink he'd tried once at school. As he ate, Harry's initial nerves began to fade.
He tuned into the conversations around him, curiosity getting the better of him. At a table nearby, two witches were speaking in hushed tones.
"…they say he's somewhere out there, hiding with Muggles," one of them whispered.
"Can you imagine?" the other replied. "The Boy Who Lived, growing up away from magic. It's a tragedy, really."
Harry froze mid-bite. The Boy Who Lived? Like in Figgs letters? What did that mean? He tried to look uninterested as he leaned slightly closer, hoping to catch more of their conversation.
"Well, Dumbledore must have his reasons," the first witch said, shaking her head. "Still, it's strange. You'd think he'd be in our world, preparing for the day he… well, you know."
Harry's mind raced. Who were they talking about? And why did it sound like such a big deal? And there was Dumbledores name again.
Further down the cafe, another group was discussing something equally intriguing.
"Knockturn Alley's been crawling with Aurors lately," a gruff wizard said, his voice low but gruff. "Can't even pop into Borgin and Burkes without feeling like you're being watched."
"Good," said his companion, a stern-looking witch. "That place has always been a breeding ground for trouble. If you ask me, they should shut the whole alley down."
Harry filed the information away. Knockturn Alley… another alley to explore? He'd heard of it briefly in one of the books he'd browsed but hadn't paid much attention. It sounded dangerous, but the idea of another magical place piqued his curiosity.
As he finished his meal, Harry's thoughts swirled with everything he'd overheard. The Boy Who Lived, Knockturn Alley, and the intriguing bits of gossip about magical events. He made a mental note to investigate more during his next visit to the library or bookshop.
After paying and thanking the witch at the counter, Harry stepped back into the bustling alley. The sun was lower now, casting long shadows across the cobblestones.
As the vibrant hum of Diagon Alley surrounded him, Harry realized he was starting to feel the weight of the day. His feet were sore from walking, and the thought of the quiet of his cupboard—as unwelcoming as it was—sounded appealing.
He adjusted his bag, which now held his purchased books, and began making his way toward the Leaky Cauldron. He took a last, longing glance at the many shops he hadn't yet explored. "Next time," he murmured to himself, already planning another visit.
The Leaky Cauldron was busier than when he'd first arrived, and Harry had to weave through a crowd of witches and wizards to reach the exit. Tom, the barkeeper, spotted him and gave him a friendly nod. Harry nodded back, a small smile playing on his lips.
He stepped out into the hustle and bustle of Charing Cross Road, feeling the contrasting normalcy of the Muggle world hit him like a wave. Taking a deep breath, he began walking toward the bus stop, eager to get home and delve into the treasures he'd brought back.