Following Professor Flitwick's directions, the Scott family drove their sedan deep into the heart of London a few days later.
Outside the car windows stretched the all-too-familiar rhythm of a modern city. Red double-decker buses rumbled by, office workers hurried along the pavements, and glass curtain walls reflected the dim, overcast sky.
Inside the car, however, the atmosphere was utterly out of place.
Carla's fingers twisted unconsciously at her seatbelt, lips pressed tight. Robert gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles whitened, checking the rearview mirror more often than usual, as though confirming something.
Only Alan, seated in the back, remained as calm as a still pond.
His gaze pierced through the glass, while the icy logic of his mind palace raced at full speed. The address Professor Flitwick had given pointed directly to Charing Cross Road—an utterly ordinary location.
"Alan, are you sure it's here?"
Carla's voice trembled slightly. On the navigation map, the blinking red dot sat amidst nothing more than shops and office buildings.
"The coordinates are correct," Alan replied, eyes already locked onto a strangely out-of-place blind spot in his vision. "The energy frequency matches as well. Between that bookshop and that record store."
Robert pulled into a temporary parking space. The family stepped out and was immediately swept into the throng of London's crowds.
Their destination stood before them: a place called The Leaky Cauldron.
It was small and shabby, its black-painted door chipped and peeling, thick layers of dust coating the windows as if they hadn't been cleaned in centuries. The crooked sign above the entrance bore lettering so faded it was barely legible.
And yet, eerily, not a single passerby spared it so much as a glance. People's eyes slid naturally towards the bookshop window next door, or were drawn instead to the music spilling from the record store.
It was there—and yet as if it did not exist.
[Confundus Charm variant. Low-grade, wide-area memetic distortion. By disrupting the visual cortex and short-term memory of non-magical beings, it enforces the judgment of "irrelevant information," thereby achieving a form of physical invisibility.]
The mind palace immediately offered its analysis.
"This is it?" Carla's voice was filled with disbelief. She even stepped back half a pace, reluctant to approach the decaying-looking building.
Alan gave no verbal reply, only nodded.
He could feel it: behind that worn door pulsed a field of energy utterly different from the world outside. Gentle, chaotic, brimming with life, sharply divided from the steel, concrete, and electric signals of the Muggle city.
Without the slightest hesitation, he stepped forward and pushed open the heavy wooden door.
Creak—
A wave of smells rolled out: stale beer, cloying pipe smoke, and the faint tang of some unnamable herb.
The bar inside was dimly lit, the few strands of light filtering through grimy windows revealing countless motes of dust dancing in the air.
This was another world.
A wizard in a tall purple top hat was blowing smoke rings of constantly shifting shapes through an absurdly long pipe. A group of cloaked witches huddled at a corner table, whispering in low voices; flashes of twisted wood or gleaming scales occasionally peeked from beneath their cloaks.
Alan's gaze swept across the room like the finest of scanners, taking in everything within fractions of a second.
[Target analysis complete.]
[Ordinary wizards: 17. Magical fluctuations stable, no threat.]
[Suspicious individuals: 3. Residual traces of Dark magic in their energy fields. Keep distance recommended.]
[Ministry of Magic Auror: 1. Disguised as a patron, right-hand side, third table from the corner. Heart rate steady, breathing even, line of sight covering the room. Surveillance operation in progress.]
The classifications unfolded crisply within his mind.
Without revealing a trace of his findings, Alan stepped aside to let his parents enter safely behind him.
"Stay close to me."
His voice was quiet, yet carried an undeniable steadiness. Guiding his family, he led them expertly through the crowd, skirting the shadier figures, and walked straight to the bar.
Behind it, a toothless, bald old man was wiping a chipped glass with a grey rag. Seeing the Scott family, he broke into a broad, cheerful—if toothless—smile.
It was Tom, the barman.
Alan explained their purpose in simple terms. Tom asked no questions, only nodded, set down his rag, and led them through the bar into the back courtyard.
The yard was small, walled in on all sides, with a few empty barrels and a rubbish bin strewn about. Directly opposite stood what seemed an utterly ordinary red-brick wall.
"Up three, then across two," Tom pointed to the wall and spoke to Robert. "Tap that brick with your umbrella—three times."
Robert glanced uncertainly at Alan, and when his son gave him a firm nod, he raised his long-handled umbrella.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
After the three solid knocks, something extraordinary happened.
The brick Robert had tapped began to tremble faintly. Then, using it as a center, the surrounding bricks writhed and contracted, as though alive. A thin crack appeared, outlining a hole that quickly widened.
The shifting of the bricks was not a harsh grating sound but rather a smooth click-clack with an almost rhythmic cadence. Finally, a tall archway wide enough for an adult to pass through with ease appeared where there had once been only wall.
Beyond the doorway lay an entirely new world.
Noise and color burst forth like a flood breaking through a dam.
A cobbled street wound into the distance, lined with shops of every imaginable kind—architecture twisted and strange, paying no heed at all to the laws of physics.
Flocks of owls wheeled overhead, hooting. Wizards in robes of every cut and color hurried about, clutching wands, cauldrons, or packages that shrieked and writhed.
The air was filled with the clang of cauldrons, the hum of spell practice, and a strange fragrance—an indescribable blend of countless magical goods.
Lilia's small mouth rounded into an "O." Her flushed little face glowed crimson with excitement, and one hand clung instinctively to the corner of Alan's robes.
Carla and Robert, meanwhile, were rooted to the spot—stunned, dazed, their very worldview shattered.
Even Alan, despite having simulated countless scenarios in his mind palace, found his heart skip when this magical world—until now only words on paper—materialized before his eyes.
"All right, we need to keep moving," Alan was the first to recover. He gently patted Lilia on the back, his voice pulling his family back into reality.
"According to Professor Flitwick's advice, first stop: Gringotts."
He pointed to the far end of the street.
There towered a white marble building, soaring into the sky. Against the crooked shops around it, it looked solemn and majestic.
Gringotts Wizarding Bank.
Run by goblins.
The moment they stepped into its vast hall, the clamour of the outside world fell away.
A chill, stern, almost oppressive atmosphere pressed down upon them. Beneath the dizzying height of the domed ceiling stretched a gleaming marble floor. Hundreds of goblins sat behind towering counters, meticulously weighing gold and gems with brass scales, or scratching rapid calculations into massive ledgers with sharp quills.
They ignored the passing wizards completely, as though the humans were nothing more than air.
Alan led his family to a counter that happened to be free.
The goblin there looked up.
Its face was deeply wrinkled, keen and shrewd, its black eyes glinting with the light of one who sees through everything. It took in the family's Muggle clothing with undisguised contempt.
"What business?"
The voice was high-pitched and cold, like metal scraping glass.
Robert straightened reflexively and was about to speak when Alan tugged lightly at his sleeve.
Alan stepped forward. With a sharp thump, he set a heavy leather case onto the polished marble counter.
The goblin's attention locked immediately onto it.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Ragnok," Alan said clearly. His voice was cool, steady, carrying a logic and composure far beyond his years.
"We are the Scott family, entering the wizarding world for the first time. Our purpose is to exchange Muggle currency for Galleons to purchase Hogwarts school supplies."
He paused, meeting the goblin's eyes unflinchingly.
"According to my knowledge, Section Seven, Clause Three of the Gringotts Customer Regulations states: for first-time exchanges by Muggle-born wizarding families, the best posted exchange rate of the day applies, with no transaction fee."
"This is our cash, totaling five thousand pounds sterling. At today's rate of 1:50, we request two hundred and fifty Galleons. We also require a formal certificate of exchange issued by Gringotts, legally binding."
The hall fell silent—silent enough to hear a pin drop.
For the first time, Ragnok truly looked at the boy who barely reached halfway up the counter.
That flicker of ingrained contempt faded rapidly, replaced with surprise, scrutiny, and the faintest trace of gravity.
This boy not only knew his name but had also cited, word for word, an internal regulation of Gringotts pertaining to a special class of clients.
This was no ignorant Muggle.
Ragnok said nothing further. He extended his long, deft fingers, withdrew a few notes from the case, and slid them beneath a brass instrument resembling a microscope. The device glowed faint green.
He nodded, opened a drawer, and with a small brass scoop, began to pile gleaming Galleons onto the counter.
The crisp, ringing clink of gold filled the air.
The exchange went through with remarkable smoothness. Not only did the Scott family secure the funds for their shopping, but—more importantly—Robert and Carla's unease finally lifted.
They looked at their calm, collected son—so unruffled even in this strange new world—and their eyes shone with indescribable pride and reassurance.