"Can Muggle sterling truly not be used in this world?" Anduin asked, still grappling with the sheer illogic of the Wizarding currency system.
"You may exchange what we call Muggle currency—your pounds—for Galleons at Gringotts Wizarding Bank," Professor McGonagall confirmed, her knowledge of the mundane world proving unexpectedly thorough.
"The official rate is approximately five pounds to one Galleon, though that rate does not fluctuate much. We place a soft limit on the maximum exchange for new students without accounts, typically capping it at one hundred Galleons worth of sterling."
Her tone implied that this limit was far beyond the scope of a solitary orphan's savings. She likely expected him to exchange a few pitiful pounds of pocket money to supplement the school's aid.
Anduin merely nodded, his inner calculator whirring. One hundred Galleons is roughly five hundred pounds. That's a significant amount in 1980.
Under the Deputy Headmistress's astonished, scrutinizing gaze, Anduin reached into his inner pocket—a secret, carefully stitched recess in his threadbare coat—and produced a thick roll of crumpled but genuine English banknotes. This was the accumulated profit from William's crew over the last year, fiercely saved and never spent on anything but critical seasonings. It was far more than pocket money.
He licked his fingers with a practiced, almost casual motion and counted out the required sum with ruthless efficiency. "There. Enough for a substantial exchange. I can use the balance to acquire some necessary items on the Muggle side before I return."
McGonagall's eyebrows shot up. Her assessment of the boy's poverty had clearly been premature. This was not a pauper; this was a disciplined financier. Her positive impression of his character deepened—he was resourceful beyond measure.
McGonagall led Anduin out of the orphanage and onto a narrow, deserted side street. The typical grimy facade of London brick enclosed them, yet the atmosphere felt suddenly dense, charged with a subtle, electric anticipation.
"I would normally secure a Muggle taxicab or utilize the Knight Bus—our emergency magical transport—to ensure your comfort," McGonagall explained, her gaze scanning the empty street with professional vigilance. "However, as I mentioned, the Wizarding World is currently unstable. We must move swiftly and discreetly."
She stopped abruptly, leveling a serious gaze at him. "I must ask you to Apparate with me, Mr. Wilson. It is a necessary precaution."
Anduin listened, his soldier's mind analyzing the implication: Apparition is dangerous enough that she must warn me. The current situation is so volatile that she risks my discomfort over exposure.
He stretched out his hand, meeting her command. "I understand, Professor. Instability implies risk. Better to accept the discomfort."
McGonagall nodded sharply, appreciating his lack of protest. Her hand was firm and unexpectedly strong as it clasped his.
The next instant was a terrifying, violent assault on every single one of Anduin's senses.
POP!
It was not a quick snap. It was a brutal, instantaneous compression. The feeling was one of being viciously squeezed from every conceivable direction, as if his molecular structure were being forcibly extruded through a microscopic tube. Darkness enveloped him, thick and crushing. He felt the internal structure of his body—his bones, his organs, his conscious mind—being simultaneously ripped apart and mashed back together.
The pain was nonexistent, replaced by a profound, disorienting sense of unmaking. His years of intense martial and meditative discipline—the very training that had unlocked his 'Strength'—was the only thing preventing immediate mental disintegration. He focused desperately on the cold, burning core of his inner power, grounding himself in the familiar sensation of pure effort.
POP!
The sensation ended as violently as it began. He materialized in a damp, narrow alleyway, slamming back against a cold, moss-covered stone wall.
Anduin gasped, a ragged, involuntary sound of distress, his vision swimming. He immediately gagged, bile rising in his throat. The world pitched violently. His mind, usually a perfect, analytical engine, was nothing but noise. He felt inexplicably compressed, the hallucination of being crushed into a small, useless ball stubbornly lingering.
"Ugh... the sensation... is worse than being gassed," he choked out, forcing himself to remain upright through sheer, ingrained willpower.
"My sincerest apologies, Mr. Wilson. It rarely goes smoothly the first time, even for the most resilient minds," Professor McGonagall said, her voice sharp with concern. She immediately drew her wand and performed a subtle, yet effective, counter-charm.
A soft, opalescent light emanated from the tip of her wand, washing over Anduin. The light felt cool and soothing, melting into his body. The nausea instantly receded, and the violent sense of internal compression faded.
Incredible, Anduin thought, even as he regained his balance. This is not just power; it's an entire medical and transportation system.
He took several deep, measured breaths. "I am recovered, Professor. Fascinating, but profoundly unpleasant. If this is Apparition, then I see no need for a Star Trek-style teleportation portal."
"Indeed. That was Apparition and Disapparition—a highly advanced, taxing form of travel taught only to seventh-year students. You recovered remarkably fast. Most first-timers are prone to 'Splinching,' which is the rather unpleasant experience of leaving a body part behind," McGonagall observed, a note of impressed respect entering her voice.
"Where to now? More 'Apparition'?"
"No. We walk from here, Anduin. The distance is short."
McGonagall led him out of the alley and onto a busy London street, unremarkable save for one thing. Tucked between a brightly colored record shop blaring soft rock and a dusty, conservative bookbinder's, was a building that looked distinctly out of place. It was an ancient, ramshackle pub with a dark, medieval look, entirely inconsistent with the surrounding 1980s storefronts.
What was more peculiar was the behavior of the passersby. People walked right past the pub, talking into their coat collars, staring straight ahead. No one even glanced at the dingy establishment.
"They cannot see the pub, can they?" Anduin asked, his observation skills instantly kicking in.
"Your powers of observation are excellent, Anduin," McGonagall confirmed, a hint of professional pride in her tone. "The structure is shielded by numerous powerful Concealment Charms. To a non-magical person—a Muggle, as we call them—the Leaky Cauldron is invisible."
"Muggle," Anduin repeated, allowing the word to settle. "So, the vast majority of humanity is kept completely unaware of your existence due to this International Statute of Secrecy?"
"Precisely. It has been in place for centuries, ensuring the peaceful co-existence of our two worlds," McGonagall said, though her frown indicated her skepticism regarding the current peace.
As they spoke, they entered the Leaky Cauldron. The interior was gloomy, poorly lit by weak, sputtering lamps. The place smelled of stale beer, damp stone, and forgotten history. A few shadowy figures sat hunched in corners, looking more like conspirators than patrons. Behind a pitted wooden bar, the owner, a bald man with a kindly, toothless smile, was polishing glasses.
"Tom, how is business in the current climate?" McGonagall inquired, approaching the bar with easy familiarity.
Tom stopped polishing, his weary eyes flickering to McGonagall. His response was a torrent of pent-up complaint, tinged with genuine fear.
"Business? It's chaos, Professor. Absolute chaos. Things are getting darker and harder to manage. Just last night, the Aurors—God bless their efforts—clashed with them again near Knockturn Alley. The explosions shook the glass right out of my damn counter! It's only a matter of time before someone gets hurt here," Tom griped, gesturing vaguely toward the hidden back entrance.
Anduin listened, his heart rate spiking slightly. Aurors. Clashes. Explosions. The Dark Lord is clearly still active, or his remnants are staging open warfare. The word "unstable" was a gross understatement. This wasn't a peaceful hidden world; it was a society actively engaged in a low-intensity civil war.
"There's a new first-year here, Tom. He needs to see the Alley," McGonagall interjected, cutting off the escalating worry.
Tom looked at Anduin, his expression softening instantly at the sight of the polite, disciplined boy. "Incoming fresh batch, eh? Well, welcome, son. Get inside quickly, mind you. The streets aren't the place to be after dusk these days." His gentle warning held a deep, foreboding gravity.
McGonagall acknowledged Tom's concern with a nod and led Anduin through the back of the bar into a small, enclosed cobblestone courtyard dominated by overflowing refuse bins.
"The entrance to Diagon Alley is here. Pay close attention, Anduin, as you will need to perform this charm yourself going forward."
She drew her wand once more. "The sequence is specific: three up, two across. You tap the brick next to the dustbin, then the three tiles above it, and two horizontally."
She tapped the wall with the tip of her wand. The specific bricks she touched began to ripple and shift. The crumbling wall did not break down; it rearranged itself, groaning and spinning silently in complex patterns until a massive, majestic archway of dark, ancient stone was revealed.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley, Anduin."
Anduin's breath caught in his throat.
Through the archway was a street unlike anything he could have conceived. It was a winding, vibrant torrent of color, a high cobblestone canyon lined with fantastical shops: cauldrons piled high, brightly colored potions bubbling in shop windows, towering stacks of spell books, and signs proclaiming services like 'Magical Menagerie' and 'Quality Quidditch Supplies.' It was magnificent, overwhelming, and utterly saturated with the palpable energy of magic.
Yet, Anduin's disciplined eye immediately registered the incongruity.
The Alley was far from the bustling bazaar he might have imagined. Many shop fronts were shuttered, their windows boarded up with heavy planking. The crowd was sparse, and the few shoppers scurrying by moved with a distinct air of haste and anxiety.
Worst of all were the pedestrians patrolling the street. They were dressed in long, heavy trench coats, their movements sharp, their eyes scanning the rooftops and alleyways with the tension of combat veterans. Each one carried a visible, powerful wand, held loosely but ready.
"Professor," Anduin asked, his voice low and pointed, "those individuals in the trench coats. They aren't patrons. They are patrols. Are they the Aurors Tom was mentioning?"
Professor McGonagall's expression hardened. She recognized the chilling precision of his analysis.
"Yes, Anduin. They are Aurors—the elite, trained law enforcement of the Ministry of Magic. They are here to maintain order. The British wizarding world has indeed not been peaceful lately, but Diagon Alley is the core commercial heart—it remains relatively secure. They are simply doing their difficult, dangerous jobs. You will be completely safe at Hogwarts; I assure you of that."
But the images of the closed shops and the armed guards—a stark reflection of a besieged society—contradicted her assurance.
Anduin knew then that he hadn't just stepped into a magical school; he had stepped onto a battlefield, a decade before the legendary hero was meant to arrive. His instincts, sharpened by the thrill of danger and the vast scope of the hidden world, were fully engaged. His greatest adventure had just begun.