The transition from the mundane streets of London into the Leaky Cauldron was like a physical blow. The air inside was thick with the scent of pipe smoke, old wood, and a low, hum of energy that made the hair on Andrew's arms stand up.
"Keep close, Andrew," Professor McGonagall whispered, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder as they navigated the dim, crowded pub.
Behind the bar, a hunched, toothless man was vigorously scrubbing a glass. Tom, the landlord, looked up as they approached. He began to offer a standard, welcoming grunt, but his rag froze mid-stroke. His eyes bulged, his jaw dropping as he stared at the eleven-year-old boy walking toward him.
The boy was a ghost. He had the high, aristocratic cheekbones, the dark, perfectly curled hair, and the sharp, handsome jawline of a regular who hadn't stepped foot in this pub for fifty years. For a terrifying heartbeat, Tom thought the Dark Lord had found a way to turn back the clock.
But then, Andrew smiled.
It wasn't the cold, predatory smirk of the boy Tom remembered from the 1930s. It was a sunburst. Andrew's eyes crinkled with genuine, sweet warmth, and a visible radiance seemed to lift the gloom of the dusty bar.
"Good morning, sir!" Andrew said, his voice melodic and full of an effortless, disarming charisma. "This is a wonderful place you have here. It feels like the Prancing Pony—full of secrets and good company. Do you brew the ales yourself, or is there a bit of alchemy involved in the fermenting?"
Tom blinked, his fear melting into a confused, stuttering sort of affection. He had never been spoken to with such genuine interest by a student. "I... er... no alchemy, young sir. Just hops and a bit of a cooling charm on the barrels."
"Fascinating," Andrew beamed, leaning against the counter with a grace that felt ancient. "I've spent my summers in a smithy, you see. I've always found that the best things—whether steel or stout—require the right temperature and a patient hand. I'm Andrew, by the way."
"Tom," the landlord managed, wiping a sweaty brow. "Honored, I'm sure." He watched them walk toward the back, shaking his head. The face of a devil, Tom thought, but the soul of a saint.
They stepped into the small, walled courtyard behind the pub. A lone dustbin sat against a grey brick wall. Andrew looked at the dead-end with a scholar's curiosity, reaching into his pocket to touch a small, well-worn paperback of The Fellowship of the Ring.
"Now, Andrew, watch carefully," McGonagall said, drawing her wand. She tapped a brick—three up, two across.
The brick she touched quivered. Then, the entire wall began to ripple. The stones twisted and turned, folding away like a piece of complex clockwork. Andrew's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as the grey courtyard opened into a sprawling, sun-lit canyon of impossible sights.
"Diagon Alley," she announced.
Andrew stepped forward, his boots clicking on the cobblestones. He didn't look at the owls or the flying brooms first. His gaze was drawn upward, to the iron brackets holding the hanging signs, the intricate brass filigree on the windows, and the heavy, enchanted copper pipes running along the eaves.
"Look at the craftsmanship, Professor!" Andrew exclaimed, his voice ringing with a pure, infectious excitement. "The way they've bound the magic into the grain of the iron... it's not just a street. It's a masterwork of forging. I feel like I've finally come home."
He led the way, his vibrant energy drawing looks from every witch and wizard they passed. He wasn't just a boy walking down a street; he was a light moving through a world that had forgotten what a true hero looked like.
Inside the vast, marble-pillared hall of Gringotts, the air was cool and smelled of ancient dust and minted metal. Andrew walked past the long rows of high desks, but his eyes weren't on the shimmering piles of Galleons. He was staring at the intricate silver engraving on the tellers' scales and the heavy, black-iron locks on the inner gates.
He approached a high desk where a particularly ancient goblin was weighing a handful of uncut rubies. Andrew didn't wait for a grunt or a command. He looked up at the teller with a respectful, knowing smile.
"Master Teller," Andrew said, his voice carrying that signature sweetness that could disarm a mountain troll. "I have been admiring the work on your gates. The way the iron has been folded—it's been tempered in dragon-fire, hasn't it? Only a heat that intense could give the metal that deep, iridescent sheen without making it brittle."
The goblin, whose nameplate read Ragnok, stopped mid-motion. He lowered his scales and peered over the edge of the desk, his dark, bead-like eyes scanning Andrew from head to toe. He didn't see a scrawny wizard child; he saw the callouses on Andrew's palms and the way the boy's eyes traced the grain of the metal with professional intensity.
"You have the eyes of a shaper, boy," Ragnok rasped, his voice sounding like grinding stones. "Are you a blacksmith?"
"I am," Andrew replied proudly, his charismatic energy filling the space between them. "I've spent every summer since I was eight at a forge in the Muggle world. It was a simple place, but it taught me that metal has a heartbeat. I've worked with carbon steel, copper, and tin, trying to find the point where the hammer and the heat become one."
Andrew began to tell his story—how he had once spent three days trying to repair a broken 19th-century ploughshare without losing the integrity of the original forge-welding, and how he spent his nights reading Tolkien and dreaming of metals that could hold a soul.
"I came here expecting to see wealth," Andrew continued, gesturing to the hall. "But what I found was art. Your silver... it has a memory. It doesn't just sit; it waits."
Ragnok's expression shifted. The typical goblin sneer softened into something resembling professional respect. For a moment, the goblin didn't see a "Wand-bearer" to be fleeced, but a kin—a fellow child of the earth who understood the sanctity of the craft.
"Many wizards come here and demand to know the secrets of our silver," Ragnok said, his voice low and testing. "They want the alloy. They want the invulnerability. What say you, Smith?"
Andrew shook his head firmly, his gaze steady. "No. The secret belongs to the maker. A blade or a ring is a part of the one who forged it. To steal the secret would be to steal your history. Keep it well, Master Ragnok. Guard it properly, for a craft that everyone can mimic is a craft that has lost its magic."
The goblin froze. He looked at Andrew for a long, silent minute. Around them, other goblins had stopped their counting to listen. In the history of Gringotts, no wizard had ever told a goblin to keep their secrets.
"You speak with the tongue of a king and the heart of a miner," Ragnok finally whispered, striking the desk with a heavy fist in a gesture of goblin salute. "You are a wizard by birth, perhaps, but you are a Kin of the Forge by spirit. Should you ever find yourself in need of a hammer that does not break, come to me. We shall remember the 'Andrew' who respected the secret."
As they walked away toward the vaults, Professor McGonagall looked at Andrew as if she were seeing him for the first time. "I have been coming to this bank for fifty years, Andrew. I have never seen a goblin offer a salute to a human."
"It's simple, Professor," Andrew said, his charismatic smile returning as he tucked his hands into his pockets. "A master recognizes a master. And I plan to be the best the world has ever seen."