Gryffindor—courage above all!
Our Head of House can turn into a kitty!
Leon looked through the peephole, then opened the door. A woman stood outside. She wore black robes and square glasses, her dark gray hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her lips pressed into a straight line, her expression stern enough to be collecting taxes.
Clearly, this was...
"Mr. Leon." The woman gave a slight nod. "I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
For a fifteen-year-old, Professor McGonagall didn't use the same tone she reserved for eleven-year-old brats. Instead, she spoke with relative formality.
"Hello, Professor McGonagall. You can call me Leon." He stepped back and gestured her inside. "Please, come in."
Professor McGonagall stepped into the entryway. Her footsteps paused briefly beside the pile of unopened bills. She said nothing, but her expression clearly read: I've seen worse. She sat on the edge of the living room sofa with her back perfectly straight, like a folded umbrella.
"I assume you have questions," she said.
Leon settled into the armchair opposite her, placed the letter on the coffee table, and pushed it toward her.
"Is this real?"
"Obviously."
"I..." Leon paused. "I've lived here for fifteen years. I know who lives over there. I know that boy received a letter like this in 1991... no, it should've been multiple letters. But I never thought I'd receive one too. It doesn't make sense. If I had the talent, why am I only getting this now?"
Professor McGonagall was silent for two seconds.
"I don't know either." She gave a faint smile. "Hogwarts itself holds many unsolved mysteries. You may have to wait until after enrollment to seek that answer."
"In any case, you have been admitted. Fifth year. After term begins, you will most likely need remedial lessons to catch up with the other students. Any questions?"
"No, thank you, Professor," Leon said politely.
"Then I shall see you on September 1st, Leon. I have other new students to arrange for, so I can't stay and chat." She raised a hand to check her watch—an old-fashioned pocket watch with a pattern engraved on the lid. As she opened the door, she added, "I sincerely hope you'll come to my House."
Sunlight flooded in from outside, making Leon narrow his eyes.
By the time his vision adjusted, the porch was empty.
Only a few blades of grass on the lawn, bent by footsteps, were slowly straightening back up.
Leon stood in the doorway, looking down at the parchment letter in his hand.
Then he looked up again at the tightly shut window across the street.
Privet Drive was unusually quiet that morning. Only the faint sound of a distant car engine broke the silence.
"Damn it, I can't wait even one minute. I'm going to Diagon Alley right now!"
It was already mid-to-late August. Less than a week remained.
Leon stood at the corner of Charing Cross Road, clutching that parchment letter as he looked up at the scene before him.
The Leaky Cauldron.
A pub famous throughout the wizarding world, located on Charing Cross in the City of Westminster—the traditional heart of London and the customary zero point for road and railway distances in Britain.
Because it sat in central London, every shop nearby was bustling with business.
There was a bookstore to the left of the Leaky Cauldron and a record shop to the right, both packed with people coming and going. Yet somehow, no one entered the pub.
The bookstore door opened, and a middle-aged woman carrying shopping bags walked past Leon without a glance, heading straight for the Underground station. From the record shop came the muffled sound of music—an old Beatles song.
No one gave the Leaky Cauldron a second look.
Some sort of Muggle-Repelling Charm had been placed on it, lowering its presence and making it nearly impossible for ordinary people to notice.
Of course, noticing it was simple enough. All it took was a wizard personally telling you the address.
The moment Leon stepped inside, the light dimmed abruptly. The air smelled of aged alcohol and damp wood, along with something harder to place. Maybe pipe tobacco. Maybe fireplace smoke. Maybe something even older—a scent that belonged to another world entirely.
The pub wasn't large, or at least it didn't seem large. A few wooden tables were scattered around, most of them occupied. Some people were drinking, some speaking in low voices, and one person was raising a cup and muttering to the air. If you looked closely, there was a tiny creature pinched between his fingers.
Behind the bar stood an old man—bald and hunchbacked—wiping glasses with a rag so stained its original color was impossible to tell.
Leon walked up to the bar.
The old man looked up, his cloudy eyes sizing Leon up for a moment. His gaze lingered on Leon's face, then dropped to his empty hands. No wand, no owl cage, no cauldron.
"First time here?" the old man asked, his voice like sandpaper scraping wood.
"Is it that obvious?"
The old man gave a snort and set the cleaned glass onto the shelf.
"There are always a few like you before term starts every year," he said. "Lost, in the wrong place, or wandering outside for half the day because they can't find the entrance."
"Even if you don't look like a kid, it makes no difference."
"Don't underestimate old Tom. I've seen plenty in my time."
Leon thought about how he'd just been standing blankly in front of the pub entrance and decided not to respond to that.
"Excuse me," he said, "how do I get to Diagon Alley?"
The old man jerked his chin toward the back.
"Through the yard. Out into the rear courtyard."
Leon thanked him, walked around the bar, passed through a narrow door, and entered a small courtyard.
The courtyard was empty. Only a few barrels stacked in one corner and uneven stone slabs covering the ground.
Aside from that, there was a rubbish bin leaning against one wall.
Count three bricks up from the top of the bin, then two across, and strike it with a wand to open the gateway to Diagon Alley.
The setup was so classic that Leon, as a veteran reader of fanfiction, could recite it by heart.
Some especially outrageous protagonists would even move the rubbish bin on purpose, leaving a whole crowd of experienced wizards with no idea how to get in anymore.
So now, there was only one problem.
He didn't have a wand.
Just as he was thinking that, footsteps sounded behind him.
Leon turned around and found that Tom, the pub owner, had followed him out, still holding that rag of indeterminate color.
"For first-timers, I usually lead the way," he said, with the calm ease of someone used to dealing with newcomers. "Once you've got a wand, you'll have to come in on your own. Remember the position of that brick."
Tom pulled a wand from his pocket—short and clearly old, the wood polished smooth with age—and lightly tapped that brick three times.
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