Stepping out of the asylum grounds, Victor took a deep, full breath. The air here, beyond Bethlem's walls, felt fresh, despite the usual city smog. With each inhale, he felt not only physical relief but also mental liberation. Beside him, like the embodiment of strict discipline, walked Minerva McGonagall. Her stride was confident, her gaze focused; she seemed to lead him along an invisible path.
"Since it's only June, you'll have just over two and a half months to prepare for school, Mr. Moss," McGonagall began, her voice even and businesslike. "We're heading to Diagon Alley now to purchase all necessary school supplies. Don't worry about the money. The Ministry of Magic… offered a verbal apology. After all, it was due to their oversight that you ended up in that… institution. They've compensated you by opening an account at Gringotts. After that, I will leave you at your new home, provided by Mr. Williams."
McGonagall cast a quick glance at him to make sure he was listening. But Victor was no longer beside her. She stopped, frowning slightly, and looked around. A few meters away, at the entrance to a cozy cafe that smelled of coffee and fresh pastries, Victor stood, waving her over, inviting her in.
Professor McGonagall, despite her usual composure, felt a flicker of irritation. "Mr. Moss, what is the meaning of this? We need to hurry!" she said, approaching him.
Victor merely smiled. "Let's go eat," he offered, gesturing to the menu displayed at the entrance, as if it were the most obvious decision.
McGonagall looked at him, surprised. "Are you hungry?"
"No," Victor replied simply.
"Then, I'm afraid we don't have time for this, Mr. Moss. We have a tight schedule."
Victor, unperturbed, looked her straight in the eyes. His gaze was serious, yet at the same time, it held something that brooked no argument. "Listen, have you ever eaten in a mental hospital?" he asked, and before McGonagall could answer, he continued, "Don't answer. I'm sure you haven't. Believe a man who ate their food for five years. It… it wasn't just disgusting. It was torture. Oatmeal that smelled of despair. Soup that looked like something already digested. Meat that was impossible to identify. It was a trial worse than any spell. So the first thing I want to do, upon gaining my freedom, is to eat something delicious. To taste a normal taste, to experience normal food."
McGonagall looked at him. There was no capriciousness or indulgence in his eyes, only a deep, almost palpable weariness from five years of hospital food. She understood he would definitely not take no for an answer. With a sigh, she nodded. "Alright, Mr. Moss. But quickly."
They sat at a small table, completely covered with various dishes. Victor sampled a little of everything, his eyes shining with pleasure. Each bite was not just food, but a symbol of freedom, a return to the normal life he had been deprived of for so long. He savored every taste, every aftertaste.
"God, why can't I taste it?! Aaaaaaah!" Victor Number 2 sat beside him, drooling, his virtual body flitting from one dish to another. His whining was as familiar as Victor's own pulse.
Victor, ignoring his counterpart's suffering, wiped his hands with a napkin and looked at McGonagall. "And how much money did the mental hospital allocate for me?" he asked, smiling slightly.
McGonagall took a neat envelope from her bag and handed it to Victor. He carefully took it, opened it. The first thing that caught his eye were the documents for his new home, registered in his name. He quickly scanned the address – a perfectly decent area, a small but cozy house. Then he pulled out a bank check. The amount on it was a hundred thousand pounds. Victor whistled. This was a rather large sum, especially for a child, even one with "special circumstances."
"It's clear magic was involved here," he murmured. "That miserly place couldn't have allocated so much money itself." He perfectly understood that an ordinary mental hospital would never have provided such conditions. This was not just compensation; it was an expression of some guilt on the Ministry's part.
Then his gaze fell on the last sheet in the envelope. He picked it up, his eyebrows furrowing. He was very surprised. "Excuse me, what is this?" he asked, holding the sheet out to McGonagall.
McGonagall took the sheet, her eyes scanning the lines. Then she looked up at Victor in surprise. "This is... this is a medical certificate from the mental hospital, Mr. Moss."
"Yes, I understand it's a medical certificate from the mental hospital," Victor looked at her quizzically. "Why did you ask for it? Is it for Hogwarts' file?"
"It wasn't me," McGonagall replied, a hint of confusion in her voice. "It seems they issued it themselves. As proof of your... 'recovery'."
"Ha-ha-ha!" Victor Number 2 began to laugh loudly, his laughter echoing in Victor's head. Then he rose to his feet and started jumping in the air, pointing at Victor. "Look! A psycho! We have a psycho here! They gave him a certificate so he wouldn't come back!"
Victor sighed. "Alright, it doesn't matter," he told McGonagall, perfectly understanding the absurdity of the situation. He didn't care about paperwork; the main thing was he was free.
He took a sip of water. "So, our plan of action. First, the bank, where I'll withdraw some money. Then—the barbershop. I need a haircut." He ran a hand through his long, unkempt hair.
"No! Not our hair! You can't! Monster!" Victor Number 2 frantically clutched his hairstyle, his face contorted in horror.
Victor ignored his dramatic reaction. "Then we'll go buy some clothes. And after that, you can take me to your... 'Crooked Alley'." He pronounced the word with a slight hesitation, remembering how it sounded in the movies.
"Diagon, Mr. Moss, Diagon Alley," McGonagall corrected him, but her voice lacked its usual strictness. At first, she wanted to refuse him. Going shopping when there were so many matters at hand seemed illogical. But remembering his life, five years in confinement, far from civilization, she decided to humor him. His desires were more than understandable. Besides, he needed proper clothes before he was introduced to the wizarding world. "Alright, Mr. Moss. It will take a little time, but I agree."
An hour later, after a visit to a Muggle bank where Victor withdrew a decent amount of cash, and a short but resolute skirmish with a hairdresser who initially didn't understand his specific requirements for a "practical and minimalist" haircut (to the horror of Victor Number 2, whose cries of "fascism" and "monstrosity" echoed directly in Victor's brain), they headed to a clothing store. Victor chose several simple but high-quality items, comfortable and understated. He felt refreshed, light.
As they left the store, Victor Number 2 was still clutching his head, which now sported a neatly trimmed hairstyle. "You monster! Beast! Fascist! How could you! Our hair!" he whined, feigning cosmic grief.
Victor simply smiled and walked behind McGonagall, enjoying the feeling of freshness and the anticipation of something new. For him, it was more than just a haircut—it was an act of liberation from his old life.
They moved through the bustling streets of London, where Muggle crowds hurried about their business, noticing nothing unusual. For Victor, this was a familiar, yet utterly alien world. He knew he would soon see something that would completely change his life.
Finally, they reached an unassuming brick wall behind the shabby Leaky Cauldron pub. McGonagall stopped in front of it. She took out her wand, uttered a short incantation, and the bricks began to move, parting as if alive. The passage slowly opened, revealing a completely different world to Victor's eyes.
It was narrow and winding, hidden from Muggle eyes, but teeming with life and magic. The streets were cobbled, and quaint, rickety buildings seemed to lean towards each other, forming whimsical arches. Every shop was unique: storefronts sparkled with alluring magical items, living books, flying brooms, and bubbling cauldrons. Signboards were carved, painted in bright colors; some even moved and spoke. The scent of fresh parchment mixed with the aroma of old books, elixirs, and sweets.
The people around them were also unusual. Wizards and witches in robes of various colors and styles scurried back and forth; some carried cages with owls, others bundles of scrolls, still others debated the latest news of the magical world. There were tall, stately wizards and tiny, hunched witches, young students and venerable professors. The sounds of spells, laughter, and conversations filled the air, creating a unique, chaotic symphony.
Victor Number 2, who had been mourning his hair until then, abruptly fell silent. His eyes widened in astonishment. "Oh... my God..." he whispered. "This... this is nothing like the movie. This is... this is so much cooler!"
Victor felt the same way. The movies, the books... they couldn't capture the atmosphere of this place. It was a living, breathing world, full of magic and wonders. A world that awaited him.
McGonagall looked at him, awaiting his reaction. A faint smile flickered across her face. Even after so many years, she still relished the sight of shock and delight on the faces of those who first entered Diagon Alley.
Victor merely nodded. In his eyes reflected the thousands of lights of Diagon Alley, and in them was one clear sentiment: a readiness for new adventures.