The scenery outside the windshield blurred by in a dizzying rush—fields, rivers, ponds, villages, all flashing past in rapid succession.
With a flicker of magic, every obstacle in the Knight Bus's path—dustbins, lampposts, mailboxes—would leap aside just in time, dodging away as if the bus was charmed to part the very world before it.
After about twenty minutes, the Knight Bus screeched to a stop, wedged into a narrow alleyway.
In the blink of an eye, the massive triple-decker shrank down to the size of a wooden crate, nestling neatly between the cramped walls—something only possible in a world where magic reigned.
Hagrid stumbled off the bus, clutching the corner of a wall as he dry-heaved, his face still a shade of greenish-grey.
Beyond the alley, a bustling commercial street stretched out, lined with colorful shop signs. But they'd arrived so early that every storefront was still shuttered, and only a handful of hurried pedestrians bustled past.
"That was dreadful…" Hagrid groaned, still unsteady on his feet. "Wyzett, help me look for a place called the Leaky Cauldron, will you?"
The street was filled with all manner of shops—fast food joints, clothing boutiques, jewelry stores, even a cinema—but not a trace of the Leaky Cauldron in sight.
It wasn't until Wyzett passed a bookshop that a sign materialized out of thin air before him.
The sign was old and battered, standing in stark contrast to the gleaming displays around it. Soot and scorch marks stained the wood, and a black cauldron with a gaping hole in its bottom was painted on its face.
"Hagrid, is that it?" Wyzett pointed.
Hagrid gave another queasy retch and nodded. "That's the one! You'd never guess how old this place is."
"How old?" Wyzett's curiosity about the magical world was insatiable.
"Early sixteenth century, I reckon…" Hagrid frowned in thought. "Anyway, it's older than the Statute of Secrecy! Come on, let's head in."
Four centuries of existence hadn't given the Leaky Cauldron much in the way of grandeur, but it had certainly allowed plenty of grime and stains to build up on the walls and floor.
Hagrid was clearly a regular. The moment he entered, the pub burst into life—patrons waved and called his name, grinning in welcome.
Compared to the chilly emptiness of the street outside, the dim and smoky Leaky Cauldron was positively buzzing.
"The usual?" A bald, elderly barman appeared at the counter, setting out two tankards with a cheerful clink.
"Not today, Tom!" Hagrid waved him off. "I'm on official business—just a motion sickness potion, if you please. Wyzett, want anything?"
Thinking of the Lovegoods' tight finances, Wyzett held up the biscuits Luna had packed for him. "No thanks—Luna gave me these."
Suddenly, the pub fell silent. The customers' faces grew guarded, some even wary.
Tom took a step back, peering at Wyzett with caution. "He's Wyzett? The Obscurial?"
"My fault!" Hagrid realized at once what the others were thinking. He smacked his forehead with a thunderous clap. "He's a good kid! Why didn't you all act like this earlier?"
"Sorry…" Tom looked embarrassed. "You're right. I overreacted."
"Right then, let's get moving!" Hagrid tossed a silver coin onto the bar and downed the potion in one gulp.
He led Wyzett through the crowded pub and out into the small courtyard behind.
This little yard was far cleaner than the pub itself—just a few tufts of grass and an old dustbin.
"Wyzett, pay attention to this…" Hagrid raised his trusty pink umbrella. "Count three bricks up from the bin, then two across…"
He tapped the bricks with the umbrella. With a series of sharp clicks, the wall began to tremble, bricks shifting and folding until a wide archway yawned open before them.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley!"
Gentle morning sunlight spilled over the alley, lighting up the names of every shop sign and making the gold leaf and painted letters gleam.
Wizards bustled everywhere, and the shop windows were crammed with all manner of strange and marvelous items. For a moment, Wyzett felt as if he'd wandered into a magical street fair from another lifetime.
Hagrid pointed to a gleaming, snow-white marble building. "That's Gringotts Bank. We'll need to get your scholarship money."
In the middle of a row of shops, the towering building stood out—pure white, dazzling in the morning light.
Wyzett eyed the doorkeeper. "Hagrid, is that a goblin?"
"That's right!" Hagrid grinned. "Goblin-made money can't be counterfeited, so they run Gringotts."
Inside, Gringotts was grand and imposing. The outer bronze doors stood wide, with a second set of gleaming silver doors beyond.
As they approached, the greeting goblin bowed deeply, gesturing them inside.
The silver doors were engraved with a long inscription: "Enter, stranger, but take heed of what awaits the sin of greed, for those who take, but do not earn, must pay most dearly in their turn."
The warnings reminded Wyzett of the famous curse said to haunt Tutankhamun's tomb in the Muggle world—those who disturbed it met with mysterious deaths.
Curious, Wyzett asked, "Hagrid, if a thief really tried to break in, what would the goblins do?"
"Oh, plenty!" Hagrid lowered his voice, guiding Wyzett further inside. "Except for Hogwarts, this is the safest place in the magical world!"
"If a thief touches the doors, they'll get sucked inside—never to return! And the vaults deep underground, the goblins have trolls and dragons guarding them."
"Dragons?" Wyzett's eyes widened. "There are dragons here?"
"Of course! You're allowed to keep dragons here—brilliant, isn't it?" Hagrid's eyes sparkled. "I'd love a dragon of my own. Those little beauties are just irresistible…"
Hagrid could rattle off the features of every dragon breed, his passion for the creatures shining through with every word.
But Wyzett struggled to imagine how a magical beast at least sixteen feet long could ever be called a "little beauty."
All the way to the back of the hall, Hagrid chatted enthusiastically about dragons. Finally, he handed the application to the goblin at the counter. "We're here for the scholarship funds."
"Very well!" The goblin extended a finger, a tiny flame flickering at the tip of his long, sharp nail. The application burst into flame, burning away without a trace, leaving only a beautiful cursive signature floating in the air.
"Please wait a moment!" After confirming everything was in order, the goblin hopped down from the counter and disappeared into the shadows.
Wyzett asked, "Hagrid, if I had Muggle money, could I exchange it for wizarding currency?"
"Of course!" Hagrid rummaged through his many pockets. "Underage wizards can exchange up to fifty Galleons a year; adults, one hundred."
"Why the limit?"
"Muggle money's too easy to get—Muggle banks aren't safe at all. The limit keeps things balanced between the worlds."
"Finally!" Hagrid suddenly grinned, producing a handful of eggs, each the size of a handball and covered in vivid orange-red markings.
Wyzett stared at the eggs—they looked strangely familiar. "Are these… Runespoor eggs?"
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