"Albert, are you sure we haven't come to the wrong place?" Herb Anderson stopped on the busy Charing Cross Road, squinting at the map Professor McGonagall had drawn. The London traffic roared past, oblivious to his confusion. He couldn't see anything resembling a pub.
"We need to find the bookstore first. Next to that is a record store," Albert said, his eyes scanning the streetscape. He pointed to a large, modern bookstore up ahead, its windows filled with bestsellers. Right next to it was a shop selling vinyls and CDs.
"Is this it? But I..." Herb trailed off, frowning.
"...can't see the pub?" Albert finished the sentence for him.
If Albert hadn't been specifically looking for it—knowing it was there because of the Harry Potter lore—he would have missed it too.
Wedged between the large bookstore and the record shop was a tiny, grubby-looking pub. It was almost like an optical illusion. The people hurrying past on the sidewalk didn't even glance at it; their eyes seemed to slide right over the dirty facade as if it didn't exist.
And that, of course, included his father.
"I see it," Albert said. "Remember what Professor McGonagall said?"
"Muggles can't find the pub?" Herb muttered, adjusting his collar. "I really hate that word. Muggle."
"Come on."
Albert grabbed his father's hand and pulled him toward the gap between the shops. As soon as Herb was dragged across the invisible threshold of awareness, his eyes widened.
There it was. The Leaky Cauldron.
It was narrow, dingy, and looked like it hadn't seen a coat of paint since the Victorian era.
"It's... filthy," Herb whispered, wrinkling his nose. "I hate it already."
"Me too. Let's go in."
Fixing polite smiles on their faces to mask their fastidious distaste, the father and son pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside.
The interior lived up to the exterior: dirty, chaotic, and dimly lit.
The air smelled of sherry and pipe smoke. Sitting at the mismatched tables were some of the most eccentric people Herb had ever seen. There were elderly women sipping sherry from tiny glasses, and men smoking long pipes, all wearing what looked like velvet dressing gowns or tall, pointed hats.
If these people walked down Oxford Street, tourists would stop to take photos. But here, in the gloom of the Leaky Cauldron, Herb and Albert—dressed in their neat, modern muggle clothes—were the ones who stood out. They were a beacon of normalcy in a sea of oddity.
Herb took a deep breath, regained his composure, and walked towards the bar. Behind the counter stood a toothless, bald barman wiping a glass with a rag that looked suspiciously gray.
"Mr. Tom?" Herb asked tentatively.
The barman looked up. His eyes flicked to Albert, then back to Herb, crinkling in a friendly smile.
"A young wizard from a Muggle family?" Tom asked, his voice gravelly but warm. "Looking for the way to Diagon Alley, are you?"
"Yes, Mr. Tom. Professor McGonagall said you could help us," Albert said, stepping forward. He scrutinized the old man. This was Tom, a fixture of the series. Albert offered a polite, practiced smile.
"Of course, of course. Follow me."
Tom shuffled out from behind the bar, motioning for them to follow. He led them through the dark taproom and out a back door into a tiny, walled courtyard.
There was nothing there but a few weeds, a large dustbin, and some empty beer kegs. The high brick walls boxed them in on all sides.
"Now, pay attention," Tom said. "The dustbin is your marker. You count three bricks up... and two bricks across."
He tapped a specific brick in the wall with his finger to demonstrate. Then, he drew his wand.
"Once you have your own wand, lad, you can let yourself in. Just remember: three taps."
Tom tapped the brick three times with the tip of his wand.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
For a second, nothing happened. Then, the brick he had touched gave a little shudder. It wiggled, and a small hole appeared in the center. The hole rapidly expanded, the bricks folding away and rearranging themselves with a grinding rumble.
Within seconds, the solid wall had transformed into a wide archway.
And beyond the archway...
A vibrant, cobblestone street stretched out before them, twisting and turning out of sight. It was packed with people in colorful robes. Sunlight glinted off cauldron stacks, and the air was filled with the sounds of owls hooting and vendors shouting their wares.
"Welcome," Tom said with a grin, "to Diagon Alley."
Herb stared, his mouth slightly open. "Mr. Tom, how do we get back?"
"Same way," Tom explained patiently. "Just tap the brick from the other side. Oh, and you'll want to head to Gringotts first. That's the wizard bank. You can't use Muggle money here. It's the big white building straight down the street."
"Thank you for your help, Mr. Tom," Herb said, recovering his wits.
"Have a pleasant time!" Tom waved and shuffled back into the pub. He clearly enjoyed the look of wonder on Muggle parents' faces.
As Tom left, the archway behind them shrank and solidified back into a dull brick wall.
"Right. Money first," Herb exhaled sharply.
"This place feels... different," Albert commented as they merged into the crowd. He looked at the shop signs: Cauldrons - All Sizes, Eeylops Owl Emporium, Gambol and Japes. "It feels like stepping back a century. Or maybe into a Dickens novel."
"To be honest, I'm starting to doubt if this is a good idea," Herb sighed, dodging a witch carrying a cage of screeching bats. "It's fascinating, yes, but it feels so... antiquated. Maybe Daisy was right."
"Dad, it's not like I'm moving here permanently," Albert said, rolling his eyes. "I'm going to Hogwarts to learn magic. That's a skill you can't get at Eton."
"True, true." Herb's mood lifted slightly. "Let's find this bank."
They walked down the street until they reached a snowy-white building that towered over the surrounding shops. Standing guard beside the burnished bronze doors was a short, dark-skinned figure in a scarlet and gold uniform.
"A Goblin," Herb whispered, his expression stiffening. It was his first time seeing a non-human sapient creature.
Albert observed the guard with clinical interest. It had a swarthy face, a short pointed beard, and very long fingers and feet. Frankly, it wasn't winning any beauty contests.
As they approached, the goblin bowed them inside.
They passed through a second set of doors—silver this time—engraved with a warning poem. Herb paused to read it aloud.
"Enter, stranger, but take heed... For those who take but do not earn, Must pay most dearly in their turn..."
Herb frowned. "I really don't understand. Is bank robbery such a common hobby among wizards that they need to carve threats onto the front door?"
Albert stifled a laugh. He cleared his throat quickly. "Dad, how much are you planning to exchange?"
"Hmm?" Herb calculated. "A thousand pounds. If it's not enough, we can always come back."
A thousand pounds. That was a significant sum in the 90s—more than a month's salary for many.
Albert did a quick mental calculation. That should get them around two hundred Galleons. "That should be plenty."
They entered the main hall. It was vast, lined with marble, with long counters stretching down both sides. Hundreds of goblins were sitting on high stools, scribbling in ledgers, weighing gems, and counting coins.
Herb approached a free counter. "I'd like to exchange some currency, please."
The goblin looked down at him over a pair of spectacles. He handed Herb a piece of parchment detailing the exchange rates.
1 Galleon = £4.95
1 Galleon = 17 Sickles
1 Sickle = 29 Knuts
Herb passed the sheet to Albert. "Do the math for me, son. How much for 200 Galleons?"
"That would be £990," Albert replied instantly.
"Right. Please exchange 200 Galleons for me." Herb opened his wallet and counted out the notes.
"Very well." The goblin took the money and began to count it with terrifying speed.
"Excuse me," Albert interjected, asking a question that had bugged him in his previous life. "Is there a limit to how much Muggle currency we can exchange?"
The goblin paused, eyeing the boy. "Theoretically, yes. We do not wish to hold excessive amounts of Muggle paper. But for school supplies, there is no issue."
The goblin rang a small bell. Another goblin appeared, carrying a heavy canvas bag. They moved to a side table to verify the count.
Herb reached into the bag and pulled out a large gold coin. It was heavy, the size of a hubcap compared to a pound coin.
"Solid gold," Herb murmured, examining the dragon stamped on the face. "I didn't expect them to use actual gold."
Transaction complete, the father and son walked back out into the bright sunlight of Diagon Alley.
The bag of gold in Herb's pocket clinked with every step, a heavy, pleasant sound that seemed to whisper: Spend me.