After putting away the Dursleys’ breakfast dishes and cutlery, Harry finally slipped back into his cupboard.
This time he had managed to smuggle out two slices of cold toast and some leftover bacon.
He pulled them from his pockets and quickly assembled a makeshift sandwich.
He set the sandwich aside, pulled the mysterious letter from his pocket, and opened it.
Inside were two sheets of stiff, slightly yellow parchment that matched the envelope.
The words declared that he had been accepted to a school of magic called Hogwarts.
A second document listed the required school supplies.
One item — a cauldron — triggered a sharp memory.
He recalled a place called The Leaky Cauldron, the hidden gateway between the non-magical and magical worlds of Britain.
Harry closed his eyes for a moment and slipped into his mind palace.
He located the memory, reviewed it carefully, and noted the exact location: Charing Cross Road near Leicester Square Tube station, then a short walk south.
The entrance was marked by a swinging sign depicting a cracked cauldron.
A plain white wall held only a dark wooden door.
He searched his mental maps for the best route.
Overland National Rail to Balham, then switch to the Northern Line Underground straight through to Leicester Square.
The round trip would take a little over two hours each way — perfectly manageable.
Convincing his aunt to let him spend the day at the local library would be easy.
He simply needed to appeal to her insecurities using the techniques he had learned from Reinventing Influence.
But did he even want to come back?
Not really.
He knew every word his aunt and uncle had ever told him about his parents and the scar on his forehead was a lie.
He also remembered being taken to a bank hidden in the alley behind that pub.
No. He would tell his aunt he was going out for the day so he wouldn’t be underfoot, then head straight to the bank.
With luck, his parents had left him money.
If not, he would figure out how to survive on his own.
He had hidden about twenty pounds in his cupboard.
Over the years he had built a quiet side business at school: he did other kids’ homework.
They paid his price, received top-quality work, and simply copied it into their own handwriting.
Only his personal “agents” knew his real identity.
Even if someone exposed the “homework expert,” no one believed it.
After all, Harry Potter was known as a terrible student — somehow even worse than his obese cousin despite spending hours in the library.
If Dudley scored 50% on an assignment, Harry made sure to get 48%.
He stayed just behind, always.
No one knew the beatings he would receive from Dudley and Uncle Vernon if he ever outperformed “Dear Duddikins.” No one knew the effort he put into appearing slightly worse than his cousin.
No one knew his greatest secret.
The morning after receiving the letter, Harry rose early.
He fed the Dursleys, cleaned the breakfast dishes and the entire kitchen, then used his newly learned influencing skills on his aunt.
A few carefully chosen words about how much easier her day would be if he weren’t around were enough.
She let him go.
He made his way quickly to the local National Rail station and soon transferred at Balham onto the Underground.
Less than half an hour later he was riding the Northern Line straight toward Leicester Square.
The journey was faster than he expected for a weekday morning.
Before long he was walking briskly along Charing Cross Road, eyes sharp for the sign of The Leaky Cauldron.
He spotted it quickly, slipped inside, and walked straight through to the back door as the memory instructed.
Once in the alley, he couldn’t recall exactly how to open the brick wall, so he waited.
A few minutes later the bricks began shifting aside as someone exited from the other side.
Harry ducked through behind them.
Keeping his head down and staying out of the way, he moved down the narrow alley.
Halfway along stood the impressive marble building he remembered — Gringotts.
Fierce-looking creatures, no taller than he was, guarded the entrance with old-fashioned pikes and double-bladed axes.
Harry walked calmly between the tall stone pillars and through the grand double doors.
Inside, he scanned for someone who could help him check if he had any money.
He soon spotted one of the creatures behind a high counter.
Steeling himself, he approached and waited.
He wasn’t sure whether he should speak first.
After what felt like a long minute, the creature noticed him and snarled, “What do you want, little wizard?”
Harry kept his voice calm and quiet.
“I’m sorry to bother you, sir, but I’d like to know if my parents left any money for me here when they died.”
The creature paused, staring at him.
After a moment it asked, “What is your name?”
“Harry Potter, sir.”
The creature stared longer this time, its eyes flicking briefly to the scar visible beneath Harry’s long fringe.
Finally it said, “Wait there and I’ll have the Potter Account Manager sent for.” It scribbled something on a scrap of parchment with a gnarled pen, dropped it into a slot, and pressed a button.
Then it ignored Harry completely and returned to its tasks.
After another minute of waiting, Harry grew impatient and was about to speak when a voice behind him called out.
“Mr. Potter?”
He turned and found himself face to face with another of the creatures.
“Yes,” Harry replied.
“Follow me, please,” the creature said, turning and leading him deeper into the bank.