“This is it,” Dumbledore said, coming to a stop.
“The Leaky Cauldron.
The entrance to Diagon Alley is inside.” Damon followed Dumbledore’s gaze.
It was a tiny, filthy pub tucked between a large bookstore and a record shop, looking entirely out of place.
Strangely, though passersby streamed back and forth along the street, none of them seemed to notice The Leaky Cauldron at all.
Clearly, the pub was enchanted.
Still, Damon couldn’t help but complain internally: did wizards really love hiding out in such dingy, inconspicuous holes?
Just like Uncle.
Who would ever expect a powerful wizard of Light Chi to run a run-down antique shop in San Francisco?
Dumbledore seemed to notice Damon’s expression and smiled.
“Unimpressive as it looks, I assure you it won’t disappoint.” “To be honest, sir, I find that a bit hard to believe,” Damon remarked.
The two pushed open the door and stepped inside.
To Damon’s surprise, though the pub was dark and dingy, it was bursting with noise and thriving with business.
Patrons were drinking, smoking pipes…
The moment they entered, the clamor died down instantly.
Every pair of eyes turned toward Dumbledore, filled with varying degrees of respect.
After all, in today’s wizarding world, this century-old wizard’s life was nothing short of legendary.
A nearly hairless bartender, who resembled a shriveled walnut, waved at them enthusiastically.
“Professor Dumbledore!
What a rare pleasure.
Can I get you a pint of beer?” “Thank you for the thought, Tom,” Dumbledore said, patting Damon’s shoulder.
“I’m escorting this young wizard to buy his school supplies today, so I won’t stay long.” “Oh!
I had no idea the headmaster himself was doing new student escorts these days,” Tom said in surprise.
“He must have extraordinary talent, this young man.” The surrounding patrons turned inquisitive gazes toward Damon as well.
A man in a top hat called out loudly, “Looks like Hogwarts is welcoming two brilliantly talented young wizards this year!” Murmurs of agreement rippled through the room.
Everyone knew who the other young wizard was.
The famous Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.
He had passed through The Leaky Cauldron not too long ago.
*The Boy Who Lived vs.
Dumbledore’s Chosen Boy!!
Who is Hogwarts’ true rising star??
That’s the front-page story for the next issue!* A well-hidden female reporter thought to herself, practically vibrating with excitement.
“If you’ll excuse us, everyone,” Dumbledore said without elaborating.
He guided Damon past the bar and into a small, walled courtyard outside.
Aside from a trash can and a few weeds, the area was empty.
Damon spoke up.
“Sir, it sounds like you haven’t escorted a new student in years.
Why make an exception for me?” Damon was genuinely curious.
By all rights, a powerful, legendary wizard like Dumbledore wouldn’t spare a second glance for an ordinary boy—unless that boy’s name happened to be Harry Potter.
Was there something special about this original body’s identity?
Dumbledore paused, reflecting for a moment.
“Ensuring the safety of a young wizard who ran away from home…
is that not my duty as headmaster?” “An orphanage isn’t my home.
Besides, I’m sure the school has other teachers who could have handled this,” Damon replied, knowing full well Dumbledore wasn’t telling the whole truth.
Even if the original host had been ostracized at the orphanage, slipped away, and ended up on the streets, that hardly warranted Dumbledore searching for him in person.
Since Dumbledore wasn’t talking, Damon didn’t dwell on it.
Right now, all he wanted was to study this world’s magic at Hogwarts while seeking opportunities to collect the remaining eleven Talismans.
Keep a low profile and build power steadily—don’t get reckless!
“Home,” Dumbledore echoed softly, his long silver beard twitching slightly.
“A complex concept, Damon.
Sometimes it is a small shop filled with old relics; sometimes an ancient, bustling castle; and most times…
it is simply a place willing to accept you.” Damon didn’t respond, merely offering a nod.
To an entity that had lived for centuries, “home” was utterly meaningless.
Power was his true pursuit on the path to immortality.
Dumbledore dropped the topic as well.
Turning to face the blank brick wall, he extended a long finger and tapped lightly three times on a seemingly ordinary brick.
The bricks began to wriggle.
Not collapsing, nor crumbling, but coming alive—twisting, receding, and folding away block by block, revealing a winding cobblestone street beyond.
Sunlight poured through the sudden archway, bearing a magical warmth utterly different from the chilly courtyard.
“Welcome to Diagon Alley,” Dumbledore said.
The Leaky Cauldron vanished behind them, replaced by a bustling, shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.
Wizards walked past in all manner of robes—some plain and muted, others extravagant and colorful as peacock tails.
A dwarf pushing a cart laden with spherical crystals squeezed past, hawking his wares: “Latest model crystal balls!
Predict what you’ll have for breakfast next Wednesday!” A few young children chased a model golden snitch, which darted high and low over their heads with a sharp buzzing sound.
Shops lined both sides of the street in a bewildering array.
Compared to the world Shendu originally came from, the magic here was far more woven into daily life, touching every facet of a wizard’s existence.
“Next, we shall purchase your school supplies.
For a wizard, the most important thing is, of course, to possess a wand of their own.
A wand is a symbol of a wizard’s identity and an extension of their soul.
The wizard chooses the wand, but the wand also chooses the wizard.” Dumbledore led Damon down the narrow street of Diagon Alley, teaching him basic magical knowledge as they walked.
Before long, they arrived in front of a small, shabby shop.
The peeling gold lettering over the door read: *Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC.* “As I said before, don’t be fooled by appearances,” Dumbledore said with conviction.
“This is indisputably the finest wand shop in all of magical Britain.” “That I can believe.
A shop surviving for over two thousand years must have something going for it,” Damon said.
“However, I have another concern, sir.
I have no money.” Though he didn’t know how much a wand cost, it certainly wasn’t something a street urchin could afford.
“Silly me—forgive an old man’s absentmindedness,” Dumbledore said, looking mildly annoyed at himself.
“Hogwarts maintains a financial fund specifically for students who require assistance purchasing their school supplies.” “It isn’t a vast fortune, but it should cover your immediate needs.” With that, Dumbledore pulled a pouch from his pocket and placed it in Damon’s hand.
Damon pulled out a gold coin from the pouch, examining it closely.
“This isn’t British pounds.” “Indeed.
Wizards have their own currency,” Dumbledore explained.
“The gold coin in your hand is a Gold Galleon.
Seventeen silver Sickles make a Gold Galleon, and twenty-nine Bronze Knuts make a Sickle.
Furthermore, at Gringotts—the wizarding bank—you can exchange pounds for Gold Galleons.
The current rate is five pounds to one Gold Galleon.” “And a wand costs seven Gold Galleons.” “Thank you, sir.” A thought struck Damon.
Making money in the wizarding world might be difficult for him right now, but acquiring British pounds in the muggle world would be ridiculously easy.
“Shall we go in?
Let us see what kind of wand chooses you,” Dumbledore said.