Gringotts Bank was managed by goblins and protected under the authority of the Ministry of Magic.
Its branches stretched across the world, and it enjoyed the complete trust of wizards everywhere.
Yet the British Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, walked out of it looking deeply troubled.
Safe?
Safe my foot!
Someone had broken into a vault in broad daylight.
Fine.
The suspect escaping cleanly?
Also fine.
But over thirty minutes had already passed since the incident— and they hadn’t found even a single hair.
Was the culprit male or female?
And more importantly— why target the newly appointed Minister of Magic?
Dressed in a striped black suit, Fudge adjusted his bowler hat and straightened his posture as he headed toward the southern side of Diagon Alley.
The culprit had vanished without leaving a shadow.
Reducing losses was now the highest priority.
Standing before the headquarters of those reporters who ran faster than elite Aurors, he put on a polished smile and pushed open the door.
“Everyone, good aftern—”
“Rita, have you decided on the headline yet?”
“Of course, Chief Editor Barnabas.”
Fudge quietly swallowed the rest of his words.
A blonde woman adjusted the jewel-covered glasses perched on her nose and rapidly listed titles.
“Shocking Truth: The Real Reason Behind Gringotts’ Terrifying Theft!”
“Has You-Know-Who Returned?
Why Is the Ministry So Incompetent?”
“Reporter Risks Life to Obtain Secret Information from Gringotts!”
“Minister Fudge: Wolf or Sheep?”
By this point, Fudge’s smile had somehow grown even brighter.
Slowly walking over to Rita, he elegantly picked up the rough draft from her desk.
“Oh my…
how unfortunate.”
The reporters from the Daily Prophet all looked toward the chief editor.
Barnabas immediately stood and offered a flattering smile.
“Minister Fudge!
You’re here.”
Fudge glanced over the draft and casually placed it back down.
“It was merely a thief.”
“Trust me—the Ministry won’t allow him freedom for long.”
“Of course.”
Barnabas quickly grabbed the article and tore it into pieces.
“Minister Fudge, the Daily Prophet has always followed the principle of reporting facts.
We’ve never fabricated stories.”
“I believe you.”
Then Fudge left.
His departing figure looked elegant and composed.
Not a trace remained of the panic he’d shown earlier.
…
…
The Leaky Cauldron.
As everyone knew—
Britain was a culinary wasteland.
Its three legendary national dishes had become famous worldwide.
Sheep organs mixed with onions and seasonings, crushed and stuffed directly into a sheep’s stomach before cooking— so natural that every bite moved people to tears.
Fresh sardines wrapped in flour and eggs before receiving the oven’s divine blessing— the fish-head pie pointed toward the heavens itself inspired uncontrollable urges just from appearance alone.
And finally— eel mixed into meat broth and vinegar, cooled into a sweet-and-sour jelly masterpiece— a dish so refined that one bite alone supposedly brought complete satisfaction.
“This roast suckling pig is really fresh.”
Grease covered Vincent Wayne’s mouth as he wiped tears from his eyes.
After eating frozen food for eleven straight years— anyone suddenly given juicy fresh meat would cry on the spot.
Watching him, McGonagall gained an even deeper understanding of the Wayne family’s financial situation.
If Tom hadn’t insisted on treating them— this family of three probably wouldn’t have dared order dishes made from fresh ingredients.
Oh…
what a pitiful family.
They couldn’t afford rent.
They rarely ate fresh food.
They couldn’t even take out a mere hundred Galleons.
The Wayne family’s life was simply tragic!
Ever since sobering up, Eric had noticed something strange about McGonagall’s gaze.
That mixture of sympathy and pity made him unconsciously slow down while eating his pickled eel.
“Professor…
aren’t you eating?”
“I’m not hungry yet.”
McGonagall pushed the game pie before her toward them.
“There’s still plenty of time this afternoon.
We can eat slowly.”
Vincent used a napkin to wipe oil from his mouth.
“Professor McGonagall, won’t this interfere with your work?”
“There’s still quite some time before school begins—”
McGonagall gently rubbed Vincent Wayne’s head with her palm.
“Among the families assigned for me to visit this year, besides yours, there’s only one left.”
Vincent neatly folded his napkin with perfect manners.
“That’s great.
Hopefully we can buy everything on the list this afternoon.”
“We certainly will.”
Just then— a burst of green light suddenly flashed from the fireplace inside the pub.
The moment a woman in pale yellow robes stepped out, McGonagall’s face instantly darkened.
“Which one is Mr.
Wayne?
Plea—”
Following everyone’s line of sight, she looked toward the four people sitting at the bar enjoying lunch.
“Rita,” McGonagall said flatly, lips pressed together, “we are currently eating.”
“Oh!
Professor McGonagall!
What a coincidence!”
Rita pulled out a notebook and pen, revealing a smile she clearly believed was charming.
Scratch scratch scratch—
She immediately began writing something at incredible speed.
“So this must be Mr.
Wayne—the man who successfully completed the Gamp Ale challenge…”
She looked Eric up and down from head to toe.
Then casually wrote down:
“Large-limbed Muggle male.”
“And this is your wife?”
Eric, feeling rather confused, nodded.
“Oh—and your son too.”
Rita’s expression resembled a shark smelling blood.
“Little Mr.
Wayne has a pretty solid build~”
She suddenly reached over and squeezed Vincent’s upper arm.
“Were you born like this?”
“Not entirely…”
“I see.”
She rapidly scribbled another line.
“You’re going to become someone famous in the magical world.”
“Rita!”
Under McGonagall’s increasingly dangerous gaze, Rita awkwardly took a half-step backward.
“Don’t worry.
I won’t write nonsense.”
She put away her notebook and pen.
“The editor only assigned me one task.”
“A headline big enough to catch attention.”
McGonagall stretched out her hand.
“The exit is that way.”
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
After Rita vanished through the fireplace using Floo Powder, Vincent finally couldn’t hold back any longer.
“Professor…
was that reporter from the Daily Prophet?”
“Yes.”
McGonagall hesitated several times.
Eventually, she decided to speak.
“Rita Skeeter is indeed a journalist…”
She paused and softened her expression slightly.
“But the articles she writes…”
“In short, you should be careful around her.”
Vincent instantly understood.
A reporter who couldn’t even follow proper dining etiquette— how reliable could her articles possibly be?
Still…
No matter how badly she twisted facts out of context— could it really become more ridiculous than certain tabloid newspapers?
Completely unconcerned, Vincent calmly took a sip of tea.
“Professor, my dad is the main character.”
“Mom and I are just background decorations.”
“I hope so.”
McGonagall appeared reassured on the surface.
But inwardly, she had already decided:
Starting tonight, she would monitor every newspaper report closely.
As for now— the most important task was acting as a proper guide for the Wayne family entering the magical world.
“Starting from the trash bin…”
“Count three bricks upward, then move two bricks sideways—”
In the pub’s backyard, the Wayne family watched as McGonagall tapped the correct bricks.
The moment her wand struck— the entire wall began folding inward.
At the end of the cobblestone archway stood the wizarding equivalent of Oxford Street— the commercial center of Diagon Alley.
Vincent was very pleased with his nickname for it.
Looking around— people wearing robes and pointed hats walked everywhere.
Combined with all the bizarre little shops…
calling it Wizard Plaza honestly worked too.
“Welcome to Diagon Alley—”
McGonagall faced the Wayne family with a proud expression.
“Welcome…
to the true magical world.”