In front of Julian stood a dingy, cramped pub—a place he never would have noticed if Dumbledore hadn't led him there. The pedestrians on the street moved past it as though it didn't even exist.
"Sir, can't they see this bar?" Julian asked curiously.
"There's a Muggle-Repelling Charm cast on it," Dumbledore explained with a chuckle. "To Muggles, the Leaky Cauldron doesn't exist at all, and should they stumble too close, they'll suddenly remember something too important to ignore and walk away. Rather convenient, wouldn't you agree?"
Without waiting for Julian's reply, the headmaster pushed open the pub door.
Julian followed him inside. Immediately, the bright outside world dimmed into a gloomier, dust-filled space. His vision sharpened instinctively—thanks to his bloodline eyes—and the murky blur cleared.
The Leaky Cauldron, supposedly one of the wizarding world's most famous pubs, looked more like an underground black-market den than anything else—dirty, worn, and filled with the scent of ale and tobacco.
A cluster of old witches sat scattered around with glasses and knitting, some puffing rhythmically on long pipes, others murmuring to themselves as they sipped. All chatter, however, ceased instantly when Dumbledore stepped in. Every eye turned in quiet awe.
"Professor Dumbledore!" a young man exclaimed excitedly, bowing as though he'd encountered a beloved hero.
"Hello, Mr. Farmas," Dumbledore returned with pleasant courtesy. The young man grinned like a boy given sweets.
"Dumbledore, long time no see!" An elderly wizard stood and nodded to the headmaster.
"Marcus." Dumbledore's face lit up in mild surprise. "Out of your potions chamber? I thought your bones had fused with your cauldrons long ago."
The man—gray-haired but lively—chuckled. "Even I must walk among the living sometimes. And who is this? A new student?"
"Yes," Dumbledore said proudly, motioning Julian forward. "Mr. Julian Wooless, soon-to-be Hogwarts student. Julian, this is Marcus—one of the greatest potion masters alive. His brews are extraordinary."
Julian bowed politely. "An honor to meet you, sir."
Marcus eyed him keenly, nodding. "Respectful and sharp—a fine seedling indeed." He reached into his cloak, then produced a small vial of gold-gleaming liquid. "Here. This is something special I've just finished refining. Consider it fate."
Julian blinked, glancing instinctively to Dumbledore, whose raised brows betrayed genuine astonishment. Even the untrained boy could tell—Dumbledore was rarely caught off guard.
Julian did not reach for the vial. "Sir… you honor me, but we have just met. A gift so rare from a stranger makes me uneasy. May I ask why?"
Dumbledore, regaining composure, said softly, "Julian, I suggest you accept it. Marcus does not give away potions lightly—not even to me. I suspect he sees something in you."
Marcus gave a hoarse chuckle. "I like your spirit, boy. I've no ulterior motive but this—sometimes greatness calls to greatness." Without further explanation, he pressed the vial into Julian's hand and disappeared into the crowd.
Julian turned to Dumbledore, silent question in his eyes.
The professor did not answer immediately. Instead, he approached Tom, the innkeeper. "Please prepare Mr. Wooless a room until term begins."
"Of course, Professor." With brisk efficiency, Tom led them to a sunny room upstairs, dropped off the key, and left.
At last, Dumbledore charmed the walls for privacy. "Julian, that potion… it is one of the rarest in existence. It is called an Enhancement Potion. A single vial permanently strengthens a wizard's magical core."
Julian stared. Permanent? His breathing quickened. He knew better than anyone how slow his chakra-based cultivation converted into magical power. Even at his current pace, his strength was still only on the level of a chunin. Too weak. Too vulnerable.
Now, with this… a shortcut had appeared.
"Professor, I'll take it now," Julian said firmly.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled approvingly. "Very well. Sit."
Julian uncorked the vial and swallowed it down. Heat poured through his veins like fire and honey. His very cells seemed to hum, his magic swelling rapidly—dozens, hundreds, thousands of times faster than training. He closed his eyes, guiding the energy with shinobi precision, molding it as if it were chakra.
Time slipped away.
When his eyes opened again, sunlight had shifted into midday. His core blazed with newfound strength, his magic now on par with jonin-level chakra reserves. Joy rippled through him… quickly suppressed. He would not be careless.
Dumbledore studied him silently. In that boy, he glimpsed shadows of another—half a century ago. Tom Riddle. Talented, polite, brilliant… and ultimately consumed by his hunger for power. Dumbledore's heart hardened. This one must not fall.
Julian frowned. "Professor, something wrong?"
"No, no, forgive an old man's musings," Dumbledore said quickly. "How do you feel, Julian?"
"Better. Much better. And… please, don't call me Mr. Wooless," Julian added awkwardly.
The professor smiled. "Very well, Julian. Now, come. Your robes will take time to order—we should begin shopping."
Together they descended to the back courtyard: a small, weedy space, nothing more than trash and bare bricks. Dumbledore approached the wall and tapped a sequence with his wand.
"Stand back," he told Julian.
The bricks shuffled and folded inward, winding away until at last an archway revealed a bustling cobblestoned street. Hundreds of witches and wizards filled the shops, stalls, and pavements, bartering, shouting, laughing. The air was thick with the smell of parchment, owl feathers, herbs, and roasted nuts from passing vendors.
Julian's eyes went wide.
"Welcome, Julian," Dumbledore said with a gentle smile. "Welcome to Diagon Alley. Welcome… to the wizarding world."