It was still early in the morning when Harry and Kyle left the Walker house. They didn't walk toward the main road or a bus stop. Instead, Kyle led Harry through a side street, past a row of quiet houses, until they reached a half-abandoned park tucked behind a rusted fence. The grass was overgrown, the benches faded, and a single swing creaked slowly in the breeze.
They stopped at the edge of the park, just beside the sidewalk.
Harry looked around, frowning. "This is where we're catching the bus?"
Kyle nodded, then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out something small and red.
A bandana.
"What's that for?" Harry asked.
Kyle handed it over. "You need to wear this. Cover your forehead."
Harry's fingers instinctively touched his scar. "Why?"
"Because you're not just anyone, Harry," Kyle said. "You're Harry Potter. That scar makes you instantly recognizable. In our world, you're a... well, a celebrity."
Harry's brow furrowed, but he didn't argue. He tied the bandana over his forehead, covering the lightning bolt.
Kyle nodded approvingly. "Good. Now remember—don't tell anyone your real name. I'll introduce you as Harry Walker. You're my brother. We don't want attention."
Harry smirked. "So I'm your brother now?"
"Don't get used to it."
They both chuckled. Then Kyle glanced around, making sure no one was watching.
"All right," he said. "Now for the fun part."
From inside his jacket, Kyle pulled out a long, smooth wand—dark wood, polished and elegant. Harry's eyes widened as Kyle raised it straight above his head.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then—BANG!
A deafening explosion echoed through the street. Harry stumbled back, nearly falling.
With a screech of tires and a hiss of air, a massive, violently purple triple-decker bus appeared from nowhere. It skidded to a halt directly in front of them, the letters The Knight Bus glittering in gold across the windshield.
A young man in a conductor's uniform stepped off, his cap crooked, acne shining in the sunlight.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus," the man said in a quick, nasal voice. "Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name's Stan Shunpike, and I'll be your conductor today. Where to, lads?"
Kyle stepped forward. "Two to the Leaky Cauldron, please."
Stan nodded and scribbled something on a chart. "That'll be eleven sickles. Bed or seat?"
"Small bed," Kyle answered quickly, handing over the coins.
Stan stepped aside with a theatrical bow. "Hop aboard."
Harry followed Kyle into the bus and immediately forgot how to breathe.
Instead of rows of seats like a normal vehicle, the Knight Bus was lined with brass bedsteads—some swinging wildly as the bus idled, others floating slightly off the ground. A chandelier dangled dangerously from the ceiling, and there were lanterns lit with green flame.
Several witches and wizards lay curled on beds, sleeping peacefully despite the chaos. One old wizard sat cross-legged, reading a floating newspaper with moving photographs.
Kyle grabbed a narrow bed against the wall. "Here," he said. "This one's ours."
Harry sat down, still staring around in wonder. "This is mental."
"You haven't seen anything yet."
Just then, the bus lurched.
With a blast of speed, the Knight Bus shot forward. Trees blurred. Houses zipped past like streaks of paint. A telephone pole jumped out of the way just in time.
Harry held onto the bed frame. "Is it always this fast?"
Kyle laughed. "Pretty much. Not for the faint-hearted."
Harry grinned as the bed bucked beneath him. "Wizards are insane."
"They prefer the term unconventional."
After a few wild turns, Harry asked, "Do all wizards use this thing?"
Kyle shrugged. "Most don't. Proper wizards travel using Floo Powder. It lets you teleport through fireplaces. The Knight Bus is mostly for Muggle-borns like me—or squibs."
Harry nodded, still absorbing every word.
"And how do you know all this stuff?" he asked.
Kyle reached into his bag and pulled out a folded paper booklet. "They give you one of these your first year. It's a pamphlet for new students. Tells you all about the magical world—currency, transport, food, spells, all that. Saved me a lot of trouble."
Harry took the pamphlet reverently, as though it were sacred.
They sped through the countryside, stopped once in a cornfield to pick up a witch in a tartan dressing gown, then again outside a fishmonger where a wizard with three umbrellas disembarked.
Finally, after a series of sharp turns, the conductor shouted from the front, "Charing Cross Road! Leaky Cauldron!"
Kyle stood quickly, pulling Harry up by the arm. "This is us."
They stepped off the Knight Bus and landed onto a crowded sidewalk in the heart of London. Cars passed, horns honked, and people bustled by, unaware of what they were walking past.
Directly in front of them stood a dingy old pub, its sign faded but legible.
The Leaky Cauldron
It was wedged tightly between a bookstore and a record shop. Ordinary people passed it without seeing it at all.
Harry stared. "That's it?"
Kyle nodded. "That's the entrance to the wizarding world."
Harry stepped forward, heart pounding, and reached for the door.
Kyle's voice stopped him. "Hey. Remember what I said—don't mention the name Potter."
Harry glanced back and gave a small, excited smile.
"Right," he said. "Harry Walker, brother of Kyle."
"Exactly."
And together, they stepped into the shadows of the Leaky Cauldron—into the world that had been waiting for Harry all along.
As Harry stepped into the Leaky Cauldron, the air changed.
The lighting was dim and warm, filled with the soft crackle of a fire and the scent of old wood, pipe smoke, and something vaguely like roasted chestnuts. It was a cozy place, though far from clean. The floors creaked, and the ceiling beams hung low.
There were only a few people seated around—most of them men, hunched over tankards or quietly reading from floating newspapers. A few had their hoods pulled low, faces shadowed. One man near the fire was stirring a cup of tea with a wand, the spoon moving without his touch.
Behind the bar stood a bald man with a hunched back and watery eyes that crinkled kindly when he smiled.
"That's Tom," Kyle whispered. "He's the innkeeper. Bit strange, but he's harmless."
They approached the bar together.
"Good morning!" Kyle said cheerfully.
"Morning," Tom greeted, eyeing the boys. "You two heading through, then?"
Harry nodded, trying to sound confident. "Yes, sir. My name is Harry Walker. I'd like to see Diagon Alley."
Tom gave him a polite nod, unconcerned. "Right then. Follow your brother—he knows the way."
Kyle smirked. "Come on."
They stepped out the back door of the pub and into a small courtyard enclosed by high brick walls. There was a trash bin in one corner and a few weeds poking through the cracks in the stone ground.
Kyle walked to one section of the wall and pulled out his wand.
"Watch carefully," he said. "Three up… two across."
He tapped the bricks in a particular order. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the bricks began to tremble.
With a rumble and a ripple of ancient magic, the wall shifted, bricks folding inward like puzzle pieces rearranging themselves. An archway formed, leading to a world glowing with life and color.
Harry stepped through—and his breath caught.
Diagon Alley.
It was unlike anything he had ever seen.
The narrow cobbled street twisted and turned like a living thing, flanked by shops that stretched high and leaned in strange directions. Signs floated midair, owls perched on rafters, cauldrons boiled in storefronts, and bursts of magical light blinked overhead like fireflies.
Witches in robes bustled past, dragging trunks or holding parchment scrolls. Children laughed, racing to sweetshops, their excited chatter mixing with the hum of magic in the air.
"It's school holidays," Kyle said beside him. "So everyone's out shopping."
Harry followed close, eyes wide, absorbing everything.
Kyle waved to a group of older students standing near a robe shop. "Oi! Jules, Mira!"
Two kids waved back—one tall boy with curly brown hair and a girl with bright green spectacles.
Kyle greeted them quickly and introduced Harry. "This is my friend Harry. He's magical too."
The girl grinned. "Welcome to the Alley!"
Harry smiled nervously, glad Kyle hadn't called him his brother this time.
They moved on, and Kyle explained quietly, "Didn't want to say 'brother'—they know I'm an only child."
As they wandered, Harry began noticing something strange.
In several windows, he saw toys—figurines of a boy with untidy black hair and glasses, dressed in school robes, a wand raised in victory.
A sign read:
The Boy Who Lived! Collect your own Harry Potter!
In storefront had a small book stand labeled Tales of the Lightning Prince. A young witch was reading aloud from it to her little sister.
Harry stopped in front of one of the windows, frowning.
"Why does everyone think I wear glasses?" he asked Kyle.
Before Kyle could answer, the shopkeeper stepped outside—a middle-aged wizard in a wool vest with a feather pen tucked behind his ear.
"You're interested in the figurines?" he asked, smiling.
"Sort of," Harry said. "I was just wondering… how do people know what Harry Potter looks like? He's never even been in the magical world."
The man chuckled. "Oh, that's the mystery, isn't it? We don't know for certain. Most say he's a miniature of his father—James Potter. And James wore glasses. So the artists just… went with that. Scar in the middle of the forehead, round specs, messy hair."
Harry touched his bandana silently. The scar was actually to the left, not the center.
"And his face?"
"We sketched based on old school photo of James Potter. You'll find plenty of variations." He pointed inside. "Some versions even gave him freckles!"
Harry nodded, mind spinning.
They left the shop behind, and Kyle kept him moving, showing him the heart of Diagon Alley—Ollivanders, the wand shop, where Kyle explained Harry would get his wand when he turned eleven.
Then the robe store, the magical library, a bright ice cream parlor with enchanted cones, and even a tiny alley offshoot filled with shops selling strange powders and potion kits.
"Diagon Alley isn't straight," Kyle said, leading him carefully. "It branches off—like a twisted star. You find hidden shops if you know where to look."
Eventually, they arrived at a towering marble structure near the end of the main lane.
Gringotts Wizarding Bank
Its white façade gleamed in the sunlight. Goblin statues flanked the iron doors. Witches and wizards filed in and out, some carrying sacks of coins, others led by goblins into the depths.
Harry stood there, heart pounding.
"My parents," he said. "Do you think they left anything for me here?"
Kyle looked at him. "Only one way to find out."
And together, they climbed the steps.
The moment Harry stepped inside Gringotts, his breath caught in his throat.
The bank was carved from white stone that shimmered in the light, polished so perfectly that it reflected flickering chandeliers above. Along the marble walls were golden inlays and engravings in runes Harry didn't recognize. But one plaque caught his eye, mounted in the center of the hall:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed,
For those who take but do not earn
Must pay most dearly in their turn.
Harry muttered the lines under his breath as he read them. A shiver crept down his spine.
The great hall was bustling—wizards and witches queued in lines, goblins tall and sharp-eared perched behind long, high counters. Some goblins inspected precious gems through glowing lenses, others weighed silver coins with delicate tools.
And they were everywhere. Goblins.
Harry froze for a moment.
He had never seen a goblin in his life, but their appearance was unforgettable—thin, wiry bodies, pointed chins and noses, skin like worn parchment, and sharp, black eyes that followed every movement.
One of them bared his teeth as Harry walked by, and Harry wasn't sure whether it was a grin or a warning.
Imagine Uncle Vernon walking into this place, Harry thought suddenly.
The mental image of Vernon Dursley stumbling backward into a marble pillar, sputtering about "freakish little elves" made Harry snort in spite of his nerves.
"Don't stare," Kyle whispered, dragging him forward by the arm.
Harry blinked and followed him toward an empty teller at the far end of the row. The goblin there had pale skin and wore a small brass monocle as he scribbled something in a large ledger with impossibly tiny writing.
Kyle gave a polite nod. "Morning, sir."
Harry hesitated, then stepped forward, lowering his voice. "Um... I'm new to wizarding world. But both of my parents were magical. I just wanted to know if they left anything in this bank."
The goblin slowly looked up, fixing him with a stare. His black eyes gleamed.
He showed his long, pointed teeth.
Harry felt his stomach twist. Was that a smile? A threat? A warning?
The goblin's voice was low and rough. "Name?"
"Harry Potter."
There was a beat of silence.
The monocle dropped from the goblin's eye. "Harry Potter," he repeated slowly.
He leaned forward and whispered in a voice sharp as steel, "You know… lying in Gringotts is not good for your health."
Harry flinched. "I'm not lying. That's really my name."
The goblin stared hard at him for a moment, then nodded. Without another word, he hopped down from the high stool behind the counter and walked around to them.
"Follow me," he ordered curtly.
Harry looked back at Kyle.
Kyle gave him an encouraging smile.
The goblin scowled at Kyle. "You'll sit in the waiting area. We'll handle the Potter problem ourselves."
Kyle raised his hands in surrender. "Right. Of course. Good luck, Harry."
Harry swallowed hard and followed the goblin deeper into the bank.
The halls beyond the counters were dimmer, colder. The air smelled of dust and old gold. Goblins passed silently on errands, each nodding with curt acknowledgment as they passed.
Every corridor looked the same, and Harry had no idea how anyone remembered the way. He didn't dare ask.
His escort didn't speak again until they reached a black iron door set into a stone arch.
The goblin placed his hand against a runed plate beside the door.
With a metallic groan, the door creaked open.
"Inside."
Harry stepped in.
It was a small room with no windows, just a round table with three chairs and a glass case in the corner. The goblin stepped in after him and closed the door.
"My name is Gorflak," he said, seating himself. "You are not registered in the public records as having claimed your inheritance. But your identity matches with vault lineage tracing."
Harry blinked. "Vault? My parents… had a vault?"
The goblin stared at him.
"You are the sole heir of the Potter family. James and Lily Potter, both deceased. Their assets were placed under high-level Gringotts protection until your claim could be confirmed."
Gorflak stood and walked to the case in the corner. Inside it was a small black stone tablet, inscribed with glowing runes.
He placed his clawed hand atop it, then gestured for Harry.
"Touch it."
Harry stepped forward. The stone pulsed faintly.
"State your name and intent," Gorflak instructed.
Harry placed his hand on the cool stone. "I'm Harry Potter. I just… want to know if I have anything left behind by my parents."
A faint ripple ran through the runes.
The goblin studied it and nodded. "Confirmed. Magical identity authenticated."
Harry dropped his hand.
Gorflak tapped a sigil on the tablet. A drawer slid open from beneath the table, revealing a red wax-sealed scroll with the Potter crest.
"This contains your provisional inheritance summary," he said. "You may read it, or we can arrange a tour of the vaults."
Harry stared at it, heart thumping.
He wasn't just a guest in a strange world anymore.
He had a place in it.
A name.
A family.
A vault.
___________________________________________
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