The late-night festivities had ensured a slow, peaceful start to the morning at Swann Manor. The remnants of birthday magic—a stray, floating balloon, the faint scent of melted frosting—lingered in the air. Remus Lupin, ever the discreet and solitary figure, had slipped away quietly before dawn, leaving only a small, neatly wrapped book as a thank you.
Sebastian stood at the foot of the drive, flanked by Harry and the towering, magnificent bulk of Hagrid. The muggle street was utterly deserted.
Sebastian, without looking, simply turned his back to the road, extended his right hand, and raised his wand straight into the early summer air. It was a gesture of command, a silent, absolute demand for transport.
Before Harry could even ask why they weren't simply using the fireplace—a method he had become entirely accustomed to in his accelerated summer training—a phenomenal thing occurred.
A monstrous, deep purple object, moving with the speed and trajectory of a demented purple missile, materialized out of the shimmering air. It wasn't driving; it was hurtling, a colossal, three-decker bus that slammed to a halt directly in front of them with a squeal of invisible, magical brakes.
The bus door—a folding concertina of polished brass and dusty glass—opened instantly. A wiry young man in a shabby uniform, sporting an impressive collection of pimples, vaulted down onto the pavement.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus! Emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. I'm Stan Shunpike, conductor. Where to, then?"
A bus? Harry vigorously rubbed his eyes, convinced he was still caught in the tail end of a powerful dream. We're going to Diagon Alley. Why the bus? Why not the smooth, efficient Floo Network?
This was not what Harry considered "magical." It was aggressively, ridiculously Muggle, only three stories tall and violently purple.
Sebastian caught Harry's incredulous expression and winked. "The Floo Network is terribly provincial and requires a designated fireplace, Harry. This is far more elegant."
Harry, still bewildered, followed Sebastian and Hagrid aboard, finding a surprisingly comfortable, curtained seat by the window on the first deck. He fumbled with the primitive, thick leather seatbelt—another disconcerting Muggle element.
Above him, Hagrid's booming voice addressed Stan. "Three of us, Stan. To the Leaky Cauldron, if you please."
"The Leaky Cauldron, right-o! Not far at all. Five Sickles apiece for the swift journey."
The transaction was barely complete before the Knight Bus exploded into motion. It didn't accelerate; it simply left, lurching forward with the force of a trebuchet, instantly reaching an unbelievable velocity. There was an unnerving absence of internal jolting or vibration, yet the scenery outside the window blurred into streaks of color, making Harry feel instantly dizzy.
"Easy, Harry," Sebastian chuckled, completely relaxed in his seat. "The Knight Bus is smoother than it looks. It's an essential part of the magical infrastructure. Not every wizard can master Apparition, which is violent and nauseating for many."
"And others," Sebastian continued, his voice dropping slightly, "dislike the feeling of being squeezed through a tight space. The Knight Bus was designed for everyone else. When you need it in the future, just stand on the curb and summon it with your wand, just as I did."
Harry watched, mouth agape, as the driver, Ernie Prang, steered the bus with gleeful abandon. A massive Muggle double-decker bus appeared directly in their path—a catastrophic collision was imminent—but the Knight Bus simply squeezed itself, magically distorting its dimensions to fit between the Muggle bus and a lamppost, leaving a shockwave of displaced air.
That's not just magical, Harry realized, heart hammering with a mixture of fear and exhilaration. That is brilliantly, gloriously defiant.
Before he could properly formulate the question about the Muggles seeing this purple monstrosity, the bus jerked, the invisible brakes engaging with the same ferocious speed as the start.
"End of the line, three to the Leaky Cauldron, Charing Cross Road!" Stan shouted.
Sebastian clapped Harry on the shoulder. "Come on, Harry. We're here."
Harry stepped off the pavement and immediately had to adjust his vision. The Knight Bus had dropped them on a quiet, unremarkable London street. Between a second-hand bookstore and a small vinyl record shop, Harry spotted an impossibly cramped, shabby little pub. A rickety wooden sign, bearing the faded inscription "The Leaky Cauldron," swayed precariously over a battered oak door.
The handful of Muggles passing by seemed to flow around the bar, their eyes glancing over the doorway as if their brains had automatically registered the space as empty, or perhaps just a grimy brick wall.
The visual contrast was stark: the chaotic, magical rush of the Knight Bus gave way to this utterly unimpressive, almost depressing location.
Harry followed Hagrid and Sebastian inside. The interior was immediately hostile to the senses: a fug of stale beer, pipe smoke, damp wood, and something vaguely metallic. The lighting was weak, emanating from a few flickering, yellow gas lamps.
The wooden floorboards groaned under Hagrid's weight, and the walls were coated in decades of grime. This was not the shimmering, sophisticated entrance to the magical world he had envisioned. It was dark, dirty, and profoundly underwhelming.
But Hagrid looked utterly and completely at home.
"Hagrid!" a chorus of greetings arose.
Harry kept his gaze low, adjusting the brim of the cap Sebastian had insisted he wear. He knew what was coming. Since Sebastian had explained the truth—that his fame was earned by his mother's sacrifice and not his own actions—Harry felt intensely uncomfortable with the title of "Savior". The hat was meant to cover the scar, to afford him a semblance of anonymity.
He followed Hagrid, trying to blend into the shadows, his eyes darting across the dimly lit room. Witches and wizards sat at rough-hewn tables, some quietly sipping steaming, exotic beverages, others animatedly discussing strange, whirring magical objects. It was a secret society, and Harry was finally truly inside it.
Suddenly, the bustling, portly bartender—a kindly-looking man with an impressive lack of hair—spotted Hagrid, who leaned across the bar and quietly, but still quite loudly, muttered Harry's name.
The bartender, Tom, immediately launched himself from behind the bar, his eyes wide and bright. He rushed toward Harry, seizing his hand with both of his own.
"Mr. Potter! Welcome back to the Leaky Cauldron, sir!" Tom exclaimed, his voice vibrating with genuine excitement.
Harry winced. Hagrid's attempt to keep his voice down was a spectacular failure. Every head in the bar had snapped toward them.
His internal cringe deepened as he felt the immediate rush of attention. He knew this feeling—the intense, invasive focus of the magical world.
I am not the Savior, he desperately thought, wishing the floor would simply swallow him. My mum is the hero!
"Po-Po-Potter, sir. It is a p-p-privilege," a new, reedy voice stammered.
Harry spun around. Standing before him was a pale, nervous young man wearing a purple turban, his voice shaking visibly, both from fear and perhaps excitement.
"Ah, Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid bellowed, stepping forward to clap the poor man on the back with enough force to rearrange his internal organs. "Harry, this is one of your new teachers at Hogwarts. Professor Quirinus Quirrell."
Harry's mind reeled. A professor? He shook Quirrell's trembling hand politely. "Hello, Professor Quirrell, pleased to meet you."
What in Merlin's beard does he teach? Harry wondered, his critical eye still sharp from his intense summer study.
Snape is brilliant but cold. But a man who is terrified to speak two consecutive syllables? How is he supposed to manage a class of first-year Slytherins? Does he possess some hidden talent, like a secret mastery of Charms, to compensate for his overwhelming nerves?
Just as Harry was about to ask a polite, cautious question—perhaps about the subject Quirrell taught—Sebastian appeared at his shoulder, his demeanor shifting instantly from the casual uncle to the hyper-focused, strategic politician.
Sebastian gave Harry a gentle, yet firm shove toward Hagrid. "Harry, your celebrity can wait. You have a mission, and Hagrid is on Hogwarts business. You've missed two weeks of rigorous Potions instruction, and Professor Snape, as you know, is not a man to be trifled with over missed homework."
He leaned closer, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Go with Hagrid. Your priority is to stock up on all the Potions ingredients you'll need for the rest of the summer."
Sebastian then winked, the subtle gesture cutting through the chaos.
"And listen: when you go to the apothecary, you need to acquire some truly rare, high-quality, and prohibitively expensive ingredients. These won't be for your homework. These are going to be your apology gift to your Potions master. The rarer the item, the more you demonstrate your seriousness and respect. Deliver them to his cottage tomorrow."
"If you find anything truly unique that exceeds your funds, place an order. I'll settle the tab later. Do not worry about the expense. Just ensure it is something Snape cannot easily acquire himself. Consider it an investment in your future grading."
Sebastian then seamlessly pivoted, turning his full, brilliant charm upon the stammering professor. He extended his hand, this time forcing the contact with a confident grip.
"Professor Quirrell, it's been too long! I'm Sebastian Swann, the Muggle Studies instructor, though you may know me by my more public venture, Swan Alchemy."
Quirrell squeaked, managing only a short, nervous nod.
"I heard about your fascinating journey around the Muggle world last year," Sebastian continued, his voice warm but his eyes calculating. "That requires real courage, especially traveling alone. The perils of Muggle travel are surprisingly mundane but deadly. A colleague of mine in Muggle Studies who actually left the country? That's rare."
Sebastian smoothly maneuvered Quirrell away from the bar and the curious crowd.
"Come, come. It's my treat today, Professor. As future colleagues—two of the newer, perhaps more global-minded members of the Hogwarts staff—we need to know each other better. I must hear all about your discoveries abroad. You must tell me if the Muggle technologies I'm teaching are accurate. We can discuss your future syllabus over a glass of the finest Firewhisky."
Sebastian's arm slipped around Quirrell's shoulder in a gesture of false camaraderie, propelling him toward a secluded, dimly lit corner table. It was a perfect piece of political theater: isolating the potentially dangerous new teacher under the guise of collegial bonding.
Watching the two professors disappear—one tall, composed, and utterly dominant, the other short, frail, and already sweating profusely under the purple turban—Harry felt a strange mixture of relief and confusion.
He smiled at Hagrid. His mission was clear. He had potions to master, a reputation to manage, and a professor to bribe with rare ingredients. Harry followed the giant toward the brick wall at the back of the Leaky Cauldron, ready to enter the true artery of the magical world.