The moment they stepped inside, Ethan Jones discovered that the interior was every bit as dilapidated as the outside. His initial burst of excitement immediately deflated.
He was starting to wonder if he had actually watched the films properly. In the movies, the Leaky Cauldron had seemed decent enough—just old, but reasonably clean.
Reality, however, delivered a brutal slap.
The entire bar was thick with smoke. Several elderly witches sat puffing away on long pipes, their faces so deeply wrinkled that a dozen flies could have been trapped in the creases without hope of escape.
Every surface was coated in black grime, as though the place had not seen a proper cleaning in a hundred and eighty years.
"Professor, this is the Leaky Cauldron?" Ethan muttered under his breath to McGonagall, unable to hide the disdain in his voice. "It's certainly… leaky."
The Jones couple felt exactly the same, though good breeding kept their mouths shut. Their expressions, however, spoke volumes.
Professor McGonagall flushed slightly with embarrassment and hurried to explain. "The Leaky Cauldron is the oldest pub in Britain and incredibly famous. It's always packed, so it's only natural that some corners are not perfectly maintained."
"Hogwarts is absolutely nothing like this," she added quickly, clearly noticing the flicker of worry in Ethan's eyes about his future school. "We have house-elves who keep everything spotless."
Ethan pressed his lips together and said nothing more, turning instead to observe the other patrons.
Aside from the cluster of ancient witches in the corner, half-hidden behind clouds of pipe smoke, there were all manner of odd characters: strangely dressed little people who could only be described as dwarfs, stooped old men whose hair and beards looked like they had been tangled by a tornado and never combed since.
Behind the bar stood a hunched, toothless old man whose bald scalp gleamed dully under the dim lights, with only a few stubborn strands of hair clinging on for dear life.
Seeing the landlord's shining pate, Ethan asked with genuine concern, "Professor, can't wizards cure baldness?"
In his previous life he had suffered premature hair loss; the moment he started working, his hairline had retreated faster than the French army. He had secretly hoped magic might save him from that fate in the future, but now it seemed he had been far too optimistic.
McGonagall looked momentarily speechless at her new student's priorities. "There are methods—hair-growing charms, Hair-Restoring Potions, that sort of thing. You can research them yourself once you're at school."
"Oh, thank you, Professor!" Ethan brightened considerably, already wondering whether selling hair-growth potions to Muggles would be legal. It would certainly beat hair-transplant surgery.
The professor gave a curt nod to the bar owner—Tom, apparently—who recognised the routine of escorting Muggle-born (or in this case Muggle-raised) first-years and wisely kept his distance.
"Right, let's not dawdle," McGonagall said briskly. "I have another family to collect at one o'clock."
"Yes, Professor." Ethan had no desire to linger. Ever since his magic had awakened, he had been consciously trying to rein in the unnatural charm that leaked from him uncontrollably, but three months was hardly enough practice. Some of it still slipped through.
Already an old witch with yellowed teeth and hands like chicken claws was eyeing him hungrily, licking her lips in a way that sent ice down his spine.
Professor McGonagall followed his gaze, spotted the hag, and fixed her with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "New Hogwarts student," she warned coldly. "Mind yourself."
As she ushered the family of three across the bar toward the small back courtyard, she continued, "Do not worry. Hogwarts is protected by the greatest wizard alive today—Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. The sort of riff-raff you see here would not dare lay a finger on a Hogwarts student."
"Normal?" Albert caught the keyword at once.
McGonagall was far too precise to exaggerate Dumbledore's reputation lightly. "There are always exceptions—outlaws who fear no one, just as in the Muggle world there are always fools who plot against the Prime Minister."
That did little to ease Albert and Sofia's sudden worry for their son's safety.
Ethan squeezed their hands reassuringly. "I'll be fine, Mum, Dad. The professor is here, and Hogwarts has protections."
McGonagall lifted her chin proudly. "Rest assured, we do everything in our power to keep our students safe. Hogwarts is arguably the safest place on earth—layer upon layer of ancient wards and enchantments."
The couple exchanged a long look, still uneasy, but their son's shining eyes left them no real choice.
"Ethan, memorise this carefully," McGonagall instructed as they reached the brick wall in the tiny courtyard. "Next time you come to Diagon Alley, you will have to open the gateway yourself."
She drew her wand and began counting upward from the dustbin.
"Three up… two across…"
She tapped the correct brick three times—tap, tap, tap.
Nothing happened.
"…Huh?"
Professor McGonagall blinked, then tapped again—tap, tap, tap.
Still nothing.
An awkward silence fell. The professor's cheeks coloured faintly as she offered the family a sheepish smile. "There appears to be a slight… complication."
After a moment of careful inspection, she discovered the problem: some joker had moved the dustbin several inches to the left.
"I cannot imagine which wizard thought this was amusing," she muttered irritably. "I really ought to cast a Permanent Sticking Charm on that bin."
She repositioned the bin, flicked her wand to fix it permanently to the ground so no future prankster could repeat the trick, then counted again.
Tap, tap, tap.
This time the brick quivered. The surrounding bricks began to wriggle and shift like teeth in a gigantic mouth, folding away until a wide archway stood revealed, leading onto a winding cobblestone street that bustled with colour, noise, and magic.
Professor McGonagall nodded in satisfaction. "There. Ethan, did you follow that?"
"Perfectly, Professor!" Ethan's reply was brimming with excitement.
Seeing the gateway open with his own eyes was infinitely more breathtaking than any special effect in the cinema.
"Come along, then. Welcome to Diagon Alley—everything you need is here."
The four of them stepped through the archway. Behind them the bricks smoothly rearranged themselves, sealing the entrance once more until only blank wall remained.
Mr Albert Jones, still impeccably suited, reached out and touched the newly solid bricks in disbelief. His fingers met cold, unyielding stone—no illusion, no trick of the light.
Real magic. Right in the heart of London.