On the 17th of August, 1994, I stumbled through the greasy door of the Leaky Cauldron on a sludgy, wet Wednesday. By the large clock on the wall, it was 3:41 pm. I looked extremely out of place in a pair of jeans, a large jumper with a picture of cake and the phrase 'More Not War' on it, a pair of heavy black boots and the filthy canvas bag containing my every possession (a bundle of money-a small inheritance, three books and some clothes) among these cloaked humans. The entire establishment looked up in curiosity. Taking me for a muggle-born, or otherwise very well dressed witch, their tired and bored heads slumped back to whatever it was they were doing. Over at the bar, a woman (?) with extremely bad posture leant over a plate of raw meat, sniffing at it intently. An age-worn man with no teeth smiled at me from behind the bar, a reassuring smile that made me feel the tiniest bit better.

"Can I 'elp you, love?" he asked kindly, and I remember wondering how he could talk so reasonably well with no teeth.

Snapping back into my new reality, I looked down at the piece of paper in my hand. It was thick and yellowed, and the writing seemed to be written with a nib. It was from my Aunt Harriet, who had looked after me for the past 17 years of my existence. She had died three days ago in Cardiff in a blank, dark hospital. It was snowing. Before it happened, she gave me the paper, saying her half-brother had given it to her – it was his address – if she ever needed him. She didn't need him anymore, but I did. Legally I wasn't of age yet and still needed a guardian. The writing on the paper was…artful. There were curves and spirals, dancing across the page like black ballerinas.

"Um… I'm looking for Mr Blott? Shop Number 10, Diagon Alley?" I'd never heard of the place before.

"Of course, love, straight through there." he said, pointing to another wooden door, already open, leading to a brick wall. He saw my puzzled look.

"You've been to Diagon Alley before?" I shook my head.

"Do you have a wand?" his voice was still kind, but there was a sense of confusion in it. I realise later it must have been strange; a girl of age randomly walking into the Leaky Cauldron without a wand or parents or anyone, only a name. If he didn't know any better, Tom the Barman probably would've taken me for a Muggle. But I had come through his door. Without any magic blood, I couldn't have even seen the sign. My Aunt had told me to come through this place and ask for directions, and it had worked.

I shook my head. Why would I have a wand? Was my uncle a part of this weird magicians club. Was this a prank? Aunt Harriet was a bit weird sometimes. It could be. While the many theories of my Aunt's half-brother's life ran through my head, Tom made a decision, one I am eternally grateful for.

"Follow me," he sighed, and led me toward the brick wall. He pulled out a withered looked stick from his waistcoat pocket and tapped the bricks in a pattern. The bricks started to move and I tried hard not to black out from shock. Right there in front of me was an entire street filled with people dressed in cloaks and pointy hats, some carrying broomsticks, others bags of bottles filled to the lid with strange liquids. As far as the eye could see, this street stretched. Tom's hand on my arm drew me away from my thoughts. He pointed down the street to a clean looking yet crooked storefront filled with large, leather bound books.

"There's Flourish and Blotts, with the plants on the upstairs balcony. The original Mr Flourish and Mr Blott have died now, but Joseph Blott, Mr Blott's son, runs it now. He's there by himself these days. Be behind the counter."

"Thank you very much." I said to the hunched little man. He was really quite sweet, and over the years we became friends. But that's later.

I pushed my way through the throng of strange people and hooting owls (owls!) and finally reached the front door of 10 Diagon Alley. At first I went to knock, but then remembered it was a shop, and that would look stupid. So I turned the antique handle and went through. I was greeted with a sight beyond words. All my life I had loved books, and here was a store that seemed limitless. I looked to the roof and the many levels above my head. Funny. It seemed smaller on the outside. There were more people in here, milling about. There were a lot of older parents and guardians snapping at the children to just be quiet for Merlin's sake and give me the book list. One child handed over the piece of paper to his disgruntled father and poked out her tongue to his back as he turned away. I giggled, she met my gaze and grinned. Whoever these people were, the children were just the same. A whole line of them were waiting in line at the desk, so I decided it would be rude to impose just now. I would wait until it had all calmed down a bit. I walked to the fifth level where the sign on the stairs said 'Non-Fiction'. On the different isles there were signs indicating the level of excitement you would discover in the books.

'Adventure of Unbelievable Size'

'Good Fun Sprinkled With Facts and a Pinch of Important Dates'

'Dull but Informative'

'Boring and Accurate'

I had a feeling I would like this Uncle Blott of mine. It was another hour before the crowd even began to thing. And another before there were only a few wandering about aimlessly. The hard-core shoppers had all gone, and now I could go to meet my uncle for the first time. As I approached the desk, I was struck by how old he was. My Aunt was only in her mid-thirties. Uncle Joe was pushing fifty. His back was only slightly bent, his head an ocean of wispy hair. His hands were worn and tanned like the leather binding the books in his window. He was thin and wiry, wearing a clean, pressed waistcoat and tie. He turned around with a tired sigh and faced me, large grey eyes peeping at me from behind a pince-nez.

"Hello," he sighed, leaning his exhausted arms against the polished desk, "How can I help you today?" I took a deep breath.

"Joseph Blott? I'm Cecilia Charleston. My Aunt Harriet is your half-sister."

Immediately his eyes brightened and his back straightened.

"Harriet! I haven't heard from Harriet in years! How is she?" He reminded me of a puppy, excited, tail wagging, expecting a treat. But instead I had to give him a slap.

"Oh. Um. I'm sorry. I thought someone would have told you…" The newly kindled light was fading. "She…um… I'm sorry, Mr Blott, but Aunt Harriet…died. Three days ago."

The only word I can think of to this day that even comes close to the expression on my uncle's face is: shattered.

"What?"

"She'd been sick for a while. She said she'd been writing to you. I guessed she'd told you. Sorry." The word tasted empty, pointless. Joseph Blott collapsed into the creaky leather chair behind him.

"Could you please close the shop?" he croaked. I looked around. There were only two people now. I could do that.

"Um, excuse me? Could you please leave?" I looked at the till. "If you have purchases to make, I can put them through." At this point I did not know about wizarding money. A tall man left, but a stout woman came over and placed a slim purple volume on the desk. I gulped as the photo of a blonde man in extremely violet robes winked at me. This was getting to be a really weird day. She handed over two gold coins and five silver ones. I had never seen this money before in my life. Trying not to freak out, I took the money and opened the till. My Uncle was still bent in the chair and did not seem in a position to help out. I put the gold coins with the gold coins and the silver with the silver. I checked the name of the book and price and wrote them down in a large book. The woman seemed satisfied and left with a smile and a wave. I followed her to the door and flipped the 'Open' sign and returned to my uncle. There were no other chairs so I stood what I thought was an appropriate distance away. Finally he started to talk.

"I know we were only half-brother and sister…" he began, "but we cared for each other like twins. She was, in truth, my best friend, and I was hers, although she'd never admit it." He smiled at that. "Once she moved to Cardiff, we didn't see each other as much, or even really talk. But she was busy, and so was I, running this place." He gestured around to the walls of leather and cloth. "I just never thought…" He ran his hands over his eyes. They looked older than his face, and I felt a strange tenderness for this man, whom I'd only just met. I walked over timidly, and placed a hand on his shoulder. One of his fell on mine and we stayed like that for a long time.

It turned out that Uncle Joseph lived upstairs – very upstairs – the highest floor.

"Isn't this… I don't know… a little steep?" I asked, panting profusely.

"Don't worry, normally I Apparate or use the Floo network." He stopped climbing and turned to me. "Although, I don't suppose you know what I'm talking about do you?" I smiled apologetically and shook my head. He grinned warmly. "It's okay- I'll teach you all about it."

We walked into a small apartment, as old and rickety as the shop below. The ceiling was pointed like the roof, so it felt as if we were in the attic. Perhaps we were. Books lined the walls here too, but in lesser numbers. The balcony Tom had pointed out was behind me and I walked out onto it. At one point, a pink bean plant reached out a stroked my ankle, but retracted when I cringed. There was a small kitchen facing the balcony inside, and a cosy living area between the two. Three doors led off to a bathroom, bedroom and storeroom. The storeroom was to be mine from now on.

"I'll find a place for all this junk somewhere else." my uncle smiled.

"Thank you, Mr Blott." I said properly.

"Please, call me Uncle…or Uncle Blott… Or Joseph. Whatever you like. Only customers call me Mr Blott. And you're no customer." I grinned.

"Alright, Uncle."

He liked that.

"Come this way," he beckoned, leading me to the door of the overcrowded room. "By now, I'm assuming you've realised that this is no ordinary world you've stumbled into?" I nodded, laughing nervously. "Well, I am a wizard." My jaw dropped. He was batty. But then… the brick wall, the pink beans, the winking man on the book… I figured I'd just go with it for now. "And the Leaky Cauldron, the pub you came through?" Another nod from me. "That can only be entered or even noticed by magic folk. Which makes you," he tapped my forehead with a bony finger, "a witch." This was too weird.

"Hey, I know Aunt Harriet was a bit weird sometimes, but she was most definitely not a witch."

"I never said she was. But my mother was. And your father and I were half-brothers, so through a series of horribly complicated genetics, you somehow have magical blood in you. I'm sure we'll have a book about it here somewhere." he smiled.

"But…I'm not magic."

"Ever done anything weird? When you were really happy or frightened?"

I thought for a moment. My tenth birthday. Aunt Harriet had hired a clown for it. I do not like clowns. The day had ended in all the balloons bursting, the cake flying in the clown's face, children being trapped in the ball pit and all up a complete disaster. With every problem, I got even more frightened. Now I knew that probably didn't help the situation.

"Yes." I whispered. My uncle leaned back satisfied.

"Well there you go. My point is, of course, that we can perform magic and this can make life a whole lot easier." Turning back to the door, he waved a slim, dark, neatly polished stick at the many boxes. In a matter of seconds, they were flying out of the doorway and stacking themselves up against a far wall. Looking back into the room, I saw quilts flapping about and candles being re-waxed. Multiple rugs battered themselves against the balcony, shaking loose years of dust bunnies. Uncle Joseph stood there like a conductor, waving his wand to a silent tune – the tune of magic. And I couldn't wait to listen.

It was close to midnight before Uncle Joseph and I stopped talking. There was a medium sized fireplace in the west wall, and we sat next to it in comfy chairs, jabbering away like swallows in the spring. Most of the time, my uncle was telling me all about the wizarding world, their currency, education and career options, their laws, the dark forces that at that point were trying to penetrate the light that now filled the world.

"Don't be afraid," he soothed as I looked out the now dark window nervously, "There are many enchantments in place to prevent that happening, and our Ministry are doing all they can to keep the darkness at bay." He said it with such security and confidence, but I would later learn he had very little faith in the Ministry of Magic, and thoroughly disliked the Daily Prophet.

"Anyway," he continued, "It's best you be getting to bed, young lady." I nodded sleepily and made my way to the snug room that had been prepared for me. On the bedside table I had placed my three books – The Silmarillion (J.R.R Tolkien), The Hunchback of Notre Dame (Victor Hugo) and a nice novel by this lesser known writer called Casual Vacancy by JK Rowling. Uncle had placed some nice paintings on the wall (not portraits – to this day they make me uncomfortable, always watching, feigning sleep). They were landscapes, the occasional flock of birds making their way across a forest or body of water. As I settled into the already warm blankets, a beautiful doe made her way to the river and took a drink, her large eyes focussed on the ripples. My uncle stood in the doorway.

"Tomorrow, we get you a wand." he grinned, and my heart leapt.

"Will you teach me how to do the thing with the boxes?"

"And more." he replied. "But for now, sleep."

And that's exactly what I did.

I woke up with a cat on my face.

"BLEUGHHHH!" I yelled, mostly out of surprise than disgust of the cat. It flew off my face as I sat up sharply and ran out into the kitchen. My uncle ran to the door. I could smell bacon.

"Are you alright?" he asked, worried.

"Yeah, sorry. No, I'm fine. It's just… I didn't know you had a cat." I pointed to the fluffy black fur ball now wrapping itself around his legs.

"Oh," he laughed, "I see you've met Molt."

"Molt?"

"Molt." he grinned. "Isn't she adorable?" He held her to his face and she purred loud enough for the whole street to hear. "Bacon's ready, come on."

At roughly eight that morning, we greeted the chilly wind with our coats (one kindly donated to me by Joseph Blott) and braved the cobbled street all the way to Ollivander's. His shop was closed, but being shopkeepers on the same street had advantages. Uncle Joseph went around the back to a grimy door and knocked in a strange pattern on the wood. A minute or two later a man with even wispier hair than my new guardian opened the door and looked at me with dishwater eyes.

"Who's this, Blott my old friend?" he croaked. As usual, my uncle smiled.

"This is my niece," he replied, one arm wrapped around my shoulder comfortingly. Ollivander wouldn't stop staring at me.

"Well, that's nice, but I don't see why you need come here at eight in the morning…"

"She doesn't have a wand, my friend."

The old man froze.

"But…she must be almost seventeen!"

"Eighteen in October." my uncle said. Ollivander couldn't seem to compute this information.

"Why doesn't she have a wand? If she's magical…"

"My half-sister, her… ex guardian…" The hurt was in his eyes again. "She didn't want her in schooling. Well, our schooling. She rejected every wizarding school that sent an application. I suppose they let her alone because she sent back quite polite replies and not howlers. Not that she's be able to…" Ollivander stood stunned in his doorway.

"No wand, eh?" he sniffed. "Oh well, I suppose we'll have to fix that, then." We were led into the shop through seemingly endless isles of boxes. Dusty, that's how I remember both Ollivander himself and his shop. Out of nowhere a tape measure came and measure my arms, legs, nose and head.

"Right handed?" asked Ollivander gruffly. I nodded. "Alright then." He walked along the shelves, skimming the thin boxes with his wrinkled hands. Eventually he came back with five boxes.

"Try this. Yew, Unicorn Horn, thirteen and a half inches, brittle." I took out the fragile piece of wood and waved it like I'd seen Uncle Joseph do. The till on the desk flew into the wall. I could see at least three other places where the same thing seemed to have happened. "Maybe not." Ollivander muttered. Next he handed me a black wand, almost completely flawless.

"Blackthorn, Phoenix feather, eleven and a half inches, stiff." I swished it in much the same manner as the first, only towards a more empty area. This time at least thirty boxes flew out of their places on the shelves and bashed themselves against my uncle's head. Ollivander stopped them with his wand and moved them back while I haltingly tried to apologise to Uncle Joseph and check his head for injuries. Once he had shaken me off, Ollivander handed me a faded blue box.

"I think this one will be better." I held the rough wood in my hand and felt a wonderful warmth spread through me. A warm, golden flame sparked out of the end, the embers forming flowers and burning their pattern on the wooden floor. Ollivander smiled. "Beautiful. English Oak, Dragon Heartstring, twelve and a half inches, springy."

I offered to pay, knowing this was a lifetime asset, but my uncle was firm. Eventually he asked, "Do you even have an wizarding money at the moment?" and that won the Battle of Etiquette. I wouldn't let the business drop however, and he ended up taking me to Gringott's five minutes before Flourish and Blott's was supposed to open. We exited with a small bag of coins and a new vault, just for me. Uncle Blott even put thirty galleons in, which I figured out later was one hundred and fifty pounds. He was being kinder to me than anyone I had ever met, and I told him as such as we walked home.

I blended into the wizarding community pretty easily from then on. By day, I would help my uncle run Flourish and Blotts. It was almost time for school to begin, and we were rushed off our feet. Uncle Joseph would come home with a new coat or pair of boots or some obscure little thing he found in one of the junk shops around town thanks to this renewed wealth. Most of the money went to buying more books for the shop though, and buying food. The days blended together in a rush of old paper, bound leather and black fluff, only to be broken by the nights, when my guardian would teach me magic. We started off easy and necessary: levitation (to get the tricky books down), freezing spells (for the Monster Book of Monsters that had just arrived – little did we know, they would eventually build up an immunity, driving Uncle almost insane), and little charms to help around the house; Reparo, Tergeo, Agumenti etc. One day, very close to September the first, a little boy with black hair and a scrawny figure came into the shop. I was out the back trying to find another crate of Unfogging the Future for the third year Divination classes at Hogwarts. My uncle came running into the room after the boy left and looked cross.

"You missed him!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air.

"Who?"

"Harry Potter!"

Clueless.

"…Sorry?" He looked incredulous.

"Haven't I told you about him?" I shook my head and he sighed. "Later." he said and went to serve more customers.

Three Hours Later

"So… Harry Potter. Where do I begin?"

Four Hours After He Begins His Story

"And kissed a BASILISK!" he finished with a flourish (pun not intended but thoroughly enjoyed).

"Kissed? Kissed a giant snake?" I asked doubtfully. He shrugged.

"Kissed, killed… There's no real difference." he replied and got up to make tea before I could tell him no. not really. We ate dinner in silence that night. Molt was curled up beside the fire and the balcony doors were closed against the cold. It was only the start of autumn, but there was a cold on the wind, and a large part of me didn't believe it was the weather. My eyes fell to a slim copy of The Quibbler on the end of the table. Hooded figures slithered around their picture's frame and reached out with deadened fingers.

AZKABAN BREAKOUT

WILL THE DEMENTORS PROTECT US… OR JOIN THEIR PRISONERS?