A world hidden within a world.

And here he had thought he had seen it all.

Walking down the cobblestone alley, Draco allowed his crimson eyes to slowly take in his surroundings.

It was different here that what he recalled about Diagon Alley. The stores were better cared for- much more modern day- and the people seemed much happier and less likely to blindside you for a quick galleon.

Instead of the bitterness and rivalry there was smiles and a friendly cooperation he knew didn't exist in London.

No backstabbing.

No sabotage.

No veiled threats and most importantly:

No monopolies.

Was it possible for people to work together so well in a place like this?

"Did she just say Dragon Liver?"

For a brief moment the crimson eyed boy allowed a smirk to appear. Finally something he knew that those two obviously didn't.

Dragons.

Pixies.

Nymphs.

Basilisks.

Goblins.

Instant Killing Curses.

Curses for agonizing torture, capable of driving one into the state of a vegetable.

Curses to control another like a puppet.

To be honest the more Francis heard the more he fount himself having to resist the urge to just grab his brother and rush out of this mad world.

Could he really allow Azrael to enter a world like this was only Draco to watch over him?

No.

He really couldn't but what other choice did he have?

Azrael needed someone who could teach him what he needed to know- not only about magic but the politics and standing of this world his younger brother was born to- and that someone couldn't be Francis.

No matter how much he researched their laws and politics, Francis didn't have magic.

He couldn't teach Azrael control.

Wands.

To be honest Azrael couldn't help but the sense of dread that filled him.

Sure, he had gotten the acceptance letter but what if they were wrong?

What if a wand didn't chose him and they suddenly realized there had been a mistake?

What if Red was the one with magic and they just thought he had it because the Russian lived in his head?

With every failed wand Azrael could feel his anxiety growing deeper into the pits of his stomach.

Any moment now they would realize he didn't belong.

They would erase his memories and throw him out...

"Thirteen inches, Feisty Elder Wood with a Thestral Hair wrapped within a Phoenix Feather Core. "

Glancing over at Francis and Draco- the later having already received his wand: a ten inch Rigged Sequoia with a Dragon Heart-String twines around a Chimera Scale core- Azrael took a calming breath before closing his fingers around the warm wood.

Weapons.

They were handing small children weapons.

And the stupidity of humans once more grates on his nerves.

Sure they may not call it a weapon and it may not look like a weapon but the wand was no toy- Just look at what happned when Draco waved his first one.

A few more meters to the left and it might have been their head exploding instead of the rather ugly lamp.

Mentally sighing the russian villain made a small mental note to speak with Azrael later about proper uses of deadly weapons.

"Agent Nigel."

"Yes Commander?"

"I need you to take over a mission for the Humans. A few years ago in London a Vernon Dursley was murder within his own home."

Confusion filled the emerald eyed man as he glanced at his communicator.

A human was usually murdered every other hour and they never got involved, what made this one any more special then the others?

"I know this is going ot seem highly impossible to you Agent Nigel but our... Special Analyst have determined Dursley's killer to be none other than the Red Squirrel."

Impossible.

It couldn't be...

Red was dead. He killed him.

"There has to be a mistake."

Surely even the Unspeakable could make mistakes.

Even if Red had somehow survived and hidden himself right underneath the spy's nose, the Russian wouldn't risk discovery by killing a beast like Vernon Dursley.

"I wish it was but I'm afraid not."

~Elsewhere in a Certain young Wizard's mind~

"Achoo!"

"You knocked them over, I win!"

God Damn it, the rouge hair man mentally cursed as he pulled a handkerchief from his suit's breast pocket while Azrael threw his thrice-damned cards into the air.

Who could possible be talking about him now?

Whoever it was the Russian swore they would suffer for coasting him the game to his blasted Kit.