Obligatory Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter universe or any of the recognizable
characters living there. I am just borrowing them to tell this story.

Summary: A stranger is drawn into the magical world in Britain. Who is he? And why was
he drawn to a small tavern unlike any he had ever been in?

A/N: This is just the first chapter in what may or may not become a novel length story.
This is based upon a character that a friend and I started writing when we were in middle school.
I hadn't thought much about this story until I got sucked into the Harry Potter universe. I will
try to give enough information about the character and any parts of that story that you need to
know to understand this one. And before anyone asks, I no longer have a copy of the original 
story, as its been at least 12 years since I wrote any of it. You could say that the only copy 
left is stuck inside my head somewhere. I do hope that you enjoy this story. I will try to 
update as often as I can but with my working 40 hours a week and going to college full time, I 
really can't promise any real time table. 


He didn't know what had brought him to Charing Cross Road. In fact, he didn't know why he had come to London at all. He was sitting in his favorite chair at home, flipping through channels on the television. It was like any other night really. No pressing engagements to occupy him. No friends to go visit. He was exactly as he had been for a very, very long time. He was alone. There wasn't even anything interesting on t.v. that night. That was until he came across a small news story about an unremarkable grave desecration in England. He couldn't see any reason for the local news station to even take time to mention it. As soon as he saw it, however, he knew that he had to go to London. He didn't know why; he just did. He had learned a long time ago not to fight his intuition. The very next morning he booked a flight on the first plane crossing the Atlantic. As luck would have it, it was headed to London. At the airport he rented a small car and just started driving. He had no idea where he was going, but he always knew which streets to turn onto. This was how he found himself standing in front of what could be described as an unremarkable door. Nothing about it was different than any other door along the street. That is unless you count the fact that nobody else seemed to even see the door at all. As far as they were concerned it was just a wall. Then there was the sign that hung above the door. It appeared to be a cauldron with a crack in the bottom of it. Almost as an afterthought, it seemed, someone had scrawled The Leaky Cauldron upon it. This is where he was supposed to be; he was sure of it. He reached for the door and entered. The many patrons of the tavern looked up as the door opened. What they saw seemed to take them a little by surprise. What was a muggle doing in their tavern? How did he get in? He looked like any other muggle. He stood just slightly over two meters, no more that six centimeters. He had brown hair; his brown eyes were separated by a nose that was just a little too big for the rest of his face. He was clean-shaven except for the trimmed mustache that did nothing to hide the mouth that to be permanately set in a frown. His pale skin spoke of someone who hadn't seen sunlight very often in recent months. He appeared to be no older than in his early twenties, if not even younger. However, he carried himself as someone a lot older. His clothing pegged him as American. He was dressed in jeans and a black satin jacket with a small American flag just above the cuff of the right sleeve. On the back of the jacket was what looked like a strange runic character. It kind of looked like an 'N' with a superimposed 'Y' in blockish type lettering. His sneakers were well worn but were unmistakably American. They couldn't tell why; they just were. He quickly scanned the tavern before heading straight toward Tom, the bartender, asked for the strongest thing he had, and proceeded to an empty table along the wall furthest from the door. He appeared to be waiting for something. The first thing that struck him as his eyes quickly adjusted to the dim atmosphere inside was that he was in an old fashioned tavern. The fact that the place was lit by lanterns and candles leant itself to this quite well. The people were also dressed in what could've passed as Olde World recreations at the fairs he had read about once. Over these clothes many people were wearing cloaks, even though it was quite comfortable in here. Some of the headwear he saw seemed to defy definition. If he wasn't mistaken that woman was wearing a stuffed bird on top of her hat. That man's hat resembled a witch's hat with the exception of the missing brim. He could feel every eye in the place looking at him as if he had no right to be here. Never one to bow to others' expectations he decided to see what would happen if he ordered a drink. With that he headed straight for the bald and toothless man behind the bar. "Give me the strongest thing you've got, please." Even though he had no idea what that might entail he didn't allow his uncertainty to show in his voice. The bald man looked him over briefly, probably trying to guage how much the stranger could handle. After a moment's pause, he reached for a small, dusty bottle that was stashed behind several larger, less dusty bottles. Evidently whatever was in this bottle wasn't something that too many patrons partook of. After a quick wipe from the towel that miraculously appeared in his hand the bartender showed the label to his newest customer. Gilgamens' Goldefleut Not for the timid. "This strong enough for you, sir?" He gave him a toothless smile. Something in the way the bartender said that sent little alarm bells blaring in his head. He obviously didn't think that he could handle it. "Sure, it'll do." The bartender raised an eyebrow but poured the drink anyway. "How much do I owe you?" "Somehow, I don't think you've got the right currency, so we'll just say it's on the house." "Thanks, I think." He still didn't know why he was here so he decided to find a table and wait. Something was bound to catch his attention. He spotted an empty table along the wall that had a clear view of the entire tavern. He took his seat and began his brief sojourn. His drink was a little fruitier than he might have liked, but it was otherwise unremarkable. It wasn't any stronger than the single malt whiskey that he imbibed in on occasion. Nothing to do now but wait.