Author's Note: Here's Chapter III, as promised. I like this chapter better than the last one. It's also a bit shorter. Chapter IV will be up either on Christmas day or Boxing Day, depending on how much fun I'm having with my presents.

I'd just like to say thanks again to everyone who's reading and reviewing. I can't tell you how glad I am that people seem to like it! I'm having so much fun writing this. In fact, I'm off to write some more now. Anyway, enjoy this chapter!

Dumbledore

Chapter III – Diagon Alley

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Leaving the house the next morning proved more difficult than Percival had anticipated. He had imagined that he would simply mumble something about going for a walk to one of his family members, and then slip out unnoticed. Unfortunately, his family saw fit to detain him and question him about where he was going.

"To visit a friend!" he said irritably, for about the fourth time. "And as he was expecting me five minutes ago, may I go?"

"What friend is this?" his mother asked suspiciously. "How are you acquainted with him?"

"We met at Eton," Percival replied. At least he was good at making up stories.

"Nonsense," Terrence scoffed, "you never had any friends at Eton."

"None that you knew about," Percival shot back. "I'm late."

"Well, all right," his mother said finally. "But I think that you ought to take the carriage."

"I'd really rather walk."

"I won't hear of it," Mrs Dumbledore said firmly. "Take the carriage. It is far too cold to walk anywhere."

"Oh, Mama!" Maria piped up. "Rachel and I were going to take the carriage with Louisa and Rosamund to the Stephensons' house this morning. If Percival wants to walk, we really cannot spare the carriage for him."

"I think that Percival should walk," Mr Dumbledore said, looking up from his paper. "The boy does not walk enough. He needs exercise."

Percival would never understand why his father thought that he was at any risk of getting fat - if Percival was anything, he was tall and almost lanky – but he was not about to argue. "I do," he said, "I do feel in great need of some exercise."

"Oh, very well!" Mrs Dumbledore said crossly. "Go on, then, but do take care to be back by tea time."

Percival wasted no time leaving the house after this. He stepped out into the frigid London air, and strode quickly off down the street. As soon as he had rounded the corner, he took out the Irishman's directions and looked them over once again. Luckily for him, the location of Diagon Alley was not far from his aunt and uncle's house. He took care to follow the directions exactly as they were written, and soon came to a dingy little pub called the Leaky Cauldron. Percival walked right by it at first. Indeed, no one seemed to notice it was there at all. One man almost collided with him as he stood staring at it, which prompted him to finally step inside out of the cold.

The inside of the Leaky Cauldron was only slightly less dingy than the outside. A few people, most of whom were dressed very oddly, sat scattered around at small tables, drinking and talking. There was a barman wiping the counter with a rag. When he noticed Percival standing awkwardly just inside the door, he stopped wiping and said, "Can I help you?"

"Err," said Percival. "I need to get into Diagon Alley." The Irishman's instructions had merely said to ask someone in the pub for help. The barman looked a bit disgruntled at this, and Percival said, "Sorry, I just – "

"Ne'er mind," the barman said shortly. "I know yor type, all right, in yor fancy Muggle clothes, prob'ly ne'er been t' Hogwarts, ne'er set foot in Diagon Alley, taught at home wif a tutor, aye?"

Percival blinked. "No, I – "

"MacDonald!" The barman shouted, not regarding him. A harassed young man wearing an apron appeared from a room in the back. "This, err, this..."

"Percival Dumbledore," said Percival helpfully.

"This Mr Dumbledore needs help gettin' in ter Diagon Alley."

MacDonald sighed angrily and narrowed his eyes first at Percival, then at the barman. "I was eating my dinner," he said huffily. "How'd you like it if someone was always – "

"You can eat yor dinner after you do yor work!" the barman roared. He had gone quite red. MacDonald had evidently decided that it was not worth it to argue, because he was walking toward the back of the room, and Percival assumed that he was meant to follow.

MacDonald led him out into a tiny courtyard filled with snow. He took a small, polished wooden rod from his coat pocket, and then turned to Percival with an irritated expression. "Remember this, will you? Saves people like me the trouble." He tapped the brick wall in front of them with wooden rod. "Three up, two across. Remember that." And then a hole appeared in the wall.

Percival watched, transfixed, as the hole grew larger and larger, until an entire archway had appeared, leading into a winding alley that was bustling with people. Percival turned to thank MacDonald for his assistance, but he had already vanished back inside the pub. Percival hoped that all wizards weren't as unpleasant as MacDonald and the barman. And then, heart beating wildly in his chest, he stepped into Diagon Alley.

There were people in strange attire all around him. Close by, there were shops selling cauldrons, dragon livers, and magical brooms. He felt a surge of excitement pass through him. Here was final, indisputable proof that the world he belonged to existed. If he had been a girl, he thought he might have cried. Hands shaking, he reached into his pocket, and took out the letter from Hogwarts. Attached was a list of all of the supplies that he would have needed for school. But what was he to buy now? Obviously not a school uniform. There was a list of books, which seemed to Percival a very good place to start, but where on earth would he put them all, and how would he conceal them from his family? Aside from that, he did not even know what brass scales and crystal phials were used for. But there was one thing on the list that struck him as a both important and feasible, and that was a wand.

Percival walked through the alley, half worried that someone would notice that he was out of place there, that he had no idea where he was going or quite what he was looking for, but no one paid him any heed at all. He passed a multitude of little shops and several grand, extravagant looking stores, and then a towering white building called Gringotts. On the other side of Gringotts, Percival finally found what he was looking for. It was a little shop with gold letters over the door that read 'Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 BC'.

Wondering where he had heard the name 'Ollivander' before (he had a terrible memory for names), Percival entered the shop. It was cramped, and full of shelves which were lined from floor to ceiling with narrow, dusty boxes. He sneezed, and felt his hair stand on end. His skin prickled, and he did not know why.

"Customer!" a distinctly Scottish voice yelled from somewhere on the floor above. There were the sounds of someone coming down a staircase, and then a young man appeared from the back of the shop. He stopped abruptly and stared at Percival, for they had seen one another before. It was the boy from the cottage, Alistair – Alistair Ollivander. Of course.

"You," Alistair said uncertainly, eyeing Percival as if he might do something unpredictable. "I thought you were a..."

Percival opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by someone else clambering down the stairs and coming out into the front of the shop. It was Alistair's little sister, Catherine. She gasped when she saw Percival, and then rounded on her brother, gleefully saying, "I knew it! I knew he wasn't a Muggle!"

"You're not a Muggle," Alistair said, dumbstruck.

"No, I'm not," Percival replied, and sneezed again. "Sorry. At least, I don't think I am. I don't know precisely what a Muggle is. Someone who isn't a wizard or a witch, I'd assume, from what I've gathered."

"You've gathered right," said Alistair, sticking his hands in his pockets and rocking slighting on the balls of his feet. "But when we saw you at Godric's Hollow, you – I don't – why did you - ?"

For the second time is as many days, Percival prepared to explain his circumstances, but as it turned out, he was saved from the trouble by Catherine, who said, "Oh, Alistair! Don't you see? He's one of those poor Muggleborns whose parents never got the letter or never believed it! You are, aren't you?" She said, fixing Percival with a sorry look.

"Err," he said. "Yes, I suppose I am. My mother got a letter from Hogwarts the summer I was eleven, but she hid it from me, and I never found it till August of this year – after I met you at Godric's Hollow, as it were."

"So how on earth did you find out?" Alistair asked. "How'd you find Diagon Alley, I mean?"

"Oh," said Percival, "my aunt had a party last night, and an Irishman was there – I never thought to ask his name, but I did ask him if he knew where I might find Diagon Alley, and it turned out that he did, and he wrote out the directions on a bit of paper. He gave me money, too. I tried to decline, but, well..." Percival reached into his pocket and pulled out the little pile of gold coins.

"That's got to be twenty galleons!" Catherine exclaimed, looking shocked. "Are you sure it isn't leprechaun gold?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Alistair scoffed. "If it were leprechaun gold, it would have disappeared by now. No, it's real – this Irishman must be incredibly rich, or incredibly out of his mind."

Percival laughed a bit at this. "Well, maybe both," he said. "He told me I could pay him back later, but he never gave me his name, or where he lived, or anything. I suppose I could find out, though – his wife's family lives next-door. So is twenty galleons enough to buy a wand, then?"

Alistair and Catherine both laughed. "You could buy twenty wands if you wanted to," Alistair remarked. "Wait here, I'll go get Grandpa..." Alistair headed off back into the back of the shop, and could be heard going up the stairs.

"So," said Percival, turning awkwardly to Catherine. "Err... so, do your parents own this shop?"

"Oh, no," said Catherine, picking idly at the hem of her sleeve, "my parents are dead."

Percival choked. "I – sorry," he mumbled stupidly. He was spared any further embarrassment by Alistair coming back into the shop with an old man whom Percival assumed must be their grandfather.

The old man seemed pleasant enough, if a bit preoccupied. His clothing (robes, which seemed to be what most people in Diagon Alley wore) was slightly dishevelled, and his hair was a bit out of place, but at least he was friendly. "Hello there!" he greeted Percival. "How's the snow?"

"Snow?" Percival blinked. "Oh, yes, well, not more than an inch, at least when I was out in it."

"Good, good," the old man rubbed his hands together. "There's nothing I hate more than snow. Well! Ollivander, at your service, young man! I hear you need to purchase a wand."

"I do, sir."

"Well you've come to the right place. Which is your wand arm?"

"Um," said Percival.

"Sorry, sorry, always forget," Ollivander apologised, taking out a measuring tape. "Which is the arm you write with?"

"My right," Percival replied, and then jumped a bit, for the tape had sprung to life and was taking his measurements by itself.

"Wonderful, wonderful," Ollivander said, and the tape measure crumpled to the floor. "Alistair, hand me one, will you?" Prompting Percival to wonder what exactly the purpose if his being measured was.

Alistair reached up onto one of the shelves and took down a narrow box that was identical to all the other narrow boxes in the room. Ollivander opened it, and handed the wand inside to Percival, who took it and looked at it dumbly. "That's eleven inches, phoenix feather – just give it a good flick."

Percival gave it a good flick, but nothing happened. Alistair took the wand from him, put it back in its box, and then handed him another. He flicked, and again nothing happened. He went through wand after wand, all of varying lengths, cores, and flexibilities, and still came up with nothing.

"Not to worry, not to worry!" Ollivander sang, taking another box from Alistair. "Cathy went through fifty seven different wands before she found the proper one this summer."

"That's right," said Catherine proudly, as Percival continued to flick, hoping earnestly that he would not have to go through fifty seven wands as well. "Hawthorn, eight inches, unicorn hair – nice and swishy."

"Here we go, try this one," Ollivander placed yet another wand into Percival's hand. "Vine wood, ten and a half inches, dragon heartstring, fairly supple."

Percival had a horrible feeling that they would never find a proper wand for him, that perhaps there was no proper wand for him, and that there had been some terrible mistake, that he was not a wizard at all. But when he took the wand, he felt his fingers tingle, and felt warmth creep up his arm. With a fluttery feeling in his stomach, he flicked the wand, and this time bright sparks shot out of it.

Catherine cheered, and Ollivander clapped his hands together. Alistair gave an approving sort of nod before starting to put all the boxes away again. "Very good, very good!" Ollivander exclaimed, taking the wand from Percival and placing it back in its box. He went to the counter and began to wrap it. As Percival paid him, he said, "I hope you will stay for tea. My grandson told me you never knew you were a wizard till this summer, and I would very much like to hear your story."

Percival was quite taken aback by this show of hospitality. Taking the wrapped-up wand and placing it in his inside coat pocket, he said, "Thank you very much, sir, but I'm afraid I can't – I told my mother I would be back in time for tea."

"Ah," said Ollivander. "Well do come tomorrow, then, if you can. I know it is Christmas Eve, but if your mother wouldn't mind..."

"I will certainly come tomorrow," Percival said happily. "That is, if I can convince my mother and my aunt to let me out of the house. I can't promise anything, but I – I should very much like to come. I will certainly try to come."

"Well, excellent," Ollivander said, clapping his hands together again. "Excellent, then. Hopefully we will see you back tomorrow."

"Thank you," Percival replied as he left the shop and stepped back out into the chilly air. He had not gone three feet when someone ran up beside him – it was Catherine. "Oh, hello," he said, glancing down at her curiously.

"Catherine!" Alistair shouted from the window of the shop. "Grandpa says you're to be back in five minutes for tea!"

"All right!" Catherine yelled back.

"And you're on no account to go into the Leaky Cauldron!"

"All right!" She yelled, and then rolled her eyes, turning back to Percival. They continued walking. "They think I can't do anything," she remarked.

"So, err," said Percival. "You go to this Hogwarts school, right?"

"That's right," said Catherine. "I just started in September. This is my first year. I was terribly nervous before I went, but I got put in the same house as my brother, though I suppose that's really no surprise."

"Oh, yes," Percival agreed, though he wasn't quite sure what she was talking about. "Now this school, this Hogwarts, it's for girls as well as boys?"

Catherine nodded. "It's for any witch or wizard aged eleven to eighteen. Well, unless you're a squib, I suppose."

"And what is a squib?" Percival inquired.

"A squib is – err – a squib is like a witch or a wizard, but – not," Cathy replied. "Oh, I can't explain it!" She frowned as they stopped at the entrance of the Alley. "I'm horrible at explaining things. Come back tomorrow and my brother and Grandpa will explain everything to you. And now I have to go or I'll be late for tea – I'm glad you're not a Muggle! I knew it!" And she turned and walked back toward Ollivanders. Percival watched the auburn top of her head bobbing along in between the shoppers until she was lost in the crowd.