Chapter 4 :: Diagon Alley
Relief flooded me as I pushed open the door into the pub. My journey through London hadn't taken more than a few hours, but it had left me exhausted, both physically and mentally. Being a lone eleven year old in a big city I was unfamiliar with, with no map, no watch, and nowhere to go at the end of the day, had been unexpectedly stressful.
I would have to make sure to not underestimate the challenges ahead of me, however mundane. Realizing I had forgotten about getting a disguise, I patted my fringe down on my forehead to cover my scar and kept my eyes down. The Cauldron was a lot bigger on the inside than it appeared from the street, something I'd probably be seeing often in the Wizarding world.
I had entered into the bar area, and could see an older man hunched over the bar that must be Tom. Off to my left was another, larger room with more seated patrons, and a stairway behind the bar must have led up to the rooms. I hurried up to the bar, where Tom was pouring ale for a frowning old wizard with a long white beard, which looked soggy at the end, as if it had dipped into a mug of ale.
"Excuse me, sir," I said, trying to be quiet while still making myself heard over the muted din. "I'm for Hogwarts, sir, and looking for Diagon Alley."
I figured I was failing miserably at sounding like an eleven year old British kid, but I was trying my best. Tom didn't even look up, just flicked his head toward the right.
"Around the bar, out the back. Can't miss it. It's busy this time of summer, someone will be through shortly, just wait for it to open up."
I didn't bother to thank him, just scurried off in the indicated direction before he could look up. I knew someone would probably end up recognizing me eventually, but I wanted to postpone that inevitability as long as possible. The last thing I needed was Dumbledore catching wind of my whereabouts and plopping me back with the Dursleys for the rest of the summer.
The back exit of the Cauldron led to a tiny courtyard that faced a blank brick wall. There were some crates and barrels stacked up along the outer wall of the pub, so I took a seat on a crate and leaned back on the wall, still tired from the walk.
I only got a few minutes to relax. Then the bricks in the wall I was facing began to shift and flex, pulling apart and opening up into an archway. I thought back to the stone archway exiting the Mews when I'd first arrived in London, and the successively grander archways I had passed on my way here.
Yet, despite its humble appearance, this was the grandest yet. Concerned about being noticed, I hadn't taken a close enough look around the Leaky Cauldron to notice any magic. This was it though, the real thing, happening right in front of my eyes. Whatever this crazy thing happening to me was, it felt real, and the magical doorway was really opening into Diagon Alley.
A couple of boys several years older than me emerged, pushing and shoving and shouting, and their harried looking parents followed. I slipped by them unnoticed, and into the Wizarding world proper.
I didn't want to stick out but couldn't help spending a few moments staring. Everything looked a couple hundred years old, including the fashion choices of the witches and wizards walking around. Most were in robes, but a few wore old fashioned suits like Victorian gentlemen, and some were dressed in regular Muggle clothing, usually accompanied by children my own age.
There were also plenty of kids running around without their parents, which caused me to relax quite a bit. After a decade as adult, it was unnerving to put people on alert simply because of my status as an unaccompanied child. I hadn't had an adult's aware of things when I was that age, and I realized now just how foolish any childhood fantasies I'd entertained of running away from home had been. An eleven year old on his own stuck out like a sore thumb.
But Diagon Alley was apparently safe enough to let eleven year olds run around unattended. There were plenty of parents sitting down in couples or groups, engaged in conversation and apparently unconcerned that their wards could get into any serious trouble here. Perhaps older siblings were charged with keeping a closer eye.
Regardless, I was able to move down the Alley unharassed. Really there was nothing alley-like about it. It was a long cobbled street, which would be a narrow fit for two lanes of cars but easily wide enough for a healthy flow of pedestrians. The cobblestones were worn to a soft smoothness by hundreds of years of foot traffic. I stuck to the right side of the street, skirting the edges of the slow-moving, window-shopping throngs of witches and wizards. I'd have plenty of time for lollygagging, but it would be a lot more fun if I got access to my funds at Gringotts first.
Gringotts was at the far end of the Alley, which after the massive scale of London seemed like it took no time at all. It was an imposing marble structure, with a forest of thick columns surrounding a massive rectangular entryway.
I wondered if they needed the door to be that big to get the dragons inside.
The massive bronze doors stood open, with Goblin guards wearing scarlet and gold uniforms and wielding wicked looking pikes posted on either side. There was a steady trickle of traffic going in and out of the bank, and the guards paid them no heed.
They didn't pay me any heed either as I walked through and found myself in a small entry hall with another, smaller pair of doors, silver this time, at the far end. I wondered if there was an even smaller golden door somewhere deeper in the bank, to complete the metaphor.
There was a poem advising me to take heed and avoid greed, which I was fine with. I never really cared much about money the way some people did. I just always wanted enough to not have to worry about it much. I had always wondered why a wizard would need money at all, when they had magic at their disposal.
I wasn't a wizard yet though, not in more than name anyway. No wand, no broom, no cauldron, and no Hogwarts education. But the start of it all was getting some wizard money, and I strode through the silver doors. Time to see what Goblins were like.
Goblins, it turns out, are pretty much like airport security workers. Surly, disinterested, condescending, and altogether unpleasant and difficult. While airport security workers usually seemed incompetent enough to justify the attitude, the Goblins were clearly competent but just as clearly took delight in inflicting this minor, bureaucratic torment on wizardkind.
I found an empty counter and stepped up to it. I was barely tall enough to see over it, and had crane my neck to make eye contact with the goblin behind it, who was probably the same height as me but clearly on a raised section behind the counter, so as to be eye to eye with an adult wizard.
He immediately sneered down at me before I could say anything, eyeing my shabby clothes.
"This is Gringotts Bank. Are you lost?" He had a gravelly voice, dripping with scorn.
"No sir. I have two inquiries. The first inquiry is what the exchange rate from Pounds to Galleons is."
"Five pounds to the Galleon," he fired off automatically, sounding bored. "But this is not an information kiosk for ignorant young wizards. Do you have business with the Bank?" Now, he sounded irritated but hopeful that he would soon be rid of me. Goblins were certainly expressive creatures, when it came to expressing displeasure.
"My second question is if I can access my vault without my key. My parents were killed and I never received any of their possessions, but I'm told they had a vault here, and I'm their only heir."
The goblin's frown deepened. "This is most irregular. We ensure that every active vault's key is with its proper owner. Lying to Gringotts is something Goblins take very seriously, boy. What is the name on this supposed vault?"
I brushed my hair off my forehead deliberately.
"Potter. Harry Potter." I said, doing my best James Bond impression.
The Goblin performed what I assumed was his race's version of a double take. He blinked several times in rapid succession, while inhaling sharply through his long, pointed nose, causing a faint whistling sound.
"Ah, Mr. Potter. Forgive me, but your apperance…" The Goblin was suddenly businesslike, though his tone was not nearly as apologetic as his words.
"Don't worry about it," I said. "Why don't I have my key? I live with my Aunt and Uncle, and I'm certain they know nothing about it. I learned about my account from a friend of my parents who thought the key was lost."
The Goblin explained that Gringotts keys were Goblin property on loan to vault owners and as such they were never lost, because Goblins did not lose their property. If Harry didn't have his key there was a reason for it, and this reason would be contained in Gringotts records. The Goblin said this with such supreme confidence that Harry couldn't doubt him.
"I apologize for the irregularity, but can I get into my vault without my key?" I asked.
When the Goblin nodding and busted off with a muttered "wait here," I felt a surge of excitement and relief. I was still an eleven year old on his own, without a wand, but now it looked like I had money, more than the twenty Galleons worth of Muggle money in my pocket that would have had to last me for a month and a half.
There were no seats around - couldn't have waiting wizards getting comfortable, so I stood shifting my weight from foot to foot to ease the aching in my legs.
The Goblin returned after a little while, which I spent inventorying the items I'd need right away. New clothes and a meal, in that order.
"Griphook will be here soon. He sees to the Potter account, and will explain your situation to you." With that, he shifted his gaze above my head as if I were no longer there, which I took as a signal to wander off to the side of his counter.
Once I didn't look like a bum and had a full belly, I'd have to worry about shelter.
Griphook proved to be significantly more pleasant than the teller.
"Your key is with your magical guardian, as is standard policy for underage wizards with Muggle guardians. We apologize for any confusion but this is a very rare situation," Griphook explained as he led me to a mine cart.
"Do I need to take some sort of test, since I don't have a key?" I asked.
Griphook smiled rather nastily. "The magic protecting the vault will serve that purpose."
I got the impression that failure of the test was not pleasant. The cart took off with a jolt and within moments we were whizzing through the tunnels beneath the bank. I got glimpses of massive vault doors with numbered plates fastened above them. Down one diverging tunnel I saw a flicker of reddish light, which I suspected could be dragonfire further down the tunnel.
We soon arrived at Vault 687. Griphook ran his finger along the dark iron surface of the door, and the keyhole rotated into the door, replaced by a small, wickedly sharp blade.
"Prick your finger on the blade. You are lucky you have one of the older vaults, Mr. Potter. Requesting the blood lock has mostly gone out of fashion," Griphook said.
I pressed my left pinky, the least used of my ten fingers, onto the blade's point until I felt a sharp pain. I jerked my hand back in surprise as the outer rim of the door immediately began to whirl, the sudden roar of metal grating on metal filling the cavernous silence.
"Griphook, can you tell me what would have happened if I failed?" I asked, morbidly curious.
Griphook was silent for a moment, then simply said, "That blade is much longer than it appears during the verification stage."
I winced, imagining pricking my finger and the blade spearing through me with the same instantaneous speed it had opened the vault. My attention was quickly diverted by the piles of gold stacked up on the floor in front of me. Definitely hundreds of Galleons, maybe more than a thousand; but not much more, I decided after a few moments' assessment. Smaller piles of Sickles and Knuts that probably didn't add much to the total sum. A total of two thousand Galleons, upper limit, meaning around ten thousand British pounds.
Not a negligible sum, and prices had seemed reasonably low in the books, but I wasn't rich by any means. If the Potters had a fortune left it wasn't in this vault, and Griphook had made no mention of this being a trust vault set aside for my use before coming of age. I counted as I loaded up the pockets of Dudley's pants, managing to fifty seven Galleons. Dudley's elephantine size was actually working to my advantage for once.
A bracing cart ride returned me to the surface, somehow just as fast when ascending as descending, defying the laws of physics with aplomb. The sun was getting low in the sky; I estimated the time to be about five in the evening. Diagon Alley was still bustling, and I set off without further dalliance, headed towards Jambol and Gabe's Joke Shop, which I had spotted on my way to the bank.
The joke shop had many amusing items for sale, but they weren't the purpose of my visit. I found what I was looking for after a few minutes of searching the store. Making my selections and heading to the front, I paid for my purchase with a single Galleon and received four Sickles and twelve Knuts in change from the elderly proprietor. Working out the sums in my head on my way out, I calculated that a Galleon was worth seventeen Sickles, and a Sickle twenty nine Knuts.
My pockets now bulging with coins and my new purchases, I set off in search of the second-hand robe shop I remembered Mrs. Weasley going to. Dudley's castoffs were not only inconveniently ill-fitting, they also irked me on an emotional level. There was something particularly humiliating about not having one's own clothing.
I passed several stores I recognized from the books. Eeylop's Owl Emporium, Quality Quidditch Supplies, and Flourish and Blotts all seemed to be doing healthy business. A fair amount of it was Hogwarts shopping, judging by the number of families with school-aged children present. There were also a few shops that were new to me. One in particular caught my eye, named "Oglethorpe Outfitters". The glass display window showcased several small tents with their flaps open, clearly much larger and comfortably furnished on the inside.
This gave me some food for thought as I continued hunting for the second-hand robe shop. While the items I had purchased at the joke shop could be used as a temporary solution, if I stayed anywhere in Diagon Alley for an extended time, I'd stick out as an eleven year old without an adult. I worried that information of my whereabouts would filter to Dumbledore and that I'd lose my independence. Even worse, one of Voldemort's loyal supporters-in-hiding could notice me.
I found the robe shop in a small cul-de-sac of shops behind the main concourse, reached by going through an alley between a shop selling cauldrons and a broomstick repair shop. The robe shop was nestled between a store selling used broomsticks and another selling second-hand luggage, the storefronts all chipped and shabby. There were only a few shoppers here, their robes looking distinctly more threadbare, their expressions more harried.
The interior of the robe shop was much nicer than the outside, and while the robes were often rather the worse for wear, they were neatly patched and hemmed and altogether quite serviceable. I found a set of black robes with several pockets so spacious they must be magically expanded, since I could fit my arm in them well past my elbow. I bought them for a without taking them off for a handful of Sickles and then transferred the contents of my pockets. The surface of the robes remained smooth, as if the pockets were completely empty, and the coins didn't jangle anymore as I walked. Magic was pretty awesome.
Feeling a lot better about my appearance, I made my way back towards Oglethorpe Outfitters. I had to resist a temptation to go into the broom shop; the appeal of flight was undeniable, but I knew it'd be wiser to wait for my lessons at Hogwart, in Madam Pomfrey's competent presence. At the very least it would be nice to know how much a broomstick actually cost - both of Harry's had been gifts, the first from McGonogall and the second from Sirius Black. I ignored my urge to stop. The lengthening shadows had me feeling pressed for time, as there were still a few more stops I wanted to make during business hours.
I quickly retraced my steps and found myself inside Oglethorpe's. A middle aged man with dark hair greying at the temples was engaged with a tall, elderly wizard with a lot of wispy white hair and beard in the back of the shop. I could hardly see them through the maze of tents filling the premises, and they took no notice of my arrival.
Some of the tents were huge and grand, made of fine, glossy fabric and topped with turrets and pennants. Discrete placards near the entrances to their sumptuous, multi-level interiors showed these to cost many hundreds of Galleons, in addition to listing the many enchantments cast on the tent. These seemed to include a standard catalog of things like soundproofing, weatherproofing, spells to deter notice by Muggles and wild animals, charms to makes the toilets flush and to provide hot water for showers, and animation spells that'd pitch and unpitch the tent.
Making my way to the edge of the room, I found smaller, less expensive looking tents set up against the outer wall. Even the cheapest tent looked like it would more than satisfy my needs. A tiny, low-slung structure of dark canvas on the outside, the inside had the appearance of a small bachelor pad. A small carpeted living room had doors leading to an even smaller bedroom and bathroom. There were shelves built into the walls of the living room, and a small kitchen area with a sink, stovetop and icebox in one corner, but it was otherwise unfurnished. Windows and a large skylight in the living room looked out into the store, though there were no openings in the tent's exterior.
The placard informed me that this most basic model would cost fifty Galleons. Though this would leave me nearly broke pending another visit to Gringotts, I'd be able to camp out in Muggle parks without much fear of anyone stumbling across me.
The proprietor of Oglethorps, it turned out, was the middle-aged man with the greying temples. He found me as I was exiting the tent, and looked behind me expectantly. It didn't take Leglimency to know he was looking for my parents, so I cut off his inevitable question with one of my own.
"I think I'll take this one, couple of questions. How does the tent look when it is unpitched, and how do I pitch and unpitch it?"
The man, who introduced himself as Orpheus Oglethorpe, immediately launched into an explanation of the tent's features, clearly in his element. In my experience, if you give people an opportunity to talk about something they like, they'll ignore the more awkward aspects of a situation.
Mr. Oglethorpe demonstrated how the tent would fold itself up when tapped with a finger or wand in two spots, delineated by circular black patches sewn into the canvas. The same patches were visible on the outside of the small bundle that the tent wrapped itself into, and tapping them would se pt the tent to setting itself up.
I purchased a tent without further ado, counting out fifty Galleons and exchanging them for the canvas bundle. A pair of straps hung off it, letting me wear it on my back under my new robes. Upon exiting, the smell of fried food assaulted my nostrils, and the hunger I had forgotten about in the excitement of finding Diagon Alley returned in full force. My nose led me to a street vendor selling fresh fish and chips, and I wolfed down the hot greasy food, which was instantly revitalizing.
My final stop for the evening was Flourish and Blotts. I picked up the familiarly-titled books from my Hogwarts letter for History, Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration, as well as Hogwarts: A History and an introductory text in Arithmancy. Rounding out my reading list was Practical Household Magic by Zamira Gulch. Paying for the stack of books left me with just a handful of Sickles and Knuts. I stuffed them all into my robes, the thick tomes straining the capacity of my magically expanded pockets.
Heading back towards the Alley's exit, I followed an exiting group into the Cauldron and was soon back in Muggle London. I trekked back to Hyde Park in the gathering darkness and set up my tent in a sparse copse of trees as the last rays of the setting sun were receding behind the horizon. Using the last bit of daylight, I emptied my pockets and lined all my possessions, old and new, on one of the shelves built into the wall of the living room. Then, I stretched out on the soft carpet and was soon fast asleep.