Bolt awoke early the next morning. The sun was just appearing over the horizon, making the permanent smog that blanketed London glow an orangey colour. Bolt planned to leave early in the morning because less people at the orphanage would question him. He knew there wouldn't be much of a problem, especially since it was the summer holidays and they were basically left to do what they pleased. Still, it wouldn't be helpful if someone got curious.
Last night Harry had spent a long time worrying about money needed to buy school supplies and what he was going to tell Miss Teams, who replaced Mr Grant some years back. Miss Teams was definitely an improvement. Mr Grant used to get very drunk and violent, and Bolt had been heavily relieved when he had retired. Hell, everyone was relieved, but Bolt especially as Mr Grant had a particular dislike of him.
Miss Teams was about fifty years old, and even seemed to care about the younger children. She didn't even try with the older kids, but made sure everyone was in by curfew and stayed out of trouble in school. Bolt didn't blame her for not trying with the teenagers, as most were to far into the bad life to come back out again. She didn't mind Bolt as he was quiet, was always in by curfew (or so she thought), did his tasks, sometimes helped with the little kids and stayed out of trouble.
Bolt was glad that the littler kids had someone like her to look after them, as he knew what it was like to be small and not understand why no looked after them or loved for them or cared for them at all. He remembered when he had been small and, walking through the playground during his first year of school, watching the other kids being picked up by their parents and getting hugged and asked how their day had been. How he had wished someone would ask how his day had been, just shown some interest!
He never cried though. Never. He had learnt long ago that crying was for the weak, and the weak didn't survive. No doubt about it, Bolt was a survivor. The older kid might have called him a loner, but they respected him. He was a devil in a fight, and could take down opponents almost twice his size. Not that he liked to fight, but he could defend himself if the need arose. He was also known as one of the best pickpockets and cat burglars in the orphanage.
Although he didn't really enjoy it, Bolt was quite the thief. He needed money to buy books, extra food, new clothes and stuff that wasn't provided, but Bolt thought necessary. He worked alone. He didn't trust anyone but himself. His fingers were long and perfect for slipping into pockets, especially on crowded underground trains, which were the best spots.
He didn't break into houses much, only when pick pocketing was slow. His small frame and flexibility helped him to slip through windows that were thought to be too small to present a risk if left open. He was also rather good at short-circuiting alarms, after almost being caught one time when an alarm went off. The cops had never caught him, although all the older kids knew that he did it, but none ever grassed.
There were three rules in the orphanage amongst the kids. One was to never grass, whatever that person was doing, another was to not mess with other people's stuff, and, finally, you had to leave the little kids alone. Little kids were usually seven and less. Only messed up people, like Fingers, who had now left, broke these rules. Actually, everyone was messed up, but quietly so.
In the letter Bolt had received, he had learnt more about his pre-orphanage life than he had ever known before. Firstly, his surname was Potter, and, secondly, his parents had been magic users, or wizards. That single letter gave Bolt more hope than he had ever felt in his life. He knew that because he lived in an orphanage and had no one to look out for him, he would have had to try three times as hard as most people to get anywhere. Most kids who left the orphanage ended up in dead-end jobs, thieving or something equally illegal. But Bolt was going to be different. That letter had given him a future, and he was going to fully use it. He would study hard and be the top of the year and get somewhere.
Although his ideas of funds were still a bit sketchy, he figured that perhaps his parents had left him some money. The letter mentioned a Gringotts Bank being in Diagon Alley, and something about a different currency. Even if his parents had no money, he could always break into a few houses.
Soon, Bolt was walking through the streets of London, having memorised the directions to the Leaky Cauldron, which was apparently the entrance to this Diagon Alley. Bolt snorted. Where did these wizards get all these ridiculous names? He had decided to leave the problem of what to tell Miss Team for later. First, he would explore the wizarding world and weigh up his options.
After about fifteen minutes of a brisk pace, Bolt walked out of a side alley onto a still quiet main street, with the first shops beginning to open. It was still only eight after all. Just along the street he could see a grubby looking pub that the few passer-bys obviously couldn't see. That was all the evidence Bolt needed to know that the whole wizard thing was real. The sign above the door read: The Leaky Cauldron.
He cautiously walked up to the building and peeked his head around the door. The inside was very shadowy and all made of timber. Behind a large bar that ran the length of the room was a man scrubbing a beer glass, making a squeaking noise. A few people were sitting in tables near the walls eating breakfast, but it was quite quiet. It reminded Bolt of a library, with that stranger eerie silence. He imagined it would be quite the place when full, but it obviously wasn't a breakfast destination. There were stairs leading up to what Bolt imagined would be rooms, but he wasn't sure.
He walked over to the bar and, with his head just above the counter, addressed the barman.
"Excuse me, but could you show me the way into Diagon Alley?" he said, deciding to play the innocent little waif.
Tom's head swung about a bit, looking for the origin of the voice, before finally spotting Bolt. He grinned toothlessly at the boy.
"A first year, eh? Where are your parents?" he said, simply curious.
"They died when I was a baby." Came the blunt reply from Bolt. Although he never knew his parents, he always defended them as he knew they hadn't wanted him to live in an orphanage, lonely and afraid.
"Oh" said Tom, his smile faltering slightly. "I'm Tom by the way."
"I'm Bolt. So…could you show me the way then?"
Tom blushed, having had forgotten the boy's previous question. He nodded eagerly and beckoned the graceful little boy. While leading him to the courtyard, Tom couldn't help but be curious about the boy. The child walked with grace and pride, seeming to be used to being respected. Tom was almost certain that he was a muggle-born, because anyone else would know how to get the Alley, but there was something about the boy that made him different.
He quickly tapped the bricks with his wand and as the magical arch appeared dramatically, he announced, "Welcome, young Bolt, to Diagon Alley!"
He chuckled. The look on Bolt's face was priceless. He had to admit, though, that Diagon Alley was impressive, even to him after a million or so times. He pointed out Gringotts to the poor lad and watched bemusedly as the child walked dazedly through the streets, with eyes as big as dinner plates. The incident, however, soon left his mind as the bar filled up.