"BOYS! RISE AND SHINE! We've got a long, busy day ahead of us!"
The roar—truly a sound more suited to a coastal cliffside than a London loft—came from the floor below. Hagrid's voice, a gravelly, bellowing thunder, vibrated through the old wooden beams of the attic, shattering the pre-dawn quiet.
Harry shot upright, blinking in a state of suspended disbelief. He was still groggy, having spent the night tossing and turning until the small hours. It wasn't just the strange environment; it was the intoxicating cocktail of overwhelming relief and burgeoning excitement. In his half-waking state, the events of the previous evening—the giant, the magic, the escape—felt profoundly unreal.
Had it all been a dream? A fantasy conjured by a deprived mind? In his dreams, his parents were no longer just names on a graveyard stone but heroes who had fought against cosmic evil. His eleventh birthday had been celebrated, not ignored, and he had gained his very first, fiercely protective friend.
Please, if this is a dream, don't let me wake up in the cupboard again. He silently pleaded, opening his eyes to the light pouring through the attic skylight.
The reality was immediately and deliberately present. Seated at the small, rickety wooden table, illuminated by the morning sun, was Tiera.
She was already wide awake, bent over a sheet of parchment, meticulously scratching out a complex series of multivariable calculations and ancient runes. She looked less like a newly initiated witch and more like a dedicated, slightly manic doctoral student attempting to solve the universe's fundamental equations before breakfast.
As if detecting his gaze, Tiera lifted her head from the pile of mathematical formulas. A bright, almost feral smile spread across her face, showing two neat, slightly pointed incisors. It was a charming, yet intensely alert expression—it reminded Harry of the small, clever fox he'd seen once at the zoo, assessing its surroundings with an unnerving, calculating certainty.
"Up already?" she asked, her tone teasing. "I assume the sheer thrill of impending magic finally wore off?"
"It's... it's just so much to take in," Harry mumbled, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
"Get dressed and wash up quickly," Tiera instructed, already tossing a bundle of clean fabric onto his bed.
Harry stared at the clothes in his hands. They were not the threadbare, dusty canvas pants and torn, oversized shirt he had worn yesterday. These were simple, clean, and unexpectedly soft—a plain cotton shirt and durable trousers, clearly new or at least incredibly well-maintained.
"I woke up early, and since I had nothing else to do, I helped wash your clothes downstairs," Tiera explained with a breezy, functional smile. "They won't be dry for hours. These are mine. They might be a bit loose, but they're clean. Put them on first."
Harry grasped the fresh fabric, which carried the faint, reassuring scent of harsh soap and outdoor air. He was grateful—immeasurably so. He and Tiera were the same age, eleven, but years of consistent, nutritious food from her job at the Chinese restaurant had given Tiera a visible edge.
She was a head taller, sturdier, and carried the clear physical confidence of someone who had never been forced to skip a meal. Harry, meanwhile, was all bone and fragility.
The clothes were indeed a little large, hanging slightly loose around his thin frame, but the feeling of clean cotton against his skin was a luxurious novelty. He quickly pulled them over his head, silently vowing that he would no longer have to endure the embarrassment of entering the Wizarding World dressed in the shame of his Muggle neglect.
After a rushed wash, Tiera led Harry downstairs. Hagrid, having finished his own mammoth ablutions, was waiting, radiating excitement and damp warmth.
They left the mundane anonymity of the Muggle street. Tiera noticed how seamlessly the local landscape transitioned: the row of grubby, identical brick buildings, the adjacent large bookstore, and the music shop.
She had walked this route literally hundreds of times on her way to and from her loft. She had never once registered the existence of the dilapidated, cramped little pub wedged between the books and the records—the place Hagrid now identified as the Leaky Cauldron.
"It takes effort for ordinary folk to even see it," Hagrid chuckled, catching Tiera's look of genuine astonishment, which she had perfected for his benefit. "First-years and Muggles who come here by accident won't even notice the Leaky Cauldron is there, much less walk in, unless someone guides 'em."
A highly effective glamour charm, Tiera noted internally, filing away the observation on magical concealment. The spell must be sophisticated enough to actively dissuade the Muggle mind from registering the pub's existence, rather than merely making it invisible.
Before Tiera or Harry could process the profound implications of this spatial paradox, Hagrid pushed them both through the darkened doorway.
The Leaky Cauldron was a profound disappointment to Tiera's expectations, which had been set by the polished, charming interiors of the films. This place was darker, dingier, and significantly dirtier than any third-rate Chinese takeaway she had ever worked in. The air was thick with the smells of stale beer, pipe smoke, and ancient grease.
Inside, a handful of wizards were scattered: a few elderly women sipping sherry in a gloom-filled corner, a small, gnome-like man in a dusty top hat, and the bar owner, Tom, who was almost entirely bald and wrinkled like a shrunken walnut.
The low murmur of conversation ceased abruptly the moment Hagrid's massive form filled the entrance. Everyone knew the Gamekeeper; smiles, waves, and excited greetings immediately erupted.
"The usual, Hagrid?" Tom, the bartender, asked, leaning over the counter, wiping a glass with a dirty rag.
"Ah, Tom, I wish. I'd love a firewhisky, but I'm on official Hogwarts business," Hagrid boomed, giving the counterman a hearty slap on the shoulder that nearly sent the man spinning. "Never drink when I'm working, Tom. That's why Dumbledore trusts me, see?"
The noise instantly died down again. Tom's attention shifted from Hagrid to the two small figures huddled behind the giant. His gaze skimmed Tiera—a strange girl with dark hair and intense eyes—before locking onto Harry.
Tom's eyes widened, tracking the distinctive, lightning-shaped scar half-hidden beneath Harry's messy fringe, and focusing on his unnervingly bright emerald-green eyes.
"Oh, my word," Tom breathed, dropping the rag and the glass with a loud clatter. His voice rose into a horrified, high-pitched squeal, like a startled water fowl. "This—this—"
He realized his outburst was too loud, too dangerous. He quickly lowered his voice to an urgent, reverent whisper that carried perfectly through the sudden, tense silence. "Harry Potter... Merlin's beard, is that really Harry Potter? It is an honour."
Tom vaulted the bar like a clumsy acrobat, rushing toward Harry, tears immediately welling in his eyes. He grabbed Harry's hand, shaking it with fierce, emotional fervor. "Welcome, Mr. Potter, welcome back to us."
The stillness in the pub was replaced by a chaotic, surging wave of affection.
Hagrid let out a proud, rumbling laugh, and the sound of falling chairs punctuated the sudden commotion. Every witch and wizard in the room—young and old, male and female, strangely dressed and vaguely normal—abandoned their drinks and conversations and descended upon Harry.
Tiera, accustomed to being the one pulling the strings, found herself physically pressed up against Hagrid's wet fur coat, an unwilling spectator to the sheer, unadulterated celebrity of her new friend. Harry, who had spent ten years as a subhuman curiosity confined to a cupboard, was suddenly the center of a world he didn't know existed.
The sheer emotional force of the welcome threatened to push Tiera out of the circle entirely, a bizarre and fascinating experience of being completely eclipsed.
Harry was overwhelmed. He looked lost, his eyes darting frantically from face to face. He had never been touched with such frantic reverence, much less by a crowd of strangers. He shook hands repeatedly, muttering confused hellos.
"I'm Kodoli, Mr. Potter! I simply can't believe I finally get to see you!"
"It's an honour, Mr. Potter, a genuine honour to shake your hand!"
"My heart is pounding! I can't stop shaking!"
"I'm so happy, Mr. Potter, I can't even describe it. My name is Diggle."
"I've seen you before!" Harry suddenly shouted, recognizing a man whose hat fell off in his excitement. "You bowed to me in a shop once!"
"He remembers! HE REMEMBERS ME!" Diggle screamed to the rapt crowd, a sound of pure, evangelical joy.
Harry was passed from hand to hand, a bewildered, small figure at the eye of a storm of fame. Tiera watched this exchange with clinical detachment, analyzing the scene with the cold eye of an investment banker.
Harry Potter was not just a friend; he was a walking, talking, highly liquid asset. His fame offered a level of protection, influence, and access that Tiera, the orphaned Muggle-born, could never achieve on her own. The gold in his vault was merely the immediate utility; the true value was in moments like this, where every powerful or ordinary witch in the room was indebted to him.
Just as Tiera managed to edge closer to Hagrid, a figure emerged from the crowd. He was a young man with a pale, twitching face and a pronounced stammer. He approached Harry nervously, one of his eyes constantly flickering.
"Professor Quirrell," Hagrid greeted him with a slight, respectful nod.
"Harry, Tiera, allow me to introduce you. This is Professor Quirinus Quirrell, one of your teachers."
"P-P-Potter," Professor Quirrell stammered, extending a hand to Harry. "I am inexpressibly delighted to finally... see you."
Tiera's gaze snapped to the offered hand. Quirrell was wearing a thin, black glove. An excellent precaution, Tiera thought, connecting the sight to her foreknowledge. She remembered the plot—Voldemort was lodged, parasitic, in the back of that man's head.
A sudden, cynical thought experiment flashed through Tiera's mind: Would the entire Philosopher's Stone debacle have ended prematurely if Quirrell had simply removed that glove and Harry's protection had instantly incinerated him right here in the middle of the Leaky Cauldron? She suppressed a faint, dark smile. The thought of such an easy, dramatic conclusion to the first book's plot was amusing, if improbable.
"What subject do you teach, Professor Quirrell?" Harry asked politely.
"Defense Against the D-D-Dark Arts," the Professor muttered, seeming genuinely reluctant to discuss his own field. He nervously adjusted his turban, which Tiera knew concealed the Dark Lord.
"You won't need to learn that anymore, will you, Mr. P-Potter?" He finished with a nervous, high-pitched laugh that sounded like a strangled rodent. "Are you getting ready to buy your supplies? I... I also need to find a book about vampires."
The surrounding crowd, however, was not finished with their hero. Before Quirrell could draw the conversation out further, Hagrid, who had an entire schedule to keep, intervened. Tiera gave a discreet, sharp tug on the sleeve of his coat, urging him forward.
"Right! Time to go! There's still a lot we need to get to!" Hagrid called out over the clamour, grabbing Tiera by the shoulder to prevent her from being separated. "Come on, Harry, don't keep Tiera waiting."
It took another agonizing minute for Harry to shake the last hand. As Kodoli enthusiastically requested one final, emotional clasp, Hagrid efficiently led both children across the pub and into a small, grimy walled courtyard—a space containing only a dustbin and a few weeds.
"Sorry, Harry, Tiera," Hagrid apologized, his voice full of genuine regret. "I meant to get you breakfast here at the Leaky Cauldron. Tom's mashed potato sandwiches are the best in the country—better than what the Hogwarts House-Elves can manage." He grinned. "But we'll have to eat in Diagon Alley now. They were out of those delicious sausages, anyway."
With a flourish that belied his massive bulk, Hagrid pulled out his enormous, battered pink umbrella. Tiera watched, her heart beginning to pound in genuine anticipation as the final barrier between her and the magical economy of Gringotts was about to be dropped.
That was quite the welcome. The wealth and fame of Harry Potter are undeniable, but it looks like the dangers (like Quirrell) are just as close. Now, off to Gringotts and the vaults!