The Leaky Cauldron.
Skyl popped the last slice of salami into his mouth. His stomach was stretched tight, and he finally understood how those tramps lavished with unexpected generosity in O. Henry's stories treated a sudden feast: you had to eat it as if it were the last meal of your life.
"To be perfectly honest, Professor Dumbledore, I'm in urgent need of a job I can actually live on right now…"
"No, my boy. At your age, you shouldn't be looking for work. You should be going to school."
"What?" Skyl froze.
"How long has it been since you really looked at your own face, my travel-worn child?"
Across the table, Professor Dumbledore set down his gleaming silver knife and fork and drew a wand from within his robes—fifteen inches long, made of elder. He gave it a small flick toward Skyl.
"Scourgify."
A tiny whirlwind swept over Skyl from head to toe. All the specks of mud, dust, sweat, and grime clinging to his skin, hair and clothes vanished without a trace.
Skyl used the polished back of his fork as a mirror and stared at the face reflected there—unusually young, boyish. Anyone else would have taken him for at most sixteen, still just a teenager.
"How…? Oh. All right. I get it now."
Only then did the bone-weary Skyl realize that it wasn't just that he'd suddenly awakened a wizard's gift. Along with it, his body had been slowly reverting to his adolescence. For the past two days he'd been sleeping rough, eating whatever he could, and dodging random searches from the local constables. He'd been running around putting out fires; no wonder he hadn't noticed his body changing.
Dumbledore smiled. "That's right. This is exactly what a child ought to be doing—fulfilling the duties of a student. Leave the rest of the worries to the adults. Taking over the world is still a bit premature for you."
"But I don't have any tuition money. And I don't have a school acceptance letter."
"Don't worry. Your acceptance letter is right here."
Like every wise old man from a fairy tale who appears just in time to grant a child's wish, Dumbledore produced a pale yellow envelope from his sleeve.
Skyl was no wide-eyed youngster anymore. He'd been knocked around by wind and rain for years. Even so, the sight of that letter still moved him—the warmth and kindness behind it did. If his old roommate were here, the guy would probably faint from excitement the moment he got his hands on this envelope.
It was a pale yellow parchment envelope. On the front, in emerald-green ink, it read:
South London
At the door of Mr Zhdanov's wizarding residence
For Mr D. Skyl
He opened it, and inside was a Hogwarts letter of acceptance.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class; Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot;
Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards)
Dear Mr D. Skyl,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A list of necessary books and equipment is enclosed. The term begins on 1 September. Professor Dumbledore will meet with you shortly to arrange the formalities of your transfer.
Yours sincerely,
Deputy Headmistress
Minerva McGonagall
Skyl pressed his lips together. "This means a great deal to me. Truly… thank you, Professor Dumbledore."
"Two days ago, your name appeared in the Book of Admittance," Dumbledore said gently. "Given your age, you clearly aren't suited to entering as a first-year. I thought placing you into the fifth year as a transfer student would be a fitting arrangement. Hogwarts hasn't had many transfer students, but those few we've had have all gone on to become remarkable witches and wizards. If I recall correctly, the last one was sometime in the previous century… when Phineas was still headmaster."
Skyl felt a bit embarrassed. "But to be honest, I don't know the first thing about magic. I'm missing even the basic knowledge that a first-year should have."
"You're welcome to sit in on classes from different years," Dumbledore replied. "Hogwarts will never turn away a child with magical talent just because he's ignorant. Our mission is to spread wisdom, not to build walls from it and shut people out."
That generous, reassuring tone made Skyl feel immeasurably comforted.
"Thank you, Professor. I'll make sure I'm there when term starts."
"Turn in early tonight, Mr D. Skyl. You must be very tired. Tomorrow at nine o'clock sharp, a highly respected professor will come to take you to Diagon Alley for your school supplies. You needn't worry about the cost; the school will cover those expenses."
"Then I shall await the professor's honored arrival with the utmost respect. Good night, Professor Dumbledore."
Skyl spent a quiet night in one of the Leaky Cauldron's guest rooms.
The next morning, he woke early and went down to the bar to wait for the "highly respected professor" Dumbledore had mentioned.
Who would it be?
Could it be Professor Minerva McGonagall? Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts, Head of Gryffindor House, master of Transfiguration, Animagus—a strict, old-fashioned yet deeply caring witch. If it were her, Skyl was certain he'd be well taken care of.
Or maybe Professor Filius Flitwick? Head of Ravenclaw House, Charms professor, champion duelist—a little wizard with goblin blood, mild and humorous, highly emotional, a true mentor and friend.
If not them, perhaps the cheerful and compassionate Professor Pomona Sprout? Or the cold yet deeply devoted Professor Severus Snape?
Anyone would be fine—so long as it wasn't Quirinus Quirrell. The man was already possessed by the fragment of Voldemort's soul. He was, at this moment, an extremely dangerous individual.
And then Skyl was greeted by Professor Quirrell.
"M-Mr D. Skyl? S-sorry, that is your name, isn't it? I'm… I'm a professor at Hogwarts—just call me Quirrell. D-Dumbledore sent me—he said you were staying at the Leaky Cauldron…"
Quirrell was a pale-faced young wizard who looked constantly on edge. He stammered when he spoke, and his body shook now and then with involuntary twitches. Skyl couldn't help noticing his strange purple turban, which gave off a faint, acrid smell, as if it had been soaked in masala.
"Good day, esteemed Professor Quirrell. It's an honor to meet you."
While they were talking, two more guests came in through the pub's front door. One was exceptionally large, with a great bushy mass of hair and beard—a half-giant. The other was a thin, small boy wearing a pair of battered round glasses. He had beautiful green eyes and, under his messy fringe, there was a lightning-shaped scar just visible on his forehead.
The Leaky Cauldron instantly grew livelier at their arrival. The bored patrons sprang up to greet them.
The half-giant was Hogwarts' Keeper of Keys and Grounds, Rubeus Hagrid. And the small boy was none other than the wizarding world's famed Boy Who Lived—Harry Potter.
Quirrell hurried over to shake Harry's hand, but before long he excused himself, saying he had to take Skyl to get ready for school.
Skyl kept his thoughts to himself. Quirrell had become Voldemort's servant, and Voldemort hated Harry—the boy who had once destroyed him—with every fiber of his being. A smart man didn't poke and pry at this sort of thing; it was better for one's life expectancy.
While Quirrell was walking over to meet his bewildered nemesis, Skyl took the opportunity to glance at the door-shaped mark on the back of his hand.
[World I: Arrived]
[World II: Countdown 06:12]
In just over six hours, he would be able to move on to the next world—around this evening.
Quirrell led Skyl out to Diagon Alley. The entrance was in the back alley behind the pub, and Hagrid and Harry were headed to the same place. Quirrell did his best to avoid the four of them traveling together.
He first took Skyl to Ollivander's wand shop. A wand was a wizard's life. You could put it this way: a witch or wizard only truly took their place in the magical world once they had a wand. It was the primary focus for spellcasting and an amplifier for magical power. Without one, even the simplest spell became an uphill struggle, and performing wandless magic required tremendous effort, often for little gain.