The next morning, Alan woke up early. After a quick wash, he stepped into the lounge and found Harold already waiting for him. Mr. Green was pacing restlessly—an old habit of his. He kept glancing at the wall clock, clearly excited about the upcoming trip to Diagon Alley.
"I've been waiting ten minutes," Harold said, straightening his tie. "Need to bring anything?"
"No," Alan replied.
Still, he took his wand—useless for now, but it made him look more like a wizard. He noticed Harold had put on a crisp suit and combed his hair with unusual care. Quite the respectable gentleman.
They headed briskly to the door; the car was parked outside. Harold patted the hood proudly. "See this? Classic 1980 model. Older than you, but steadier than most new cars."
Alan knew nothing about cars, but the vehicle looked expensive. Could running a children's home really pay this well? He slid into the passenger seat, musing to himself.
Meanwhile, Harold inserted the key and started the engine. "Then let's be off," he said cheerfully.
Thirty seconds later, the car hadn't moved.
"Are we waiting for something?" Alan asked. "Or is it broken?"
"No, we're not waiting for anything, lad." Harold drummed his fingers on the wheel and whistled. "Fact is, I'm waiting for you. My car can go anywhere, provided it knows where. I haven't the foggiest where in London this Diagon Alley is."
Only then did Alan realize he'd never told Harold the exact location. Still...
"Mr. Green, I hope you won't be cross."
"What is it?"
"I don't know where Diagon Alley is either."
"!?"
Harold turned, speechless, and drew a long breath, fighting for patience.
"Hold on," he said, rubbing his temples. "You mean you don't know?"
"You catch on quick," Alan said calmly.
One second before Harold exploded, Alan added, "But I remember there's a big bookshop next to it, and a record store."
Harold felt the boy was toying with him, but he had no proof.
"That's hardly enough to pinpoint it," he said flatly.
"That's all I know." Alan shrugged. "We could drive around; seeing the place might jog my memory. A big bookshop plus a record store can't be that common."
Harold stared at him for several seconds, then sighed and gripped the wheel again.
"Fine, we'll start with Charing Cross Road," he muttered, shifting into gear. "Bookshop capital of London. Let's hope we don't have to comb the whole city."
Fortunately, they didn't take long. The Leaky Cauldron stood halfway along Charing Cross Road. Though Harold couldn't see it, Alan guided him, and they stepped inside without trouble. To Harold, he'd walked two paces on empty pavement and suddenly found himself in a strange new place.
"Don't speak to strangers," Alan repeated what Professor McGonagall had told him.
Harold obeyed at once, tense and alert. They reached the back courtyard one behind the other. It looked the same as before: walls on every side and a dustbin.
"Up three bricks, then two across."
Harold held his breath while Alan drew his wand and tapped a certain brick three times.
"Welcome to Diagon Alley," Alan murmured.
Harold looked around, unable to hide his excitement. He had walked Charing Cross Road many times, never dreaming such a place lay hidden here. This was the wizarding world! A snowy owl swooped past the sign of Flourish and Blotts; a copper kettle outside the cauldron shop hummed a tuneless song. The air smelled odd yet delightful, lifting his spirits.
Alan reminded him, "Time to look around. By the way, how much money did you bring?"
Harold instinctively clutched his pocket. "What do you need money for?"
"Admission fee," Alan said deadpan. "A tour of the magical world isn't free."
Harold gaped. "You never mentioned that. And wizards use our money?"
"You promised pocket money yesterday," Alan answered, already heading for the white building. "We're going to Gringotts to change pounds into Galleons and sickles—wizard money. I need a few extras myself. Come on."
Harold followed. "Do they take credit cards?"
Threading through the crowd, they arrived at Gringotts' doors. Several goblins stood by the entrance. Alan studied them up close for the first time: shorter than expected, dark wrinkled skin, long pointed ears, shrewd glittering eyes. Frankly, rather ugly. As the two passed, the goblins bowed slightly.
"They seem polite," Harold whispered. "Are they human?"
"They're goblins," Alan replied.
Inside the main hall, long counters stretched ahead; goblins on high stools worked busily. Alan led Harold to a free teller for currency exchange.
"Hello?"
Alan had to tilt his head back—he wasn't tall enough for anything else.
The goblin peered over a ledger. "What is your business?"
"I need to change pounds for Galleons, sir."
The goblin sized Alan up. "Hogwarts first-year from the Muggle world?"
"What of it?" Alan frowned.
"Simple," the goblin said, drumming slender fingers. "If you weren't a Hogwarts first-year, we wouldn't exchange anything. Muggle money is worthless to us. We only provide this service for Muggle-borns about to start school."
"Fine, I'm a Hogwarts first-year," Alan nodded.
The goblin sniffed and produced a delicate set of scales. "By rule, you may exchange no more than fifty Galleons."
Only fifty Galleons? Alan felt a twinge of disappointment. Still, it made sense. After all, for a wizard, earning pounds was far easier than earning Galleons.
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