The Leaky Cauldron stood at the entrance to Diagon Alley, shabby and narrow enough that most Muggles passed it without ever noticing the door. To wizards, it was far more than an old pub wedged between ordinary London buildings. It was a meeting place, an inn, a gateway, and one of the few places where the hidden world brushed right up against the ordinary one.
By late morning, the pub had become lively. Witches and wizards sat around the rough wooden tables, drinking, talking, laughing, and arguing in low, overlapping voices. A few elderly witches leaned together over steaming cups, while several middle-aged wizards filled the air with pipe smoke and loud opinions, making the whole room feel warm, noisy, and faintly chaotic.
Tyler, disguised as a gloomy middle-aged man, stepped into the pub without drawing much attention. Plenty of wizards came through the Leaky Cauldron every day, and strangers were common enough that one more dark-robed figure hardly mattered. In a place like this, people were more interested in their own drinks, gossip, and errands than in a quiet customer keeping to himself.
He walked to the bar, his wide black robe hanging heavily around him. The hood was pulled low over his head, and in the dim light of the Leaky Cauldron, his face was almost impossible to see. The disguise suited him well enough that even someone watching closely would not easily connect him to the handsome first-year who had just left Ollivanders.
"Oh!" Tom said when Tyler approached. The old landlord wiped his hands on a cloth and gave the dark-robed stranger a professional smile. "New customer, are you? What can I get you?"
"A glass of butterbeer," Tyler said.
His voice came out hoarse and low, touched with a gloomy roughness that fit the face he wore. It sounded nothing like the clear voice of an eleven-year-old boy.
"Right away," Tom said.
He moved quickly behind the bar and soon placed a large glass of butterbeer in front of Tyler. "There you are. Enjoy."
Tyler did not drink it. He rested one gloved hand near the glass and quietly looked over the pub instead.
Most of the customers were ordinary enough to be ignored. Old witches, rough-looking wizards, a few travelers with bags beside their chairs, and two men arguing about the Cannons with the doomed passion of people who had lost all good sense. None of them mattered to him.
Then Tyler's gaze stopped in a shadowed corner of the pub. A pale-faced young man sat there alone, nervous and stiff, his eyes unfocused as though his thoughts were far away. Though it was the end of July and the weather was warm, the man had a ridiculous purple turban wrapped around his head, making him look awkward, theatrical, and deeply out of place.
Quirrell.
Tyler sneered silently. By now, Quirinus Quirrell had already become a host for Voldemort. The turban around his head was not a fashion choice, but a cover hiding the face on the back of his skull.
At that moment, the door of the Leaky Cauldron opened again. A huge bearded man stepped inside, bringing a short, skinny child with him.
The man was enormous, standing far taller than any ordinary wizard, with thick, wild hair and a beard so untamed that only his black eyes were clearly visible. His coat looked large enough to cover a small tent, and every step he took made the floorboards seem to remember their age.
Rubeus Hagrid.
Tyler recognized him at once. Hagrid was a half-giant wizard, born from a giantess mother and a wizard father. How such a pairing had happened was not something Tyler cared to imagine in detail, though the wizarding world had always had strange bloodlines and stranger histories.
There were wizards with goblin ancestry, such as Professor Flitwick at Hogwarts. There were wizards with Veela ancestry, such as Fleur Delacour of the Delacour family in France. Across magical history, there had even been stranger mixes involving beings most people would never think to approach romantically.
Hagrid himself was the gamekeeper at Hogwarts and one of Headmaster Dumbledore's most loyal supporters. He looked huge, rough, and frightening at first glance, but his heart was famously soft. Unfortunately, that softness came with a dangerous fondness for fierce magical creatures that most sensible people preferred to admire from a distance.
The child beside him was much smaller. He wore old, ill-fitting clothes that clearly had not been bought for him, and the glasses on his face looked just as battered. Thin, tense, and visibly overwhelmed, he stared around the pub as if he had walked into a dream and was not yet sure whether it was safe.
This was the famous savior, Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived.
"Poor thing," Tyler thought, watching him from beneath his hood. "Forced to live under someone else's roof, pushed around for years, and somehow he still didn't grow twisted."
A child's family environment mattered enormously. Harry Potter had been neglected and mistreated by his aunt and uncle since he was young, and his cousin had clearly bullied him without restraint. Yet for all his flaws, and for all the rough edges that life had given him, Harry still held on to a kindness many people never managed to keep.
If another child had grown up under those same conditions, he might have become bitter, cruel, or eager to repay the world in kind. Voldemort was the clearest example of that sort of path. What he had experienced as a child had fed the darkness already inside him until he grew into someone who wanted to dominate, punish, and destroy.
The moment Hagrid and Harry entered, the entire Leaky Cauldron fell silent. Conversation died table by table, and every pair of eyes in the pub turned toward the boy.
"The usual, Hagrid?" Tom asked, reaching for a glass with a smile.
"No, Tom," Hagrid said, his deep voice rumbling through the room. "I'm on Hogwarts business."
He clapped one huge hand onto Tom's shoulder in a friendly greeting. The old landlord nearly buckled under the force of it, because even a casual pat from a half-giant was not something an ordinary man could easily take.
Tom barely seemed to notice. His eyes had locked on Harry, and his face changed with dawning amazement.
"Bless my soul," he whispered. "Is this—can this be—Harry Potter?"
Then Tom rushed out from behind the bar with surprising speed. He hurried straight to Harry, seized the boy's hand, and shook it with such excitement that Harry looked too stunned to pull away.
"Mr. Potter," Tom said, his voice thick with emotion. "What an honor. What an honor to welcome you back. Welcome back to the wizarding world."
Harry looked completely overwhelmed. In the Dursley household, he had been unwanted, ignored, and treated like an inconvenience at best. He had grown used to thinking people disliked him on sight, yet here, complete strangers were staring at him with joy, awe, and gratitude.
"I'm Dedalus Diggle, Mr. Potter," said a small man who hurried forward eagerly. His top hat bounced as he shook Harry's hand with both of his own. "I can't believe I'm finally meeting you. Welcome back!"
"Such an honor," another wizard said, squeezing in from the side. "I've wanted to shake your hand for years. My heart is pounding!"
More people crowded forward. Witches and wizards shook Harry's hand, patted his shoulder, and praised him with shining eyes, while Hagrid stood nearby and smiled as if Harry's popularity pleased him. The boy himself looked as though he had no idea what to do with so much sudden affection.
Then Professor Quirrell rose from the corner Tyler had been watching. He walked toward Harry with visible nerves, one eye twitching as he moved. His face was pale, his smile strained, and his hands fluttered as though he did not quite know where to put them.
"Professor Quirrell?" Hagrid said, sounding a little surprised. Then he looked down at Harry and explained, "Harry, this is Professor Quirrell. He'll be one of your teachers at Hogwarts."
"P-P-Potter," Quirrell stammered, reaching out a trembling hand. "C-can't t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you."
Tyler watched him with cold amusement. The creature hidden beneath that turban must have hated this moment, being forced so close to the child responsible for his downfall while pretending to be nothing more than a nervous professor.
Quirrell seemed ready to say something else. Before he could, Tyler stepped forward from the bar.
"Move aside," Tyler said.
He kicked Quirrell sharply, sending the professor stumbling to the ground in an awkward sprawl. Quirrell nearly fell flat on his face, and the crowd gasped as conversations snapped off again.
Tyler ignored him and turned his hooded face toward Harry. "Let me meet the famous Harry Potter."
His voice was hoarse, low, and gloomy enough to make the words sound like they had crawled out of a cold cellar. The pub fell tense around him, and even a few of the bolder wizards took half a step back.
"Well, well," Tyler said, studying the skinny boy before him. "Let me see who this is. The Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter."
"Who are you?" Hagrid roared at once.
The half-giant moved in front of Harry like a wall, shielding the boy with his massive body. His black eyes fixed on Tyler with open suspicion, and his hands curled into fists large enough to crush a chair.
"Stay away from Harry, you black-robed creep!" Hagrid thundered.