Chapter Text
Hari didn’t sleep much that night.
He lay in his bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, the sound of his own heart loud in his ears. The words that stranger—Mr. Rubble—had spoken roamed in his mind.
Magic is real. You’re a wizard.
It was impossible. Ridiculous even.
And yet he had seen the light emanating at the tip of that man’s stick—wand. He was sure he had felt the warmth of it on his face.
By dawn, he’d made up his mind. He would go.
Sneaking out wasn’t hard. Aunt Petunia snored on the sofa after her night telly, Dudley had passed out in his room after been out with his gang all day terrorizing the little kids of the outskirts of Little Whinging, and Uncle Vernon was away on business. He crept across the hall, jacket pulled tight, and slipped out the back door.
Mr. Rubble was waiting where he’d promised, under the same old tree.
“You came,” the man said softly, like he hadn’t been sure.
Hari nodded. “I want to know more.”
Mr. Rubble studied him for a long moment, then reached into his bag and pulled out a book. Its leather cover was cracked, the title almost faded away, as though it had been through thousands of hands. He handed it to Hari as though it were something precious.
“Not everything you’re looking for is inside,” Rubble said quietly. “But it’s a beginning. It was mine, once.”
Hari looked down. Stamped in gold, barely clinging to the spine, the words read: Hidden Wonders: A Child’s Guide to the Magical World.
He opened it carefully, fingertips brushing pages that smelled faintly of dust and ink. Near the front was a table of contents, neat and inviting: Welcome to the Wizarding World… Signs of Magic in Children… A Wizard’s Tools… Magical Creatures and Friends… Places of Wonder… Keeping Magic Secret… Famous Witches and Wizards… Your Magical Journey.
“Sometimes,” Mr. Rubble continued pulling him back from his thoughts, “magic slips out when we’re young. When we’re scared, angry, or wishing too hard. It’s called accidental magic.”
He swallowed. “Like… like when Aunt Petunia’s hair turn blue in the middle of her nagging?”
The man’s mouth twitched in amusement. “Exactly. That was you.”
He blinked. “But... I didn’t mean to, how do I stop it?”
“You can’t stop it,” a small smile on Mr Rubble appeared “But you can learn to pipe it down. Try this—when you feel like you’re about to lose control, breathe. Slow and deep. Picture a candle flame in your chest. Don’t let it flare, don’t let it die. Just keep it steady.”
He tried, closing his eyes, breathing in, breathing out. For the first time in a long while, something inside him didn’t feel like it was ready to explode.
When he opened his eyes, Rubble was watching him closely. Then, with a small nod, he tapped his wand against the book. A faint glow shimmered over the cover.
“A seal,” he explained. “So only you can open it. Keep it safe, Hari.”
Hari. No-one had ever said his name out loud before. Not the real one at least. Not the way his mother had spelled it. It sounded softer on Rubble’s lips, like it was meant to be.
He hugged the book to his chest. “Thank you.”
Rubble crouched down, lowering his voice. “I travel often. I can’t stay. But if you need more help, there’s a place. In London. A pub called the Leaky Cauldron. They’ll know what to do with you.”
Hari’s heart raced. “How do I get there?”
“You’ll manage,” Rubble said with a small smile. Then he tucked a folded scrap of parchment into the back cover of the book. Hari caught a glimpse of ink on it—an address. “And Hari, when I return to England, I’ll look for you. Promise”
Before he could answer, Rubble was already moving away. Over his shoulder he called out, “By the way—this is called Apparition.”
A sharp crack split the quiet, loud enough one could mistake for a car backfiring. In the same instant, Rubble seemed to twist in on himself, his form pulling into a swirl of shadow and air, vanishing completely.
That night, Hari read until his eyes burned. He traced every sketch, whispered every strange word, until exhaustion dragged him under. When he woke, he tucked the book safely behind a loose floorboard in his cupboard.
It wasn’t until he pulled it free again the next day, and finished reading it, that he found the note Mr. Rubble had left him:
The Leaky Cauldron.
Charing Cross Road, London, near a big bookshop and a record shop.
Ask for help to get to Diagon Alley. They will help you.
Hari’s hand shook. He had enough money tucked away to make it to London. And now, he had a clear destination.
Hari lingered outside the pub for nearly ten minutes before working up the courage to push the door open. His hand stayed clenched in his pocket around the folded note Mr. Rubble had left him, as though the words themselves were a lifeline. He must have read them twenty times already, and still the idea of actually going to this Leaky Cauldron made his stomach twist with nerves.
He had counted his money three times that morning, spreading the coins and crumpled notes across his bed, only to shove them quickly back into the tin when Dudley came stomping down the stairs. It was enough for the train fare into London. Almost enough for the taxi, too—just not quite. That “not quite” had weighed on him all the way here, dragging at his feet as he walked.
Hari paused just inside the doorway, blinking against the smoky air and chatter.
Squaring his shoulders, he stepped forward.
His eyes went to Sarah automatically—she was bustling behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, the same way she’d been the very first night he stumbled in here. She looked steady. Reliable. The kind of person who might not ask too many questions.
Still, his throat felt dry. Asking for help was hard enough; asking for money felt impossible. But if he didn’t, then the whole plan—London, the Leaky Cauldron, answers—would slip away before it even started.
The bell above the door jingled as he stepped inside. Sarah glanced up from behind the counter, her face brightening with recognition.
“Well, look who it is. Out and about early, aren’t you?” she called, wiping her hands on a towel.
Hari shrugged, tugging at the hem of his jacket. “Couldn’t sleep much.”
“Mm. You’ve got that look about you,” Sarah said knowingly, coming around to perch on a stool near him. She reached over to smooth down the mess of his hair before he could duck away. “School treating you any better?”
He hesitated. It was easy enough to say “fine” and leave it at that, but the warmth in her eyes made him want to say more. “I… flunked my end-of-term tests,” he admitted, staring at the wood grain on the bar. “But I knew all the answers. I just… forgot to write them down.” He swallowed. “On purpose.”
Sarah tilted her head, frowning slightly. “On purpose? Now why would you do a thing like that?”
“Because if I did better than Dudley—my cousin—I’d be in trouble,” he said quickly, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Last time I got a higher mark, Uncle Vernon didn’t let me eat dinner for a week. Said I was showing off.”
The towel in Sarah’s hand twisted tightly, but her voice stayed gentle. “That’s not showing off, Hari. That’s just you being clever. Don’t ever think otherwise.”
He risked a glance up at her, and the lump in his throat felt bigger than before. He shrugged again, but softer this time. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll just… keep my head down.”
Sarah reached out, patting his hand firmly. “Matters to me,” she said, her eyes steady on his. “You remember that.”
For a moment, he almost believed her. He almost wanted to tell her everything—about Mr. Rubble, about the book tucked safe in his bag, about the strange new possibility blooming in his chest. But the words stuck. Instead, he shifted on his stool, nerves prickling again.
There was something he needed to ask her. Something he hated asking. But if he didn’t, the whole plan would slip away before it even began.
He licked his lips, heart thudding. “Yeah. Um... Sarah, could I—could I borrow a little money? Just for a taxi. My uncle’s in London, and I... I need to get to him.”
Her brow furrowed. “He didn’t leave you enough?”
Hari shrugged, embarrassed. “I’ve got most of it. Just... not quite enough.”
She sighed but slid a few coins across the counter. “Don’t get yourself into trouble, all right?”
He nodded quickly, cheeks burning. “Thanks, Sarah.”
He talked to her for a bit more, maybe it was the guilt that made him stay, but still his need to find answers won and he left not even half an hour after she gave him the money.
The taxi dropped him off across from a shabby old building wedged between two shops. It looked wrong—like it was half-hidden, out of place. And yet, people kept slipping in and out: men in weird outfits, women in missed match clothes. All of them strange.
Hari’s breath caught. He remembered—twice, maybe three times—being out with Aunt Petunia, when odd people had rushed up to him on the street. They had called him by name. Harry Potter. They had been dressed just like these people.
He made a mental note, tugged the hood of his jacket lower, and crossed the street.
Inside, the Leaky Cauldron was dim, the air heavy with smoke and chatter. A kindly-looking man behind the counter squinted at him
“Lost, are you?”
Hari shuffled his feet. “Sort of. My parents told me... not to go too far. But I don’t know how to get back to the alley.”
The man hesitated. Then he sighed, motioning for him to follow. “All right, lad. Let’s see you through.”
And just like that, he was led into a courtyard, brick walls surrounding them. The man tapped the wall with his wand. The bricks shifted, pulling apart, and Hari’s eyes widened as a bustling street unfolded before him.
“Diagon Alley,” the man said with a nod.
Hari swallowed hard. “Thank you.”
Then, before anyone could stop him, he slipped into the crowd.
The alley was alive—shops glowing with candles, cauldrons stacked in windows, owls hooting from cages. Children pressed their noses to the glass of broomstick displays while mothers haggled for ingredients. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed.
He pressed himself against a wall just to take it all in. The noise, the color, the magic of it all.
And then—
A shout.
“OUT! And don’t come back!”
A man stumbled into the street, shoved from the doorway of a shop. His robes were frayed, his face lined with scars.
Hari froze. He knew that face. He’d seen it In the photograph, in the notebook. He’d stared at it for nights. Those words—those letters—had come from that man’s hand.
Remus Lupin.
His parents’ friend. His uncle. The man who was supposed to take him in.
Hari didn’t know when he started running, or when his throat tore with screams. He didn’t notice the tears until they blurred everything, until his sleeve came away wet when he wiped at his face.
“REMUS!”
The man didn’t hear him. He kept walking, head down, lost in thought.
Hari, did what any child would do when overwhelmed with emotion.
He left his sobs brake free, messy and loud, drawing looks from passersby. And then—he collided with the man’s robes, clutching them with trembling hands. Remus looked down, startled by someone grabbing into his robes. His tired eyes met Hari’s bright green ones. The same eyes that he thought would never be able to see again.
The world went still.
They stared at each other—one man, one boy—both frozen in shock.
And then, hoarsely, like it hurt to say it, Remus whispered:
“Hari?”