The Leaky Cauldron

The door creaked as Harry stepped inside, his fingers resting lightly on the handle. A wave of warmth hit him immediately, carrying the scent of roasted meat, old wood, and something vaguely sweet beneath it all. The air hummed with quiet conversation, the soft clinking of mugs, and the occasional crackle of a burning hearth.

The pub was dimly lit, lanterns casting flickering shadows along the walls. The wooden beams overhead sagged with age, and the floorboards creaked underfoot as Harry took another hesitant step inside.

It was smaller than he had expected, but it felt… alive. More than that, it felt like home.

A few people sat at the scattered tables, hunched over drinks, murmuring to one another in low voices. They barely glanced at him, but Harry could not shake the feeling that they had noticed him all the same.

He swallowed, suddenly aware of how out of place he must look in his oversized clothes and scuffed trainers. But he had made it. This was real.

A large stone fireplace crackled with warmth to his left, and along the far wall, dusty shelves held an odd assortment of bottles filled with strange-colored liquids. Some glowed faintly in the dim light, while others looked thick like syrup.

A man in long, deep-blue robes sat at the end of the bar, stirring his drink lazily with a wooden stick, no, a wand.

Magic.

Harry's heart pounded as he took in everything at once. This was a place where magic existed openly, where no one would sneer or punish him for noticing the strange things that happened around him.

The barkeep, a bald man with a wrinkled face, was wiping down a glass when his gaze lifted to meet Harry's. His eyes, sharp despite his otherwise friendly face, studied him for a moment before he spoke.

"Help you, lad?"

Harry opened his mouth, then hesitated. He had not exactly planned what to say. He had followed the pull of his instincts, his dreams, and now that he was here, he felt strangely unprepared.

"I—" He took a breath. "I think I'm supposed to be here."

The barkeep's brow lifted slightly, but there was no immediate judgment in his expression. He set the glass down and leaned forward, resting his arms on the counter.

"And what might your name be?"

Harry hesitated. He had spent years being nobody, just the unwanted burden in the Dursleys' house. But here, in this strange hidden place, he felt as though he was something more. Someone more.

"Harry," he said, then cleared his throat, suddenly unsure why his voice sounded strange to his own ears. "Harry Potter."

A single moment of silence stretched too long. Then the room shifted.

A chair scraped against the floor. A glass was set down too hard, the liquid inside sloshing over the rim. Conversations stuttered, voices dropping into hushed murmurs as heads turned.

Harry felt the weight of their stares settle onto him like a heavy cloak. The warmth of the room no longer felt comforting but suffocating.

The barkeep's eyes widened slightly before a grin broke across his face, full of recognition.

"Merlin's beard," he breathed. "Harry Potter."

It was not a question. It was a statement. A confirmation.

Whispers spread like wildfire through the small space.

"Did he say Harry Potter?"

"It can't be—"

"Looks just like his father, poor boy."

Harry took a step back, his pulse quickening. He had been the center of attention before, but never in a good way.

At the Dursleys', he was ignored unless he was being scolded. At school, he was just the strange, quiet boy who never quite fit in. But these people were looking at him like he was someone important.

Like they knew him.

An elderly witch in dark green robes got to her feet, clutching a trembling hand to her mouth. "Bless my soul," she whispered. "It's him, it's really him."

Harry forced himself to stand still, even as the urge to flee rose in his chest. He did not understand why they were reacting this way, why his name carried so much weight.

He had known, of course, that he was different. That something had marked him. But this was something else entirely.

The barkeep, Tom, according to a tarnished nameplate on the counter leaned forward, his expression shifting to something softer.

"You've got no idea how long folks have wondered what happened to you," he said. "How you've been."

Harry swallowed. "I—I've been fine," he said, though he was not sure why he felt the need to lie.

A stout wizard with a bushy mustache and a deep maroon coat let out a bark of laughter. "Fine, he says! Blimey, boy, you don't know what you are, do you?"

Harry stiffened. "I know I'm a wizard," he said slowly. "I just—" He hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. "I didn't know people knew me."

That was the wrong thing to say.

A murmur of disbelief rippled through the pub. Tom frowned slightly. "Did no one ever tell you?"

Harry shook his head.

The old woman who had spoken earlier dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "Poor dear. Left all alone with those dreadful Muggles, no doubt."

The word was unfamiliar, but Harry had a feeling she meant the Dursleys.

"Hold on now," Tom said, straightening. "If you're here, you're looking for something. What brings you in, lad?"

Harry hesitated, glancing around again. He still did not know exactly what this place was beyond the fact that it was magic.

"I'm not sure," he admitted. "I think—I think I was looking for this place. But I don't know what it's called."

Tom blinked. "You don't know?" He studied Harry for a moment before his expression softened again. "Well, you found it, all right. This here is the Leaky Cauldron. Oldest wizarding pub in London."

The Leaky Cauldron.

Harry's stomach twisted at the name. Hermione had found a reference to it in that old book. A place hidden from the rest of the world. He had been right.

Before he could respond, Tom stepped out from behind the bar. "I imagine you'll be needin' some help, lad. Someone to take you where you need to go."

Harry tensed. "Where?"

Tom gave him an odd look. "Why, through to Diagon Alley, of course."

Harry froze. He had never heard that name before, and yet, something about it stirred something deep in his mind. Like a half-forgotten memory waiting to surface.

He swallowed hard. He was closer than he had ever been to finding the world where he might fit in.