Chapter 17 – The Letters and the Alley

The late July air hung thick and heavy, but in Jonathan Grace's room, there was only excitement. Harry lay sprawled on a sleeping bag beneath Jonathan's window, a half-finished bag of crisps between them. The two ten-year-olds had spent the evening playing games on Jonathan's old computer—Harry's first time truly interacting with the digital world—and now they lay staring at the ceiling, voices low.

"I still can't believe your pen actually refills itself," Harry murmured. "That would've saved me loads of trouble when Dudley stole mine last week."

Jonathan grinned. "That's nothing. Wait till we figure out how to make self-replicating homework scrolls."

Harry let out a quiet laugh. The room went silent again. Outside, an owl hooted.

Then came a sharp, tap-tap-tap at the window.

Jonathan shot upright, nearly hitting his head on the desk above him. Harry rolled over and stared wide-eyed at the window, where an unfamiliar tawny owl hovered, a letter clutched in its beak.

"No way," Jonathan whispered.

He rushed to open the window. The owl swooped in gracefully, landed on the desk, and held out the letter. There were two of them—one for Harry, one for Jonathan. Both written in elegant green ink on thick parchment.

They each read silently, hearts pounding.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

"It's real," Harry whispered, gripping the letter tightly. "We're really going."

Jonathan stared at the crest on the letterhead: a lion, snake, badger, and eagle surrounding a large 'H'.

"Looks like we're officially on our way," he said, unable to keep the grin off his face.

The next morning was a blur. Annabeth Grace was surprised—but thrilled—by the news. She had always suspected her son was something special, though "wizard" hadn't been her first guess.

Michael Grace, reading the letter over toast and eggs, blinked a few times and said, "So… no computers at this school, then?"

Harry, however, had a more difficult reception.

When he told the Dursleys, Vernon went pale, his mustache twitching with suppressed fury. Petunia pursed her lips so tightly it looked like she'd swallowed a lemon. Dudley just looked confused.

"You're going," Vernon said finally. "Fine. But don't expect us to come pick you up when you start summoning bats or whatever it is you people do."

Harry didn't argue.

That evening, Jonathan sat at his desk, scribbling out a formal letter to Professor McGonagall. He explained their situation—that they didn't know how to buy their supplies, that his friend Harry was also accepted, and asked politely if someone could help them.

A reply came swiftly the next day, written in neat, sharp cursive:

Dear Mr. Grace,

Thank you for informing us. A member of the Hogwarts staff will arrive on July 31st to assist you and Mr. Potter in acquiring your school supplies.

Kind regards,

Professor M. McGonagall

July 31st arrived with a sunny sky and the scent of chocolate cake in the air. Annabeth had gone all out decorating the kitchen for Harry's birthday. Streamers hung from the ceiling, a banner that read Happy Birthday Harry! stretched over the table, and a large chocolate cake shaped like a snitch sat proudly in the center.

At precisely noon, there was a thud outside the door. Followed by another. And another.

Then a knock.

When Michael opened it, a giant of a man stood in the doorway. He was at least twice the size of any normal adult, with a tangled beard and wild hair, dressed in a massive overcoat that looked like it could fit three people inside.

"'Ello," the man said warmly. "I'm Rubeus Hagrid. Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. You must be the Graces."

Jonathan stepped out from behind his father. "And I guess you're here to take us to Diagon Alley?"

"That's right!" Hagrid boomed. "And happy birthday, Harry!"

He handed the stunned boy a small wrapped box—inside was a homemade wooden flute carved with intricate patterns.

After cake, laughter, and a few curious questions from Jonathan's parents, they all piled into a Ministry car Hagrid had somehow "borrowed." By early afternoon, they stood before the Leaky Cauldron.

To Jonathan's eye, the pub still looked like a blank wall on Charing Cross Road. But when Hagrid tapped the right bricks behind it, the entrance blossomed open like a magical flower.

And there it was—Diagon Alley.

Cobblestone streets filled with wizards and witches in robes, stores with floating signs, cauldrons stacked high, and the scent of parchment, ink, and something faintly metallic.

Jonathan was in awe. "It's like stepping into another world."

"No," Harry whispered. "It's like coming home."

At Gringotts, the wizarding bank, they were led by a stern goblin to a high marble desk. While Hagrid took Harry down to retrieve something from a mysterious vault, Jonathan stayed with his parents to exchange currency.

Jonathan eyed the conversion table. "One Galleon equals 17 Sickles… and one Sickle is 29 Knuts?"

"Ridiculous, isn't it?" the goblin muttered. "Blame the ICW. They set the standard centuries ago. Wizards and logic don't always get along."

Michael frowned. "Only a hundred pounds per transaction?"

"Yes," said the goblin flatly. "You can make as many as you like, but 100 pounds is the cap per transaction for Muggles. Five pounds equals one Galleon."

"So… twenty Galleons then," Jonathan muttered.

Annabeth glanced at the list of school supplies. "Will that be enough?"

The goblin nodded. "More than. Seven Galleons for a wand. The rest—books, robes, scales—should cost no more than five."

Jonathan raised a brow. "Couldn't someone just sell gold to get more?"

"Technically," the goblin said, "but we only accept gold of the exact magical imprint. ICW-certified. Gallons are magically minted—you can't just mold gold into coins."

By late afternoon, Harry and Jonathan stood before Ollivanders.

Inside, the shop was dusty and quiet. Boxes stacked to the ceiling, each holding a wand.

An old man emerged from the back, his eyes sharp. "Ah… Mr. Potter. And… you must be Mr. Grace. Let's see what we have for you."

Harry tried several wands before a curious one—a holly wand, eleven inches, phoenix feather core—chose him.

Jonathan, on the other hand, tested nearly a dozen before Ollivander paused thoughtfully.

"Try this. Bloodwood. Twelve and a half inches. Thunderbird tailfeather core."

The moment Jonathan touched it, a gust of air rippled through the room. The wand hummed in his hand.

"Interesting," Ollivander murmured. "Bloodwood is strong, focused. Thunderbird… rare core. Excellent for sensing danger. Great for transfiguration. Fierce, loyal magic."

Jonathan grinned. "Perfect."

As the sun dipped below the horizon, Hagrid handed both boys a ticket marked:

Hogwarts Express – Platform 9¾, September 1st.

When they returned to the Graces' house, Jonathan's mind was still spinning.

And far above, from a nearby rooftop, a lone Auror watched the family disappear inside.

He scratched his chin, sighing.

"Finally," he muttered. "Those two little Niffler-heads are going to Hogwarts. No more field reports. No more hiding their bloody spell flares. I swear, they almost blew up that music box last time…"

He vanished into the night with a subtle pop, the weight of his assignment finally lifting from his shoulders.