Journey to Diagon Alley

27th August 1991

Moonlight trickled through the darkness, casting eerie shadows upon the cobbled streets where ragged children roamed, their presence a guise for the true danger lurking nearby.

In the obscurity of a nearby alley, a cloaked figure concealed his features, the only discernible detail a striking purple turban wound tightly around his head.

"Tell me everything you know about Bondrewd," hissed the figure, his voice serpentine and menacing, directed at a smaller silhouette entranced by his gaze.

As the dim light momentarily illuminated his face, Quirrell's features came into focus—a man of austere countenance, his countenance devoid of any facial hair, his eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger reminiscent of the very leader the boy, Mark, revered.

This clandestine interrogation was not the first of its kind; Quirrell had led others under curse into such discussions before, each time extracting morsels of information about the enigmatic figure known as Bondrewd.

With glazed eyes, Mark obediently recounted every detail he knew of his revered leader, unaware of the calculating smile that graced Quirrell's lips.

"Hmm," mused the figure, absorbing the insights gained from Mark's narrative. "Magically gifted, driven by a lust for power, and possessing a manipulative nature," he summarized, his assessment of Bondrewd shaping with each revelation.

From Mark's descriptions of Bondrewd's penchant for violence and proficiency in dark magic, Quirrell discerned the potential for a valuable ally—a pawn in his own quest for resurrection.

Despite the parallels between them—shared origins and ambitions—Quirrell remained unperturbed by the prospect of Bondrewd's ascendancy. Instead, his primary concern lay in establishing initial contact to confirm his suspicions and shielding the boy from the scrutiny of Dumbledore, who would undoubtedly surveil him as closely as he once had Quirrell himself during his tenure at Hogwarts.

With these thoughts teetering on the edge of his mind, the figure waved his wand, Mark's eyes becoming clear as Quirrell disappeared into the dark of the night.

28th August 1991

Today marked an auspicious occasion for Bondrewd, as indicated by the envelope nestled within his original letter—a day that heralded the arrival of a significant guest, the first contact from the magical world, signalling the dawn of what promised to be a momentous future.

Seated in his study, he had informed his entourage of the impending visit from a guest he deemed of utmost importance. In response, the rough edges of previous days were smoothed away, replaced by an air of refinement as everyone adorned their finest attire.

At the centre of the study stood a modest wooden desk flanked by comfortable chairs, a selection of delicacies arranged atop its surface. While the room itself lacked opulence, its meticulous arrangement exuded an air of sophistication. A row of impeccably groomed individuals stood guard by the door, assuming the role of silent sentinels.

The wait lasted a mere twenty minutes before the anticipated knock echoed through the room at noon.

"Sir, you have a guest," a voice intoned respectfully from beyond the door.

"Let him in," Bondrewd commanded with a dismissive wave of his hand, signalling for the others to vacate the room as the ornate double doors swung open, revealing the entrance for the awaited visitor.

The man who entered was relatively unremarkable at first glance, possessing a cold, impassive countenance and a glint of red in his eyes—a demeanour that spoke volumes of authority and power he had apparently become accustomed to.

"Hello, sir. I assume you are the professor designated to me?" Bondrewd inquired politely, though the smile he offered went unreciprocated.

"Yes, my name is Professor Quirrell. I teach Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. I will be escorting you to pick up your school supplies," came the curt reply, the professor's indifference palpable in his tone.

"Thank you, Professor," Bondrewd responded graciously, maintaining his courteous façade even as a sense of intrusion gnawed at the back of his mind, amplified by the piercing gaze of the professor.

Despite maintaining his outward politeness, his mind churned with ceaseless contemplation. The exchange with Professor Quirrell had provided him with fleeting insights. The unsettling sensation he had experienced earlier was now attributed to a form of intimidation magic employed by the professor to assert authority. Though whether it bore a more sinister intent remained to be determined, requiring further knowledge and understanding.

Moreover, he had gleaned valuable information from the mention of one of the courses—Defence Against the Dark Arts. This revelation hinted at a division within magic itself, suggesting the existence of dark magic alongside the possibility of light or neutral magic. The absence of "Dark Arts" in the course title, replaced instead with "Defence Against," implied a societal aversion to such practices.

The acknowledgment of dark wizards in this wizarding world, while not surprising, underscored the importance of this newfound knowledge. It hinted at the presence of organizations facilitating illicit activities within the magical realm—an insight that piqued his interest and presented potential opportunities for future endeavours.

As the conversation progressed, he was momentarily drawn away from his thoughts, returning his focus to the unfolding interaction.

"You are not permitted to disclose information about magic to anyone else. Should you have further inquiries, you may seek answers at Diagon Alley," the professor continued with a cold edge to his tone.

"Diagon Alley is where you will procure the majority of your school supplies. Now, hold onto me." With an impatient expression, the professor extended his arm.

Preferring not to exacerbate the professor's mood, he firmly grasped the man's arm, maintaining a polite smile despite the professor's demeanour.

Suddenly, the world began to spin around them, as he could feel himself drawn into the motion. It was a peculiar sensation, though not one that overly concerned him. If the professor intended harm, there would be no need for such theatrics; he could dispose of him at will.

As the spinning ceased, it took a moment for him to steady himself and regain his bearings.

"Follow," the professor's voice commanded from ahead.

Obliging, he surveyed his surroundings. They were in what appeared to be a typical, dimly lit pub, populated by an array of wizards of varying appearances. Dust settled on the antiquated floorboards as the wizards conversed amongst themselves. Their attire spoke volumes about their socioeconomic statuses, ranging from immaculate, high-quality robes to patched and worn garments.

In this simple observation, the stark societal inequalities were readily apparent, another useful piece of information.

The professor led him through a back door to a haphazard brick wall, some of the bricks askew and jutting out at odd angles.

"Watch closely, as I won't repeat myself. From this point onward, you're on your own," the professor's voice echoed swiftly as he produced a stick-like object, likely a wand if folklore held any truth.

Tapping three bricks in succession, a sliding noise commenced, the wall pivoting and retracting like a sliding door.

After a brief moment, a crude passageway was revealed, the cacophony of voices echoing loudly from within.

"Thank you, professor. Until we meet again at Hogwarts," Bondrewd offered politely, though he received no response before venturing through the passage and into the magical world.