So now what?

There was a Ministry of Magic, apparently. Fionn thought that made sense. At school, he'd learnt that during World War II, Britain had had a Ministry of Food and it had been illegal to not eat your vegetables.

The man from this ministry had managed to escort Fionn into what he called Diagon Alley. Was that a joke? Fionn wasn't sure, so he stifled his laughter just in case. The magical shopping district magically extended from the back yard of an old-fashioned looking pub off Charring Cross Road. This didn't bother Fionn in the slightest, a boy who'd been brought up hearing about folded space and string theory. When he read about physicists they always seemed to think like god (or the deity of your choice) was laughing at them, and this was obviously just part of the joke.

The man had then been summoned away on "important ministry business" leaving Fionn alone with a pouch of gold coins and an extensive list of what he thought were frankly stereotypical school supplies, considering. It even called for a pointy hat.

Behind him, the wall to the pub had closed up again. Fionn didn't mind that, either. The Ministry Man had been very careful to ensure he memorised the correct bricks to tap when he bought his own wand. Well, obviously, that was the first thing he ought to do then. Though Fionn always felt wands were more the territory of fairies (perhaps it was the influence of two younger sisters) at least having one meant he wouldn't have to parade around looking like Gandalf. He wasn't sure he could carry off the beard, for starters.

With a deep breath, and hoping nothing awful would happen (something awful always happened when Fionn was in a crowd) he began to pick his way down the street.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for a wand shop?"

"Could you tell me where the wand shop is?"

"I need directions to..."

Some of the witches and wizards simply looked at him and then looked away again, others ignored him completely, though he knew he was speaking clearly enough. Was there something he didn't know? A magical language he'd have to learn as well as going to this school? If so, it clearly wasn't worth it.

Cliff would like to go on the record to explain his actions. He was not stupid, or immature, or hyperactive. Cliff honestly had nothing planned for his summer, and that was why he wandered up and down Diagon Alley with a paddle ball, never getting more that five bounces off of the wooden paddle.

He had become a muggleborn magnet with this act. This was his third day wandering and attempting the trick, and he had already assisted five muggleborns. It seemed many of them were dropped off and left to fend for themselves. Some of them were right nasty things, but Cliff was always in the mood for a little buddy. He didn't mind.

And so he spotted this next one easily. He had learned the look of a lost child quickly and this boy's expression screamed 'help me, what is this magic you speak of?' to Cliff. He sauntered over to the boy, still focused intently on trying to get to a relay of at least six bounces when he stopped, and said, "Hey, kid. You look a little troubled."