DIAGON ALLEY
studyin’ outta books but then he took a year off ter get some first-
hand experience. . . . They say he met vampires in the Black Forest,
and there was a nasty bit o’ trouble with a hag — never been the
same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject —
now, where’s me umbrella?”
Vampires? Hags? Harry’s head was swimming. Hagrid, mean-
while, was counting bricks in the wall above the trash can.
“Three up . . . two across . . .” he muttered. “Right, stand back,
Harry.”
He tapped the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.
The brick he had touched quivered — it wriggled — in the
middle, a small hole appeared — it grew wider and wider — a sec-
ond later they were facing an archway large enough even for Ha-
grid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out
of sight.
“Welcome,” said Hagrid, “to Diagon Alley.”
He grinned at Harry’s amazement. They stepped through the
archway. Harry looked quickly over his shoulder and saw the arch-
way shrink instantly back into solid wall.
The sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the near-
est shop. Cauldrons — All Sizes — Copper, Brass, Pewter, Sil-
ver — Self-Stirring — Collapsible, said a sign hanging over them.
“Yeah, you’ll be needin’ one,” said Hagrid, “but we gotta get yer
money first.”
Harry wished he had about eight more eyes. He turned his head
in every direction as they walked up the street, trying to look at
everything at once: the shops, the things outside them, the people
doing their shopping. A plump woman outside an Apothecary was
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