The Dragon King Bloodline of Hogwarts

Chapter 7 Street Corner

After breakfast, Professor McGonagall stopped Viserys at the entrance to the Great Hall.

“Mr. Targaryen,” she said without beating around the bush, “Diagon Alley is in London, and Knockturn Alley is next to it. There are dark wizards there, and things that a three-year-old shouldn’t see. Your sister will be safer staying at Hogwarts.”

Viserys turned to look at Daenerys. She was sitting at the long table in the Great Hall, with the Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures open in front of her, turned to the page of the phoenix, and pointing her finger at the picture of Fawkes.

"Brother, you go ahead." Daenerys looked up. "I want to go to the library today. Mrs. Pince said there's an animated star guide where the stars rotate on their own. I want to see it."

Viserys looked at her, and his sister was giving him a way out.

He walked over, squatted down, and straightened her collar. "Be back before dark."

Daenerys nodded, buried her face in his sleeve and rubbed it against him, then grabbed the book and ran toward the library.

Viserys stood up. "Let's go."

The Granger family's living room wasn't large, but it was very tidy. A family photo of the three of them hung on the wall; Mr. Granger had his arm around Mrs. Granger's shoulder, and Hermione stood in front of them, her front teeth not yet fully grown, smiling without restraint.

Without any pleasantries, McGonagall sat down and explained Hogwarts, magic, and acceptance letters in the simplest terms. The Grangers sat on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder, with Hermione between them, her fingers clutching the hem of her dress.

Then McGonagall waved her wand and turned the coffee table into a pig.

Mrs. Granger covered her mouth, and Mr. Granger took off his glasses, wiped them, and put them back on, repeating the same actions as before, as if wiping them once wasn't enough. Hermione's eyes shone like two lamps; she sprang up from the sofa, squatted down in front of the pig, and poked its nose with her finger. The pig grunted, and she laughed.

"This...this completely contradicts," Mr. Granger's voice trailed off, abandoning the scientific approach, "How much is the tuition?"

Mrs. Granger also asked, "How often does she come home?"

Viserys' fingers loosened slightly in his pocket. They were asking, "How do you get this working?" His mother was dead, Sir Darryl was dead, and no one had asked these questions for him. He watched the Grangers ask for Hermione, choosing to take the situation on and make it manageable.

Hermione's mouth formed a small circle as the brick wall of the Leaky Cauldron cracked open.

Diagon Alley stretched out before me. Cobblestone streets, crooked shopfronts, and a row of crucibles of all sizes, from bronze to silver, stacked outside a cauldron shop. A Nimbus broom hung in the window of a Quidditch shop, and several boys peered through the glass, pointing and gesturing. The owl shop emitted a chorus of low hooting.

Hermione kept turning her head. She walked in front, then slowed down and stepped back to stand beside Viserys.

She glanced at him, then glanced at him again, and then spoke.

"Professor McGonagall said you're a freshman too. Have you ever been exposed to magic before? Are your eyes really purple? Are you from a wizarding family? I've never heard of the surname Targaryen before; I read through *A History of Modern Magic* beforehand, and it didn't mention that surname. Why are you carrying a dagger? Are weapons allowed at magic school?"

Viserys waited for her to finish asking her question, and she didn't press him for an answer because he didn't respond; she was waiting for his response.

He answered them one by one.

"I've met them, it's true, a wizarding family, but different from the wizards here. Targaryen isn't a surname in this world. The dagger is a family heirloom. The school didn't say it wasn't allowed."

Hermione's eyes widened. She opened her mouth, clearly having more questions to ask, but she picked one first.

"What does it mean if it's not a surname from this world?"

Viserys glanced at her; she had asked about the most crucial point.

"Literally, I come from another world."

Hermione paused for a moment, then caught up.

"Is this other world like a parallel universe, or is it another region separated by a magical barrier? Is their magic system the same as ours? Can you go back?"

Viserys paused for a moment. She wasn't deterred by the fact that he came from another world; she treated it as a new research topic.

"The magic systems are different. I'm looking for a way back."

Hermione nodded, as if she were filing the information into a folder in her mind. "If you need to look up information, I can help. I already have a basic understanding of library classification."

Viserys looked at her. She wasn't just being polite; she genuinely felt that "helping with research" was the most valuable assistance she could offer. She was using what she was best at to confront a completely unfamiliar world.

"Okay," he said.

The Grangers walked behind.

Mr. Granger noticed that the silver-haired boy always walked with his right side, the side with the dagger, facing towards where people might be. This was not a habit a child of eleven should have. In his many years of medical practice, he had seen children take on burdens they shouldn't have had to bear at such a young age.

Mrs. Granger noticed something else. She whispered to her husband, "The child's appearance."

Mr. Granger nodded without replying. They had all seen it, but didn't know what to say. It was too beautiful to be real, like the most prized painting in an art gallery—you know it doesn't belong to any corner of everyday life, so you stand a little further away from it than usual.

Then Mrs. Granger did something she was good at. She took a small box of cookies from her bag—a tin box with a floral pattern. "Viserys, is that right? Hermione said you brought your sister."

Viserys nodded.

"Your parents,"

"He's gone." The voice was flat. "Only my sister and I are left."

Mrs. Granger paused for a moment, then handed her the cookie box. "I baked too many this morning, you can have these."

Viserys wasn't hungry, but he took it anyway.

Mr. Granger walked over to him and cleared his throat. "There's an ice cream shop over there. Have you tried it?"

"no."

"Then after we finish shopping, I'll treat you to something."

Viserys glanced at him; Mr. Granger's gaze was that of a dentist—gentle, but habitually observant. He wasn't just offering a meal; he was watching Viserys's reaction.

"Okay," Viserys said.

At Madam Malkin's Robes Shop, Hermione stood on a low stool, Madam Malkin's ruler twirling around her. Hermione kept asking questions: Did the robes contain animal parts? Did they have a dark-colored one suitable for the library? Could the pockets be enchanted with a seamless stretching spell? Madam Malkin answered with a smile.

Viserys stood on another low stool. He instinctively tensed for a moment as the ruler brushed past his shoulder, then forced himself to relax. The ruler wasn't attacking him; it was simply taking measurements.

Hermione looked at him in the mirror. "Aren't you going to ask any questions?"

"I know my size."

“I wasn’t talking about the size,” Hermione said. “Aren’t you curious about this place?”

Viserys thought for a moment. "I'm curious, but there are too many things I'm curious about, and I don't know where to begin."

Hermione's eyebrows twitched, as if she were filing that answer into her archives as well.

At Flourish and Blotts, Hermione stood before the bookshelves, seemingly drawn in. She pulled out book after book: *Hogwarts: A History*, *Standard Spells (Elementary)*, *Theory of Magic*. Mr. Granger tried to help her, but she refused.

Viserys walked to another bookshelf, memorizing the names of several magical world tomes mentioned in Damon's notes. His hand rested on the spine of "The Origins of Medieval Magic," pulled it out, and flipped to the index. No Valyrians, no Targaryens; he put it back.

Hermione walked over, carrying the books, and rested her chin on the cover of the top one. "What did you buy?"

"I haven't chosen one yet."

She glanced at the bookshelf he had just browsed. "You were looking for books about your world."

Viserys did not deny it.

"Did you find it?"

"no."

Hermione paused for a second. "Maybe it wasn't written using the keyword 'Targians.' Let's try a different search approach."

Viserys looked at her; she was already trying to help him.

The bell rang as the door of Ollivanders Wand Shop was opened.

Ollivander emerged from the back hall, his silvery-white eyes sweeping over everyone. His gaze lingered on Viserys for a moment.

Hermione went first, trying five wands. She waved each one and asked, "What's special about this one?" Ollivander answered as she changed wands, her voice carrying a hint of delight at finally getting a response. Grapevine wood, dragon's heartstrings—the wand glowed a steady golden light in her hand.

When it was Viserys's turn, Ollivander did not immediately take out his wand. He looked into Viserys's purple eyes.

"Targian," he said, slurring the last syllable slowly, as if savoring a flavor he hadn't tasted in a long time. "A thousand years ago, a customer bought a wand from my ancestor. Hawthorn wood, phoenix feathers, thirteen inches long. He tried three. His name was Damon Targaryen."

Viserys' pupils contracted slightly; he hadn't expected Ollivander to utter that name.

"You remember him."

“Olivendell remembers every wand he’s sold.” The old man’s voice wasn’t loud, but every word was steady. “Hawthorn wood is for wizards who have endured great suffering, and phoenix feathers are for those destined to be reborn in flames. Damon Targaryen’s wand disappeared with him when he left this world. But the combination of hawthorn wood and phoenix feathers has been waiting ever since.”

He took an old box from the innermost shelf.

"Hawthorn wood, phoenix feathers, twelve inches. The same wood as Damon's wand, the same core, but a different length. The length is yours."

Viserys gripped his wand. The tip glowed with a warm, golden-red light. Flames danced at the tip, but did not burn his hand; they rested in his palm like a bird just awakened, recognizing him as a familiar face, yet still unsure if he was worthy of complete trust.

Ollivander remained silent for a long time.

"It knows who you are," he said. "It's waiting for you."

Viserys put his wand into his robe. The hawthorn wood was warm in his hand, unlike the burning heat when the dragon bone pendant was activated; this warmth was something he had awakened himself.

After leaving the wand shop, Hermione kept looking at him.

"Daemon Targaryen is your ancestor? He came here a thousand years ago, bought a wand, and then disappeared?"

"Yes, I'm looking for traces he left behind."

Hermione didn't press the matter. She mentally arranged the information, like putting books back on their proper shelves. She had many more questions, but she knew now wasn't the time to ask.