"Truly?" Michael questioned as he and his family entered The Leaky Cauldron. Michael was ignorant to the muggle world, he and his father had gotten themselves in to a discussion concerning "football" (a muggle sport) that to Michael was a timid affair compared to that of Quidditch, though so were most muggle past-times in his eyes. The Leaky Cauldron was dark and damp its stench caused Michael's nose to twist up in a repulsed fashion presenting youthful wrinkles upon both his cheeks. His fathers hand graced the eleven year old's back ushering him through passing muggle and wizard alike chatting in hearty tones. Michael's younger brother and mother kept up behind them, his brother was smaller than himself and Michael often enjoyed teasing him. Almost polar opposite in nature Michael hoped John would never aspire to Slytherin house the house he had so wished to be a part of since hearing of its existence. The darkness would casually break away as Michael and his father approached a solid, red brick wall, his father drawing a scepter from his overcoat gave the wall a few carefully placed taps and before his eyes Michael witnessed the wall almost fade away, much to his own astonishment and awe: so this was true magic, he thought.