Today in 1991

Let us set aside the matter of ancient magic for now.

As a new Hogwarts student about to enroll, Glenn's most pressing task was still to purchase his school supplies.

After passing through the bar of the Leaky Cauldron, he arrived at a small, walled courtyard.

There was nothing here except a dustbin and some weeds.

Though the purpose of Revelio was to directly reveal people or objects with magical properties, there was no need to use it just to enter Diagon Alley.

All he had to do was count three bricks up and two across from the dustbin on the wall, then tap three times with his wand.

However, Glenn didn't have a wand on him right now, so he used the back of his hand instead, tapping three times.

The next moment, the bricks on the wall all shifted, as if an invisible hand were adjusting their arrangement. In the blink of an eye, a wide archway appeared, leading to a winding, cobblestone street that stretched out of sight, the clamor of voices rushing toward him.

Stepping through the archway, the wall behind him returned to normal.

Sunlight fell upon the twisting street before him. Shops on both sides were filled with a dazzling array of strange and wonderful goods.

People in wizard robes came and went—haggling, children clinging to their parents, chasing and playing—giving the place a distinctly noisy and lively atmosphere.

"So this is Diagon Alley in the daytime," Glenn murmured to himself as he took in the scene.

As a fifth-year transfer student at Hogwarts, he had actually entered Diagon Alley once before, over a hundred years ago.

But that time had been at night. Aside from Professor Figg, who had come to pick him up, there wasn't a single person on the street, and not a single shop open.

And because he was a fifth-year transfer, if he needed to buy supplies back then, he'd more often go to the wizarding village of Hogsmeade rather than Diagon Alley.

So strictly speaking, this should count as Glenn's first time coming to Diagon Alley to shop.

Thinking this, Glenn pulled his school supply list from his pocket, glanced at it, and then headed for the nearest shop—Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

If he were following the normal shopping order, he should now go to a wizarding bank called Gringotts to withdraw money, but he didn't have much confidence in that goblin-run bank.

So, if conditions allowed, he preferred to carry his money himself, tucked away in a small pouch he kept on him.

"Buying Hogwarts school robes, dear?" Madam Malkin was a short, plump witch with a beaming smile, dressed in purple robes.

"Yes."

"Then you've come to the right place. We have plenty. Any special requests?"

"As high attack and defense as possible."

"?"

Clearly, from the slightly puzzled look in Madam Malkin's eyes, she had no idea what Glenn meant.

But that didn't stop her from leading him to the back of the shop to try on robes.

"If you don't get selected for the Slytherin team, I'll find it quite embarrassing..." said a middle-aged man with pale blond hair and gray eyes.

Beside the man stood a smaller version of him.

"Can I bring a broomstick to Hogwarts?" asked the boy, pale-faced, thin, with his hair slicked back, a look of longing in his eyes. The robes he was trying on had a name stitched on them—Draco Malfoy.

The middle-aged man snorted. "No, Draco. Compared to broomsticks, Dumbledore would rather make room to let in wizards of impure blood."

"Oh, that's just terrible..." From Draco's drawn-out, trailing tone, it was clear that even before entering Hogwarts, he already felt some resentment toward the headmaster named Dumbledore.

"But if you do get selected for the Slytherin team, I'll buy you a competition-grade broom."

At this, Malfoy's mood lifted, and his excitement about entering Hogwarts surged back to the forefront.

Still, talking with an elder required some restraint—it was nowhere near as easy as chatting with someone his own age.

Turning his head slightly, Malfoy happened to spot Glenn being led to the back of the shop by Madam Malkin.

"Hey, you going to Hogwarts too?"

"Yeah," Glenn replied, stepping onto another footstool beside Malfoy as Madam Malkin directed.

"Got your own broomstick?"

"I used to, but I can't use it now."

"Yeah, can't use it... I really don't get why first-years aren't allowed their own broomsticks." Glenn's answer struck a chord with Malfoy.

"Ever played Quidditch?"

"No." Glenn thought for a moment, then shook his head.

As a former Hogwarts transfer student, he could describe every aspect of Hogwarts life to a new student before they even arrived—except for Quidditch. On that subject, he had no advice or insight to offer.

Because back then, one of the most unpopular headmasters in history had shut down all Quidditch activities, leaving Glenn with little more than the knowledge that it was a sport.

"That's a shame. I've played, and I'm pretty good at it," Malfoy said, lifting his chin slightly.

"You know, we pure-blood wizards have a much better handle on broomsticks. Why should we give up the chance to train a good Quidditch player just because of some wizards? Oh, by the way, what's your surname?"

"Howard."

As that common Muggle surname left Glenn's lips, the atmosphere seemed to chill instantly.

Malfoy, who had been about to speak again, suddenly clammed up, while the middle-aged man behind him—his father—let out a cold snort.

"Draco, this is your first lesson—a person's worth depends not only on bloodline but also on their social circle."

After saying this, the middle-aged man turned and left, heading to the adjacent bookstore to purchase books.

Draco Malfoy, meanwhile, stood on a footstool trying on robes, his lips pressed tightly together, unwilling to utter another word.

Glen merely shook his head at this, his heart undisturbed.

The wizarding world of 1991 was indeed not much different from that of 1890.

Pure-blood wizards still clung to that doctrine of "pure-blood supremacy."

Was bloodline truly that important? Glen didn't think so.

He had seen a Muggle-born witch win over a seasoned professor with her exquisite potion-making skills; he had seen a member of the most ancient pure-blood family born with irreversible blindness.

A child of poachers might still become a wizard attuned to magical creatures; the descendant of an Auror might not be incapable of studying the Dark Arts...

A witch draped a black robe over Glen. "Malfoy, how many pure-blood wizards are there in Britain?"

Hearing this, Malfoy hesitated. His pride as a pure-blood urged him to answer, but his father's instructions sealed his lips.

After glancing around and confirming his father was gone, he lifted his chin slightly and drawled in a slow, dragging tone: "About three hundred, only ten percent of all wizards!"

"In fact, it used to be fifty percent."

"That's impossible!" Malfoy's brow furrowed at once. In his understanding, pure-blood wizards were the noblest bloodline.

Fifty percent... that would mean every other random wizard on the street had a fifty-fifty chance of being pure-blood?

This only reinforced Malfoy's belief in his father's correctness, and he began to regret answering Glen's question.

No matter how noble one's bloodline, if one's social circle was filled with such nonsense, how could one ever become an excellent wizard?

Malfoy resolved to stay silent, and Glen hopped off the stool, offering no further explanation.

Wizards of the twentieth century couldn't understand that in the late nineteenth century, pure-blood wizards were indeed a common sight on the streets.

Groups like poachers and Dark wizards made up the majority.

He remembered a black organization called the "Ashwinder Party" that championed "pure-blood supremacy." Its members were all pure-bloods, and they even collaborated with goblins who were plotting rebellion, aiming to overthrow the wizarding world.

Wizards who opposed their views were mostly murdered, and even Glen, who had just entered the wizarding world at the time, was targeted and nearly harmed...

Donning his new Hogwarts uniform, Glen stepped out of Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

The glaring yet warm sunlight struck his face, illuminating the bright street and the somewhat golden nameplate, making the name "Glen Howard" shine brilliantly.

And afterward, just as Malfoy had said.

The proportion of pure-blood wizards, over the next hundred years—that is, in 1991 today—had dwindled to only ten percent.