The appearance of Cornelius Fudge instantly made the originally relaxed atmosphere feel stiff and awkward.
Especially that Auror named Barl Wilson… he seemed a little too eager to get promoted, going on and on about how he'd help relieve the Minister's burdens and catch the student who used magic outside school as quickly as possible.
This made Harry very uncomfortable, especially since he had just used magic himself.
As for Fudge, he clearly wasn't listening anymore. He quickly adjusted his hat and, out of politeness, nodded vaguely.
"Right then, Cole, I'll see you back at the office."
He hadn't even remembered the man's name properly, but even so, Barl Wilson was overjoyed, bowing once again—so deeply he was nearly parallel to the ground.
"If he actually catches Black, I bet Minister Fudge will remember his name," Harry whispered to Harold.
"If he really catches Black…" Harold looked at Harry and paused slightly.
"What?"
"Nothing." Harold shook his head. "I mean, if he actually caught Black, he'd probably be promoted straight to Auror."
Though both Aurors and Hit Wizards were part of the Ministry's enforcement division, their duties, selection criteria, and compensation were entirely different.
Especially the pay—Hit Wizards earned a typical Ministry salary, maybe even a bit less than most office workers.
After all, clerks didn't have to patch robes every other week or replace their boots every month.
Aurors, on the other hand, were a whole different story. Their salaries were higher than even some deputy department heads—and that was just the base. The benefits were unmatched.
First, wand repairs and replacements were fully covered by the Ministry.
Second, if they were injured fighting Dark wizards, they received priority treatment at St. Mungo's—also free of charge, courtesy of the Ministry.
They also received free tickets to major events like the Quidditch World Cup, dueling tournaments, or wizard chess competitions.
To most witches and wizards, becoming an Auror was one of the best jobs imaginable. Even though it was dangerous and required confronting Dark wizards regularly, every year, droves of Hogwarts graduates tried to apply.
Of course, the selection process was extremely strict. Outstanding N.E.W.T. scores were just the beginning; candidates also had to pass various types of specialized training.
The exact requirements were classified—Harold didn't know the full details.
After Fudge left, Harry brought Harold to see his room.
The Leaky Cauldron's guest rooms were nicer than Harold had expected—a plush-looking bed, gleaming oak furniture, and a cozy fire crackling in the hearth…
Harold suddenly hesitated.
It was already August. Why was there a fire in the fireplace?
But since it was Harry's room and he didn't seem to mind, Harold didn't say anything.
Maybe the fire wasn't hot. With magic, who could say for sure?
Like the Flame-Freezing Charm…
Harold instinctively recalled the Magical History essay he'd written: just one simple incantation could render fire completely harmless.
If that was the case, then a summer fireplace didn't seem so strange after all.
…
Over the next few days, Harold kept spotting Harry all over the street.
Though Harold thought of Diagon Alley as just an ordinary place, nothing special really, Harry clearly didn't share the sentiment. Every day, he wandered the main thoroughfare and side alleys with a massive, nut-covered ice cream in hand, determined to explore every single shop.
Fudge really didn't need to tell him to stay out of the Muggle world.
Harry had zero interest in leaving. To him, any shop that sold magical items was the most fascinating place on Earth.
"I used to feel the same," Harold said when Harry found him for the third time in a day. "And then I ended up living here for five years."
Harry had clearly been over the moon lately. Since Harold was the only person he knew in Diagon Alley, he came running to share every little thing he found interesting.
Though Harry thought they were exciting, Harold just saw them as everyday occurrences.
Like a big-mouthed plant eating a shop employee and trying to escape… or an owl in Eeylops Owl Emporium attacking a colleague… or the owner of a magical portrait shop getting into a shouting match with his own painting and then breaking down sobbing in the middle of the street…
These things happened every few days. Harold had long since gotten used to them. He'd even once helped capture the plant. The owner of the herbology shop was so grateful that they offered him a baby version of the thing.
Harold thought that was borderline punishment. The thing tried to eat anything it saw, just to "see what it tasted like." Totally useless, unless you liked getting mad at your furniture.
Well… maybe it was good for guarding your house—assuming you didn't mind waking up to find your door had disappeared.
"This time's different. I promise you've never seen this before," Harry said with great confidence.
"A brand-new model—the latest flying broomstick!" His voice was full of barely-contained excitement. "It's the most impressive broom I've ever seen. Come on—you don't want to miss this!"
"I don't even like Quidditch," Harold replied. He was about to decline, but something occurred to him, and he changed his mind. He nodded and followed Harry to Quality Quidditch Supplies.
Surprisingly, the store had even built a special display stand for it—a gleaming, brand-new broom sitting proudly atop it.
Even Harold, who wasn't a Quidditch fan, found his eyes drawn to it.
That polished ash wood handle—Harold could tell from a glance it came from the enchanted forests of County Kerry in Ireland, from a tree that had lived over 150 years. Top-tier stuff.
The birch twigs were equally impressive: each one sixteen inches long, streamlined to perfection and arranged in flawless symmetry.
"Perfect wand-making materials," Harold muttered, licking his lips. "If only I could take it apart."
"What was that?" Harry asked.
Some people nearby turned their heads too.
"I said it's made from great materials," Harold quickly corrected himself. The others turned their attention back to the broom.
"The Firebolt," the shopkeeper announced proudly. "The Irish National team just placed an order for seven of them. These babies are going to be the stars of the next World Cup!"
Harold didn't doubt it.
The placard said the Firebolt could go from zero to 150 miles per hour in ten seconds—blowing the Nimbus 2001's fifteen-second 125 mph record out of the water.
The difference was massive. No amount of skill could make up for it.
You could already see it: teams without Firebolts were going to get absolutely demolished on the field.
Even the Golden Snitch might need a redesign. Rumor had it that after the Nimbus 2001 came out last year, the Snitch's evasiveness had been upgraded.
If they didn't do the same now, Quidditch would turn into a game of "Who Spots the Snitch First?"
…
(End of Chapter)