Harry awoke early on his birthday. Errol, his friend Ron's owl, had already vanished, having apparently taken flight the moment he felt well enough. Harry shook his head with a slight grimace; that owl was always overexerting itself. He dressed quietly and headed downstairs for breakfast.
The television, a recent gift for Dudley's "excellent" academic results, was blaring in the corner. A news report was covering the escape of a prisoner. Harry's eyes locked onto the man's image: his hair was long and matted, his face gaunt from extreme thinness, and a wild, deranged look haunted his eyes.
"Don't need them to tell us he's a wrong 'un!" Uncle Vernon bellowed, his face turning purple. "Filthy, lazy-looking brute."
Harry frowned, a sense of unease creeping over him. Something about the report felt off. The news anchor had only stated that the criminal was highly dangerous and had escaped from a secure facility, offering no further details. Harry disliked the lack of information. Besides, he doubted anyone would look that skeletal in a penitentiary unless they were wasting away from some dreadful illness.
He paid little mind to his uncle's grumbling until the conversation turned to Aunt Marge, Vernon's sister. She was a horrid woman who, on every visit to Privet Drive, had made Harry's life considerably more miserable than even the Dursleys managed. The woman despised him, and the feeling was entirely mutual. Stifling the urge to curse, Harry quickly formulated a plan. He rose from the table and followed his uncle into the hall.
"I'm not driving you anywhere."
"I wasn't going to ask, Uncle Vernon. I wanted to make you a proposal."
"I don't have time for this. Perhaps at the end of the week, if you've behaved yourself."
"That's precisely what my proposal is about," Harry said smoothly. "This week, Aunt Marge, and the rest of the summer."
Vernon stopped, turning to face him. "You've got two minutes."
"I know what you told the neighbours about the school I attend. St. Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys, wasn't it? A difficult lie to maintain, don't you think?"
"You wouldn't dare," Uncle Vernon hissed, a flicker of fear in his piggy eyes.
"Don't worry. I have no intention of airing your dirty laundry," Harry said calmly, savouring the moment. This was rather fun, but he was on a tight schedule. "What would you say if I disappeared, with all my things, for the rest of the summer? With none of my... oddities... coming to light."
"You can't do magic outside of school!"
"Not legally," Harry corrected him with a serene smile. "But I could always tell my classmates how comfortable the cupboard under the stairs is. You wouldn't want that, would you? But let's put the worst-case scenarios aside. You sign my school permission form, and I vanish for the rest of the summer. It's that simple. You won't have to lay eyes on me again until next year."
"The neighbours..."
"Yes, Uncle Vernon. The neighbours will be quite comforted to know you've sent me to a military-style summer camp to 'temper my character'. I imagine Aunt Marge would even compliment you on it."
"Bring me the blasted form and I'll sign it. Then get out."
"Deal."
Half an hour later, Harry was dragging his trunk down the street towards the bus stop. He wasn't sure how he would pay for a trip to London, having only a few Galleons on him. He had gathered his belongings in a rush and let Hedwig fly on ahead to avoid attracting attention. The signed Hogsmeade permission form was tucked safely away; he wouldn't miss those trips for anything. As he squinted at a bus route map, a comment from Hermione echoed in his mind about a wizarding invention from after the Middle Ages: the Knight Bus. It was the perfect solution.
He pulled his wand from the pocket of his thin jacket—a jacket, like all his clothes, that was far too large for him, a problem he intended to remedy soon. Holding out his wand arm as if flagging a taxi, he waited. Seconds later, a violent BANG echoed through the quiet street, and a triple-decker, purple bus screeched to a halt before him. He grinned. He had a ride.
"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike, and I will be your conductor this evening."
"I need to get to the Leaky Cauldron, please."
"'Course," Stan said. "That'll be eleven Sickles. For thirteen you get a hot chocolate, and for fifteen, a hot-water bottle and a toothbrush."
"Just the ride, thanks."
Climbing aboard, Harry saw the bus was filled not with seats, but with an assortment of brass bedsteads. He paid Stan, hauled his trunk aboard, and sank onto one of the beds near a small table. A copy of the Daily Prophet lay on it. He picked it up, hoping to distract himself from the lurching, breakneck speed of the bus. His good mood soured as he recognised the man on the front page. It was the same man from the Muggle news. For a wizard's escape to be reported to Muggles, the matter had to be incredibly serious.
SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPE: MINISTRY STILL BAFFLED
Last week, in an unprecedented security breach, a prisoner escaped from the high-security fortress of Azkaban. Authorities currently have no leads. The fugitive, Sirius Black, is a convicted murderer and was known to be the right-hand man of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
"Black comes from one of the most infamous pure-blood families in our world—a family deeply entwined with the Dark Arts. He is, without a doubt, one of the most dangerous dark wizards we have ever contended with," Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge declared at an emergency press conference. "He is vicious and utterly unhinged. Anyone who encounters him will be in mortal peril. I urge the magical community: if you see him, do not approach him. Contact the Ministry immediately."
We remind our readers that twelve years ago, the day after the Dark Lord's fall, Black murdered thirteen people—one wizard and twelve Muggles—with a single curse in the heart of Muggle London. In an effort to expedite his capture, the Minister has alerted the Muggle Prime Minister, a move that has angered some who have not forgotten past persecutions.
"Catching Black is of vital importance to everyone," the Minister justified. "He is a threat to both our world and theirs. The more people on alert, the better. We have told the Muggles that Black is armed with a gun"—a sort of metal wand Muggles use to kill one another.
Harry sighed, pushing the newspaper away. This Sirius Black was clearly no laughing matter. He sounded more dangerous than Quirrell, and Harry wondered how his evil compared to the memory of Tom Riddle. A part of him felt a pull towards the situation, an urge to confront the threat, but he knew better than to rush in blindly. Acting without a plan was Godric Gryffindor's business. Harry was no longer just Harry. He closed his eyes, centering himself. Though he knew who he truly was, who had awoken inside him, he was still seen as Harry Potter. He couldn't forget that. It was the name he was known by. Now, he finally understood what the Sorting Hat had seen in him—a potential he had, in his vulnerability, refused to acknowledge. He would find a way to control the house he founded; he would seize every opportunity.
"Leaky Cauldron! You never did tell me your name..."
"Thank you," Harry said, grateful his fringe covered his scar. He didn't want Dumbledore knowing he wasn't at the Dursleys'.
He got off the bus and dragged his trunk into the Leaky Cauldron. The pub was busy, filled with the same varied clientele as his previous visits. He approached the bar, and the innkeeper, Tom, recognised him instantly but said nothing—a welcome change from his first visit with Hagrid.
"Good morning, Tom. I'd like to rent a room until the end of the summer."
"Of course. That'll be two Galleons a week. Room eleven for you."
"Right. That's eight Galleons for the four weeks I'll be here. I'll offer you sixteen in exchange for your absolute discretion. Ten now, and the other six when I leave. What do you say?"
Tom's eyes lit up. Harry knew the man wouldn't say a word. It would only buy him some time—a few days, perhaps a week—before someone recognised him and the gossip started, but it was time he needed.
Taking his key, Harry went upstairs to settle in. He hid his broom behind a curtain and arranged his books on a shelf. His old school robes were now far too short, so he decided to donate them. He would buy new ones, and new Muggle clothes as well. He was done with his cousin's oversized hand-me-downs. But his first port of call was Gringotts.
He stepped into the pub's backyard, tapped the correct brick above the dustbin, and watched the archway to Diagon Alley form. He grinned. The alley wasn't too crowded yet. He quickly dropped off his old robes at a second-hand shop before striding towards the imposing white marble of the bank.
"Good morning," Harry said to the goblin at the entrance, who looked up in surprise. Goblins, he deduced, were not often greeted so politely. He approached a free teller. "I'd like to speak with an account manager regarding the status of my account—or accounts, should I have more than one."
The goblin eyed him shrewdly, clearly taken aback by the request. It must have been unusual, which made Harry wonder how many wizarding families neglected their own fortunes.
"Bagdod will see to you, Mr Potter. Please wait a moment."
"Thank you."
Soon, he was led to an office where a senior goblin sat waiting with a stack of parchments. He handed them over. Harry's heart sank as he read them. Only the contents of his trust vault remained. He frowned. From what he'd heard at Hogwarts, the Potters were an ancient and wealthy family. How could he be left with just a fraction of their fortune?
"May I ask how this happened?"
"The war," the goblin stated simply.
Of course. Wars required funding. With those two words, Bagdod had explained everything. His parents had poured their fortune into funding Dumbledore's fight. A flash of anger surged through Harry. How could they have been so irresponsible, so thoughtless about the future?
"Please, continue," he said, pushing his anger down. He needed the truth, however painful.
"Your paternal grandparents passed away before your father finished Hogwarts. With no other living relatives to advise him, he managed the family fortune himself. Your mother, being Muggle-born, added her savings to the Potter vaults upon their marriage. They spent it all."
"I see. So I have no investments of any kind, I suppose?"
"The shares your family held were the first assets to be sold to finance the war."
"Right," Harry said, his mind racing. "So, what I have in my vault is enough to see me through Hogwarts and live comfortably for a few years, but it would leave nothing for my own children, were I to have any."
"That is an accurate summary, Mr Potter. You currently have fifteen thousand Galleons."
"First, I'd like to open a new vault and transfer half of that amount into it. Seven thousand, five hundred Galleons. I will use that to invest. Is that possible?"
"You are thirteen, Mr Potter. According to Ministry law, you are a minor. However, Gringotts abides by older laws. As the last of the Potter line, you are considered fit to manage your family's revival."
"Excellent. Tell me, what stocks are available for purchase?"
"The Daily Prophet has offered a forty per cent share of the newspaper."
"Who holds the other sixty per cent?"
"The Ministry of Magic holds twenty per cent. The remaining forty is held by one of the most powerful wizarding families."
Harry's mind immediately went to the Malfoys, but he didn't voice it. "What are the benefits?"
"Each ten per cent block of shares yields two per cent of annual sales, plus a free lifetime subscription."
The paper cost three Knuts. At Hogwarts, nearly every student in Slytherin and Ravenclaw, most of Hufflepuff, and all the teachers bought it daily. The profits must be substantial.
"That forty per cent block is being sold for two hundred and fifty Galleons," the goblin added, "though offers have already reached double that."
"Offer them fifteen hundred," Harry said without hesitation. "Go up to two thousand if you must."
"As you wish, Mr Potter. Any other business?"
"What other ventures would your wisdom recommend?"
The goblin seemed pleased by the flattery. "There is a shop in the Alley that sells rare and exotic potion ingredients. Its sales are not high, but its profit margins are immense."
"And I assume few dare to invest in it."
"Seventy per cent of its shares are available."
"Invest four thousand Galleons in those shares."
"That would leave you with only one thousand Galleons in your investment vault, Mr Potter. You would not see returns until the end of the year."
"Do it," Harry insisted. "It's a risk, but a calculated one. Furthermore, you have my permission to reinvest half of all future profits as you see fit."
"You are aware that Gringotts takes a seven per cent commission for managing investments?"
"I was not. But between us, let's make the bank's commission fifteen per cent."
Bagdod was stunned into silence. This was not the behaviour of a typical wizard. Harry remembered from a life long past that goblins valued two things: gold and respect for their craftsmanship and financial acumen. The best way to secure their loyalty was to appeal to their greed. With a fifteen per cent stake, they would manage his investments masterfully.
"Very well, Mr Potter. I will begin the procedures at once. I shall require you to return in a few days to sign the final contracts."
"I'll be here," Harry confirmed. "Now, I'd like to withdraw some money from my trust vault, and exchange some Galleons for Muggle pounds."
"Griphook will escort you."
He left the bank over an hour later. After returning to the Leaky Cauldron to pay Tom and secure his remaining Galleons, Harry ventured out into Muggle London. In his current state, he couldn't enter any respectable shops, so he found a charity shop and bought a pair of jeans that actually fit, a long-sleeved shirt, a couple of amusing t-shirts, and some new trainers.
He found a shopping centre and went straight to the men's toilets to change. It was too hot for long sleeves, so he pulled on one of the new shirts—a purple one with a laurel wreath and the initials S.P.Q.R.—and the black jeans. He unceremoniously dumped his cousin's old clothes in the bin where they belonged. He spent the next few hours wandering through the shops, buying only what was necessary. He didn't have much room in his trunk, and it was unwise to draw attention to himself.
After a meal in the food court, he did what any normal Muggle teenager might do: he went to the cinema and bought a ticket for the next film showing. By the time he returned to the Leaky Cauldron, it was nearly nightfall. His first day of freedom had been a resounding success.
The next morning, Harry went down for an early breakfast, his school supplies list in hand. Thirty minutes later, he stepped back into Diagon Alley. His first stop was Ollivanders for a wand holster he could strap to his forearm, ensuring it was always within reach. Next, at Madam Malkin's, he purchased a full set of new school robes, including a spare set for Gryffindor Quidditch. The irony still made him smile.
"I'd also like a pair of everyday robes, please," he asked the witch, pointing to one the colour of sea-green water and another as dark as the midnight ocean.
"Here you are, dear."
He paid and moved on, making his other purchases while carefully observing the alley, committing each shop's location to memory. At the stationer's, he bought ink, quills, and twice the parchment he normally would, along with a new satchel. He briefly considered a diary for tracking homework, but after last year's experience, he'd had his fill of magical journals. A half-hour stop at the Apothecary saw him not just buying the required third-year ingredients, but carefully selecting each one himself.
His final stop was Flourish and Blotts. Harry quickly found the books for his new courses; Hagrid had already given him The Monster Book of Monsters. The shopkeeper looked immensely relieved when Harry told him he already had a copy.
"Have you tried an Immobulus Charm on them?" Harry suggested.
"Well, no, young man. It hadn't occurred to me! Thank you for that!"
"Do you mind if I look around for anything else?"
"Not at all! Please, take your time."
Harry understood why the man was so flustered. The shop was crowded, and the snapping books were an added stress. He wandered the aisles, picking up a copy of Hogwarts: A History by habit. It was time he learned what they had written about him, and how they had twisted the histories of the founders. He moved on to the potions section, determined to finally silence the bat-like professor who taught the subject. Snape might be a Potions Master, but he was a dreadful teacher.
As Harry perused the advanced brewing texts, he felt it—a familiar presence, a whisper against his soul. It was her, the one who had known him best. The sensation vanished as quickly as it came. He hurried towards the shop's entrance and scanned the street. He couldn't feel it anymore. His eyes swept over the crowds of parents and students. He saw a striking young woman with short, bright pink hair walking towards Gringotts, but she wasn't the one. He sighed, his gaze lost among the students.
"Where are you?" he whispered to the empty air.
The presence was gone. Defeated, he went back inside, gathered his books, and paid for them, his mind already a million miles away.