Traveling with his uncle to London was almost like being on autopilot. Yes, Harry was now allowed to watch television. Legally. Yes, his vocabulary was growing at nearly geometric progression: for some reason, he was terribly fond of new words. And he liked using them even more, even in thoughts, or—especially in thoughts?.. Ah, it didn't matter. Life was definitely improving.
And while Vernon Dursley, sitting behind the wheel, was doing everything possible to make it seem to himself that there was no one else in the car besides him, Harry terribly wanted to help him with this matter. It was really itching at him. Only the knowledge that invisibility charms were studied in fourth year (probably for good reason!) held him back, and trying it was a bit scary. Vernon Dursley in the role of a nurse—that was somehow too much. Harry couldn't imagine him as a stern male nurse wiping blood from his nose either. And wandering around Diagon Alley weakened wasn't worth it. Of course, it wasn't Knockturn Alley, but you never know?
"No-no-no," Harry stopped himself, shivering from the memories. "Later, everything later! But I will definitely buy that textbook! At least I'll read about these charms."
Last week he had finally been able to appreciate the Dursleys' neutrality: they fed him, gave him books, and left him alone. For Dudley, he had become a source of interesting stories and almost a household pet over the past three days. Now Dudley was ready to stand like a mountain for his wizard-cousin, especially when the latter was reading. Harry also enjoyed telling stories, especially watching the directly childish reaction of "big D."
"What big about him, by Morgana-nanny?.. First grade, second at most," Harry thought sadly, looking at the houses flashing past the glass. He felt sorry for his former enemy for some reason: he still didn't understand what it meant to really read. What would happen to him when Harry left?
He recognized Charing Cross Road immediately: they passed a large yellow-gray building, followed by an inconspicuous gray door without a sign, but very tall—Hagrid hadn't even had to bend down then. Oh, yes, the height here was—a Hagrid and a half!—he estimated, but the car was already turning.
Around the corner near the intersection, his uncle stopped and hurriedly dropped him off, thrusting a small wallet and a map directly into his hands, where the path from this very place to the bus stop was marked. Well, Harry had already looked at the map at home with Aunt Petunia and drawn the path himself with a red marker... But the wallet? He thoughtfully turned it over in his hands and shoved it into his pocket.
A few more steps, a turn, and Harry remembered what the Leaky Cauldron looked like inside during his first visit. And then during his second. It was unlikely anything had changed there. He sighed and crossed to the other side of the street, to a small Muggle tea shop. There he sat at a table near the exit and curiously opened the wallet. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Sixty POUNDS?!
He squeaked in a half-strangled voice. That converted to a whole twelve galleons... Two summers ago, with fifty pounds he had bought everything necessary for a whole school year, gotten dressed, and still had money left over! For a year! And last year was almost the same. By the way... Why hadn't he even thought to ask Mrs. Weasley for his key?
Harry couldn't have supposed that, by the most approximate calculations of his dear relatives, his "cleaning," which had replaced their planned renovation this year, had cost many times more. And the sum they had settled on was the minimum below which even tight-fisted Vernon and economical Petunia considered undignified to go.
In the side compartment, he additionally discovered almost another ten pounds. In change. Harry wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead and ordered tea. He needed to think properly...
At first, he had planned to go straight to Gringotts to get to his vault. Actually, where else could he try to get money, without which he had basically nothing to do on Diagon Alley? But now he had options. And instead of joyfully rushing to the goblins, he decided to first walk through the shops just like that, without even changing money. His memory, he now knew for certain, worked at least at "Exceeds Expectations," so—to look, to price-check... It made sense.
And then something seemed to stop him. Maybe it was the overly attentive gaze of a lady passing by in a long dress and strange hat? He quickly paid and left the café. But he headed not toward the Leaky Cauldron at all, but along the street, in the opposite direction from that lady, calmly moving away from her and carefully examining shop windows. After a block, he saw what he was looking for and boldly pushed the heavy, half-glass door.
Having parted with only one and a half pounds, he pulled a neat boy's cap down over his forehead, went out and looked at his reflection in the window. He liked it: the headwear sat comfortably and snugly, successfully covering what Harry didn't want to show off. He looked at himself once more. The borrowed old formal suit of his cousin, which Dudley had joyfully dumped on him while making a contemptuous face, was almost the right size and looked... roughly like the little suits that Malfoy's lackeys wore, only the fabric was simpler. He didn't particularly like the cuffs and lapels, but Harry decided to follow wizard traditions at least outwardly for now. He needed to pass for one of them. Otherwise...
"But what otherwise?" he asked himself, as if he were writing in his notebook again. And, of course, began to answer. "They'll stare at me with their mouths open again and point fingers. Well yes, I definitely don't need that. And I don't need to look like an aristocrat either, I should be like an ordinary boy. Something like now. And to hell with these cuffs and stupid little folds."
***
Tom, the permanent barman of the Leaky Cauldron and tireless informant for a whole range of personalities who had considerable money and considerable weight in the magical world, barely noticed the boy who slipped past. The boy, as if returning from somewhere, confidently walked to the back yard straight to the passage to Diagon Alley. Something familiar seemed to flash in him... But another customer demanded ale, of which there wasn't much left, and Tom was distracted. Did he not have enough to do, watching every little brat?
Harry walked along Diagon Alley and was surprised: how had it happened that he had considered it beautiful? Crooked little houses with not-so-clean windows, equally crooked streets, and even crooked-pawed cats! The general untidiness caused almost physical discomfort in Harry, who was accustomed to the cleanliness and refinement of Privet Drive. But he clearly remembered that he had liked it here to the point of squealing like a pig!
The few passersby paid no attention to him, and Harry relaxed slightly. He was supposedly absent-mindedly kicking some pebble when a rather elderly matron in a blue, well-made cloak called out to him:
"Hey, boy! Yes, yes, you! Want to earn some money?"
Harry looked at her thoughtfully. Agree? Refuse?
"Is it dangerous?" and he blinked his eyes. He had read that this supposedly helped children. He was still a child, right?
The woman smiled kindly. She needed exactly such a boy—just a courier, delivering what was needed, like postal owls, without being curious, and at the same time—cautious. And she had never seen him before, which meant he appeared here rarely and it would be almost impossible to track him down. A home child, not like the wolf cubs from Knockturn Alley. Yes, it wasn't for nothing that she had been walking the streets for three days now. She'd have to pay more, well, but the main thing was not to expose herself.
And so Harry was purposefully trudging to the post office, jingling change in his pocket: five sickles for a postal owl and special postal delivery and one for him for the work. Quite generous, even too much so. He didn't bother asking what was special about the letter (for such money), but he did think about the fact that his eyes were too noticeable. He needed to fix that. Interesting, were there any spells for that? Or maybe potions? He'd love to find some!
At the post office, everything went without a hitch: he passed for a wingless owl—they didn't think to ask him about anything. The clerk simply took the money and issued some strange small dark-gray owl (Harry later looked in a book and realized it was a barn owl), which measured him with a piercing amber gaze and instantly lost interest in him, as if he wasn't there at all. They helped him attach the package to the bird's leg and release it. And then he calmly went on, gradually beginning to feel like part of this strange and incomprehensible world.
"To the bookstore or to Malkin's?" he thought, choosing direction at the next intersection. "I'll get stuck in the bookstore for a long time, I need to find so much. And probably it's better to be in a robe—I'll attract less attention being not a street boy but a decent schoolboy." And he turned right. Yeah, with a whole sickle in his pocket. Well done, indeed...
Madam Malkin, no matter how he tried to convince her to give credit or at least let him try things on, wouldn't even look at him. But he looked around well himself and understood that if he bought anything in this establishment, he would limit himself to robes only. And beyond that—not a thread! Oh, it wasn't for nothing that he had walked past Muggle shops before trudging here. The price difference was—good grief. And not at all in favor of wizards!
"So, still—to Gringotts, but for now just to change money," Harry decided. He wanted to meet with goblins about his money while being at least somewhat informed about the realities of the magical world. He hoped to find some overview of the wizarding world's financial system and was mentally prepared for not-the-most-interesting reading: in detective books, this really helped. And he could handle it.
Although he hadn't written this in his notebook yet, the thought of how it had happened that wizards had seemingly won the Goblin Wars, but the losing goblins now controlled all the wizards' money periodically bothered him. Not so much, but... You have to agree, it's a paradox? True, Harry had so many other, much more personally pressing questions that every time he remembered this fascinating fact, he planned to think about it tomorrow.
He changed money quickly. Introducing himself and saying anything turned out to be unnecessary: he laid five ten-pound notes on the table in front of some goblin, received his coins, nodded just as silently, and left. After the fiasco at Malkin's, he decided to open his mouth only when necessary.
And he no longer wanted to go for a robe. There seemed to be another wizard clothing store here? It seemed like Twill... something there, from two similar surnames? The name had slipped away, but the golden badge of two intertwined letters stood before his eyes.
"Expensive, probably," Harry thought, remembering Narcissa Malfoy's remarks, but he walked past "Robes for All Occasions" without even looking at the door. He was offended...
He found "Twilfitt and Tatting" in the neighboring alley. Instead of a bell above the door, something hoarsely croaked when he entered. Harry flinched, looking up, and saw a large, glossy blue-black raven winking at him. It winked again, leaned down and gave a quiet "Crr-r-r."
"Good afternoon, young man, good afternoon. I see you've taken Crom's fancy. What can I do for you?"
A friendly, plump wizard in a neat suit bowed ceremoniously. Harry tried to copy his bow...
"I would like... I need a robe. The most ordinary, summer, but not too light."
The salesman (or was this the owner?) raised his eyebrows:
"However, it's pleasant to see such a young customer who knows exactly what he wants. Price range?"
If the fat man thought to embarrass Harry with this phrase combination, well, he miscalculated...
"I'm here for the first time, if you noticed," Harry wasn't intimidated. "And therefore I'm in ignorance regarding the correspondence between my desires, your capabilities, and my financial capacity."
The salesman opened his mouth slightly.
"But I would be very grateful if you would enlighten me," Harry finished cheerfully. He liked how he had wrapped that up. And this was himself, not from a book!
The salesman closed his mouth, waved his hands, and joyfully dumped a mass of interesting information on the satisfied boy, addressing him as nothing other than "young lord." Potter, still having at least a vague idea of who his ancestors were, at least on his father's side, didn't think to protest. He managed to learn a lot of new things. For example, the features of some magical fabrics. Magical seams. Magical threads. He almost caught himself involuntarily opening his mouth while listening to the salesman.
"Young lord, uh, perhaps you'd like some tea?"
Harry thought that not only his throat had probably dried up:
"Only in your company, dear sir."
It seemed he hadn't miscalculated. Such a range of positive emotions flashed across the salesman's face... Harry even felt uncomfortable that he was planning to spend the minimum here. Now he understood where such prices came from. But still, he had definitely come to the right place.
Over tea, having memorized several more important points that he might never have learned about, Harry finally moved on to the purchase, remaining firmly convinced that as soon as he got hold of a suitable sum from the goblins, he would definitely order everything from underwear to shoelaces right here.
Leaving the shop, accompanied by the satisfied salesman, Harry continued to be surprised and mentally kept notes in his notebook.
"Why is the salesman so pleased when I only bought one inexpensive robe?"
"Interesting, does Ron know all this about clothes? And Hermione? Did Mrs. Weasley tell her? Or not? After all, she should know, that's for sure... And me?!"
The bookstore happened to him suddenly, like an attack, and outwardly it looked similar: he almost suffocated. The magnificent Flourish and Blotts, sparkling with magic in the literal sense, shone so that his head refused to think. Apparently from delight. But this very thing alerted him, and a warning chill ran under his new robe. He was too drawn to this store...
After all, he had given himself his word that he would buy a charms textbook for fourth year!
He wanted to buy... everything. His eyes scattered, converged, and almost rolled back. And Harry, slamming the door, fled.
Having caught his breath a little, he decided that this was definitely some kind of charms. From which he was almost unprotected, and which acted on him like... like on Hermione! He remembered the enthusiastic, thoughtless face, so uncharacteristic of his usually sensible friend. No way. His feet wouldn't be here! Not until he dressed in all magical clothing, yes. And he would definitely have to tell Hermione! But how to do it? He didn't want to write in a letter—who knew how the mail worked here in general. Especially his Hedwig...
Then he remembered his first part-time job. Excellent. Right now he would go and send her a note, the same as he had sent for that lady. He remembered, "S-one mode." But it was expensive... And did they even make such deliveries to Muggle addresses? How much he still didn't know!.. He sighed and slowed his pace.
"Hand to hand"—he read the modest sign on the door of a two-story house across the street.
"If these aren't books, I'll have to go to Flourish and Blotts, time is running out, and without 'Charms' for fourth year I'm not going back," Harry firmly decided, crossing to the other side. Fortunately, he was lucky.
Going inside, he saw shelves with worn books, but didn't experience crazy delight—only pure joy. And immediately went to the counter. Harry honestly laid out everything to the last knut before the thoughtful salesman and informed him about exactly what he was thirsting to read. In the order that seemed important to him.
The salesman, who turned out to be the nephew of the owner of this considerable secondhand bookstore, perked up and his eyes lit up:
"You've given me an interesting little problem, young man... Very interesting, and pleasant, yes. And you were sincere, completely sincere—after all, you don't have a single coin left?"
Harry grinned and jingled his Muggle change. The salesman smiled broadly:
"Does the young man suppose that I can't distinguish the sounds of gold, silver and copper from your little iron pieces?"
"I suppose nothing except that practice is the criterion of truth," Harry blurted out without thinking, and seemed to hit the "jackpot."
The salesman raised his hands:
"Golden words! Golden! Are these really yours, young man?"
"What do you mean," Harry even blushed, not understanding his interlocutor's sly squint. He knew these weren't his words, but didn't remember whose, and he needed to answer something. "That's what my... teacher said... says."
The salesman went on showering praise on the mythical teacher and how lucky Harry was with him, and disappeared among the shelves. Harry finally stopped his automatically nodding head, regretted that he hadn't managed to warn that his time was limited, and began examining the books, carefully taking down one or another. He got completely stuck on a small book titled "Young Artificer's Handbook."
He would have gotten lost in time and space again if the salesman hadn't emerged from the half-darkness, loaded with a dozen books, from quite small ones to a solid, leather-bound folio as thick as Harry's arm.
"Here, young man. Very worn, but quite readable. Price-quality ratio is ideal. The charms textbook is worn and stained, but... you'll see for yourself. And what are you looking at? Oh... How interesting. How unusual for your age and, I would say, for the generation in general."
"How much do you want for it?" Harry asked in a hoarse voice.
The salesman opened a drawer behind the counter, quickly sorting through papers.
"Ah, here. Starting price—two sickles. A rare thing, by our times."
Harry swallowed. He couldn't imagine letting go of THIS. And the salesman asked:
"Do you have enough Muggle change to exchange for a couple of sickles?"
If he went to the bank, then back... He would miss the last bus. They would kill him at home.
The salesman seemed to read his thoughts:
"I can exchange it myself..."
"Really?"
"Would I offer if I couldn't..."
"Yes! Thank you!"
Harry shot out of the Leaky Cauldron like a bullet: he was still late. And only looking at the station clocks did he realize that... that was it, game over. He didn't have enough money for the bus. The excellent books pulled down his arm with their solid weight, the string cut into his fingers. He could have asked to shrink them—no, again he hadn't thought. Still, he didn't think well enough yet, nothing to be proud of.
And what now? Beg? Say he lost the money? Cry? What else could he do?
Right. What did he have? A wand. Well yes, the "Knight Bus!" He moved away from some crowd of people and sharply thrust his hand forward with the wand...
***
The Dursley family almost unanimously jumped out from the table, hearing scratching at the door.
"Harry!" Petunia threw up her hands, and Dudley managed to grab the pale-green cousin by the shoulder, who was trying to lie down right there on the doormat.
Vernon got the heavy bundle of books and some package of dark blue, almost black fabric.
Harry took a deep breath and... forbade himself to pass out. He wanted to so badly. He was home.
For the first time in his life, he had called this place that. Around cottage number four passed a barely noticeable ripple, as if a shield of warm air had risen. But no one noticed this, not even Mrs. Figg's sensitive cats.