"Why do I have more than one account?"
The goblin in front of him was only marginally more cordial than the others, and Harry figured that's because he was being paid quite a bit to be his accountant. Draco had said goblins were greedy and while he took what the future-Slytherin said about others with a grain of salt, the fact they had caverns of vaults filled with gold and wizards trusted them with essentially their whole economy told Harry they wouldn't be in this profession if they didn't like profit. Then again that wasn't a strictly goblin thing, liking profit, however given the vicious snarl/smile Axeclaw gave him at that questions suggested goblins took a bit more pleasure out of it than most.
Getting to Diagon Alley took no time at all, as Draco had told him about the Knight Bus (with an extreme emphasis on how no decent wizard would ever be caught riding it, which Harry interpreted to mean poor or desperate people would ride it the second he stepped on and caught sight of the clientele on board) and also informed him that Gringotts never closed at any hour of the day, or day of the year. Which was awesome because here he was, at precisely 5:15 in the morning in a private room at Gringotts with a goblin who claimed to be his account manager, and the Potter family financial advisor and accountant. He had a lot to do and only one day to do it, and the bank was his first stop since he needed money for most (all) of it.
He also thought this might take some time to get through all his questions, hence the early hour long before any of the other shops he needed to visit today opened. He told the Dursleys he wouldn't be around, and that meant they wouldn't be looking for him at all since they knew damn well where he was and would refuse to comment on the fact he wasn't there to cook them breakfast as it's open up the chance for him to potentially mention where he'd been. They'd probably just go out to eat like that was the plan all along since it was a Saturday.
The goblin cleared his throat politely as he shifted the paper in front of him on the desk.
"Upon your defeat of the dark lord, the war officially came to a close. Many were killed during that time, including young aurors or those willing to fight, which were often the heirs of prominent or less-prominent families. With their deaths, those family lines ended and their vaults closed until further notice; the thought that perhaps a distant relative one day might have a similar enough magical signature for our wards to register them as an acceptable inheritor. This is standard procedure unless the previous owner of the vault has taken steps to will their vaults to someone of non-blood relation before their death; it is a lengthy, slightly painful process few bother with unless the family line is important enough that to let it die out would be unthinkable. Or, an individual with no heir is desperate for a way to show their gratitude."
"Gratitude?" He blinked in alarm, a dreading feeling sinking into his stomach as he realized where this was going.
"Indeed. Wizarding law is something of a hybrid of old and new—one of the old laws that's stuck around since medieval time is the concept of revenge. For example, there used to be seven Ancient and Noble houses in the wizarding world, however the Monroe line was killed off by the Dark Lord himself. As you were the one to kill the dark lord, you inadvertently avenged the Monroe line and therefore the Potter line is now also Ancient and Noble."
"Oh no." This sounded like it was going to get even worse, and by the fact he could see every single one of Axeclaw's pointed teeth as he grinned/snarled, he knew he had no chance.
"Similarly, families whose heirs were killed off by the war felt they owed you both in thanks for your service and also for your part in the revenge taken for their lost children or relatives. They didn't legally have to do so as the transferring of the Ancient and Noble title is legally done, however it is in wizarding culture to do such a thing even if the process is lengthy and slightly painful."
I do wonder what a goblin considers 'slightly painful' and with a name like Axeclaw I'm not sure I want to know.
"Not all lines who were willed to you were because of killed children though; many just thought it right to will you their inheritance if they had no heirs to begin with—though those individuals were mostly without a family line and thus much wealth to pass on, but still had their life savings to do something with post-mortem. Many more still willed you at least a portion of their estate when they passed even if they did have relatives to inherit most of their property and wealth. That required no lengthy process at all, but is simply an edit to their standing wills, so that was actually much more common. To this day you are still receiving portions of money or valuables from the elderly dying of old age instead of war and I suspect you'll continue to receive for many years yet."
Harry could only stare at the goblin, trying to wrap his head around this.
People were that thankful he'd been a fluke of nature and accidentally killed someone? He didn't even remember the event in question at all, he was one. It made him feel hot and itchy and generally uncomfortable to be the center of all this… gratitude when he hadn't done a damn thing. Considering what he knew of himself he didn't think he was a very honest or good-willed person, much less someone who deserved this amount of fervent praise or recognition. It was like electing a crocodile to be mayor of a town of cranes or something.
And he felt genuinely bad because a bunch of people had already died thinking their last wish of having their bloodline's wealth would be carried on by some great hero, and people were still doing this crock, and eventually they'd probably meet him and realize they'd been horribly, horribly wrong. He wasn't a bad person but he was by no means a saint and had no problem wandering in the grey area of life (stealing from the Dursleys at will, manipulating Hagrid like he was a freakin' puppet, plotting to get vengeance on an old Headmaster he'd never even met and who could be a genuinely good, if not stupid, guy—just to name a few of his less-than-savory tendencies). That didn't stop him from feeling genuinely bad that a lot of people were going to get their high hopes and earnest respect in him crushed like a soda can—that he never got the chance to warn off who-knows how many people before this point from willing him their family wealth to the wrong person, to a bed-time story of who he was supposed to be at best.
People had given away real, honest money because of a lie, and now he just felt like a scam artist even if he hadn't done it on purpose or really even been aware of it until this moment. Morally grey person or not, he wasn't the type to lie, cheat, or purposefully trick people for money.
To keep himself alive? Without a second thought.
For fun? Depends on the situation, but was not off the table.
For profit? Nope.
He'd come this far with only a couple pounds here and there and one of his core lessons was that lowering your expectations meant it'd be easier to achieve them. He most certainly didn't even need the trust vaults he'd been showed earlier, much less whatever ungodly amount was in his family's vault or what all these other people were tossing at him. He wasn't going to say no of course (he wasn't that nice, he couldn't exactly give it BACK if they were dead now, and was certain tossing money at people he perceived to be in need of it on the street was kind of an asshole thing to do) so he'd sit on it until he could think of a use. For the time being his trust vault alone, even not being topped off every year, would last him several lifetimes so there was no rush.
The goblin was patient as he worked this out, or at least Harry assumed he was being patient as he'd had the annoyed scowl on since this meeting had started.
"So… how many vaults are we talking about here?"
Now Axeclaw was more definitely grinning, as he lifted a mess of papers and lay them on the desk in front of him, and it was arguably scarier than his scowl.
"It is all listed out here in specifics, however in summary: in the range of 0 knuts up to 100 galleons there have been twenty-six donations. In the range of 100 galleons to 1000 galleons there have been twelve donations. In the range of 1000 galleons to 5000 galleons there have been six donations. In the range of-"
"Maybe I should read that in my own time… I think I'd like to know more about each individual than hearing an average." He interrupted, realizing that was probably very rude when he got a glacial glare in response, but Axeclaw collected himself quickly.
"Very well. The sum of the donations and inheritances is 197,066 galleons, and although it is no more than an educated guess without a true appraiser for each item, the sum of the heirlooms and other properties left to you should they be liquidated is 800,000 galleons. Additionally, there have been a wide variety of books, toys, and merchandise published and sold, all themed around you and the story of your defeat of the dark lord, and legally a certain percentage of each sale is to be given to the person whose name is being used. While it's questionable since you were not able to give your permission for these things, the percentage argued on your behalf was quite generous at 17%. Total profit from those royalties so far is 600,000 galleons and change—it increases continuously even ten years later."
Harry knew he'd bought everything he needed for school (and with every shiny bell and whistle he wanted in passing fancy) plus at least a trunk full of extra interesting things, for around 90 galleons if he was remembering that correctly. He wasn't great at math but even he knew these numbers were ridiculous. Half of what he'd just bought he'd never need to replace since, you know, magic. This was all jut incredibly excessive in his mind.
Also, books? Toys?
What the actual hell.
But Axeclaw didn't seem interested in his expressions but simply pushed forward. "As the Potter line avenged the now-deceased Monroe line and they were an Ancient and Noble house, there is a stipulation in that ancient magic that allows you to inherit that bloodline as well, although the criteria to accept that bloodline requires some looking into. A minimum of 7 years after the act of vengeance has already been met, however there are a couple blood rituals to perform and you will need to either take on the name yourself or perform an oath that one of your children, should you have them, will carry the Monroe name."
"Uh… like, Potter-Monroe? Or just naming one of my children, like, Susie Monroe instead of Potter?"
"Precisely." The goblin nodded, putting is papers down and giving him an expectant look.
"Uh… well sure, I don't care. Potter-Monroe it is."
I wonder if 'blood rituals' are 'slightly painful' in the goblin sense, and if he'd tell me beforehand if they were. Probably not, he seems like he'd enjoy that.
He wondered if he should cling more to the concept of his family name, since he clung so hard to just the memories of his mother and father… but couldn't find it within himself to care. He'd thought his name was 'Freak Dursley' for the longest time until he reached primary school so knowing his name was 'Harry Potter' had been a relief at best. He didn't know his parents were anything other than drunks until just recently either, so he'd never really clung to or looked up to the name 'Potter' in the first place. It was a very common name in any case, and Potter-Monroe had no more meaning to him than Potter did, and somehow it seemed like the decent thing to do. The Monroe line being wiped out because of one man seemed a bit sad, and just because he didn't care didn't mean that it wouldn't be meaningful to someone in that dead family whose ghost might be happy their name got to live on alongside the name Potter.
It meant nothing to him either way so it was an easy decision. It might even be fun to correct people who seemed to know exactly who Harry Potter was that 'Ahem, actually it's Harry Potter-Monroe,''. It'd be an easy way to curb the enthusiasm of his more clingy admirers, even if only slightly.
"I will retrieve the paperwork in a moment then." Axeclaw seemed pleased with his answer and turned back to his papers, getting on with business. "The Monroe line is worth 403,607 galleons although you'll find as they were once an Ancient and Noble house perhaps their antique books and properties would be worth far more in their wealth of knowledge than liquidating them. Additionally, you are primed to inherit a section of the Ancient and Noble House of Black, although that could take several years."
"Primed? Meaning they're not dead yet." He immediately noted, hope rising unwillingly. If he had a relative, alive…
"The Ancient and Noble House of Black is one of the wealthiest in wizarding Britain and so the descendant of each branch of the family always inherits a pretty sum. The main line's latest descendant is one Sirius Black, and the only two other living lines that survived the last war are ended with one Bellatrix Black, nee Lestrange, and Narcissa Black, nee Malfoy, who has a son under the majority age while neither of the other two have children. Sirius Black was disowned from the family when he was still in Hogwarts which makes Bellatrix Lestrange the heir to the Black family fortune, however Mr. Black still receives the standard inheritance from a Black family side-branch. Sirius Black and Bellatrix Lestrange are both in the wizarding prison of Azkaban for life due to crimes committed in the last war and therefore their accounts have been frozen. However, Sirius Black is listed as you godfather and therefore legally when he passes his inheritance will come to you. Azkaban is not a pleasant place so I would not expect that to take several decades."
Harry stared.
He… had a godfather? That… what?
Okay, not the time to freak out… apparently this Sirius Black is a relative of Draco's mom? Somehow? From what Draco said most purebloods are related distantly so… I'll ask him later what he knows of Sirius Black. Shelving this thought for now before my brain explodes.
"What… were his war crimes?" He couldn't stop himself from asking.
"Officially nothing, as he was not given a trial. Unofficially it was believed he was the one to betray James and Lily Potter to the Dark Lord that night."
"You're… very well informed."
"I am the Potter account manager, it is my duty to know what is financially best for my client. Yours is one of the most profitable for Gringotts and now that there is someone to have gold flowing once more, I intend to assist in any way I can." The goblin intoned briskly, entirely unbothered.
Money makes money. Money sitting in a bank doesn't do anyone any good since the bank can't charge you fees for moving it around. Figures.
"Okay so… I can take copies of these? I'll look over them myself when I have a minute, but you seem to have a handle on things for now." The goblin nodded sharply once in agreement. Harry made a note to quiz Draco on finances—his father was a part time Barrister when needed and given his wealth clearly knew how to handle money so one could only assume Draco had picked up a thing or two and might be willing to share.
"For today, you only have access to your Potter trust vault and the donations—both money and heirlooms. If you're willing to inherit the Monroe line then you will be provided access to that vaults immediately since they did not have school-age children to need to set up restrictive wards for when they were wiped out, however withdrawals are limited until you reach the age of majority. As I said the heirlooms in that vault are likely worth more in their content than their monetary value and you will have free reign to take them as you wish." He handed over another small ream of paper and Harry felt a headache coming on at all the numbers, percentages, and words on the pages.
"This is a list of investments, properties, and other non-liquidated assets you have, all of which you have access to and are free to do with what you wish. I have been in charge of managing them this past ten years with the last directive to 'maintain' profit."
Harry picked up on the emphasis of maintain, and after scanning it (he had no clue what any of it meant, he knew nothing of finances or investments) he looked up and nodded to the goblin.
"Can you do more than maintain? Like see if we can't grow it?"
That seemed to be all the goblin was waiting for, and by the glint in his eye Harry made a note to look through these papers carefully sometime soon and figure out exactly how big of a cut Gringotts got for these services. It was probably worth it… but he should really double check, because he didn't think he wanted to know what a goblin looked like when being told Christmas (or their equivalent holiday, whatever it was) had come early and now it was too late.
"Of course, Mr. Potter." Axeclaw agreed with a silkiness to his tone that Harry didn't want to ask about.
"I think these will answer most of my questions for now, once I have time to go through them. May I write back with any further questions if I have them?"
"Indeed—I am your account manager so I will be open to correspondence." He nodded.
Which brought up another troubling thing. "Speaking of correspondence, I ask Griphook last time I was here about my bank statements. I know it's not Gringotts doing, as someone else has been keeping a lot of things from me, and that includes my bank statements for the past ten years. Is there any word about what happened to them?"
Axeclaw lost his grin/snarl and now was simply snarling unpleasantly.
"Griphook informed me of this and I took a look into it. There seems to be a mail ward around your main place of residence though it is undetermined where it's redirecting mail to and who put it into place. We've confirmed the statements have not been destroyed, and in fact are unopened as of yet. It's likely they're mixed in with the rest of the mail, wherever it's being kept after being redirected from you. By my approximations when looking at the ward, it redirects about 50 letters a week from you, and if you were not aware of the magical world until recently there's a good chance most of them are from admirers of your defeat of the dark lord."
"Isn't it a crime to interfere with someone else's mail?"
"In the muggle world, yes. Not in the wizarding—in fact many letters are scanned by the Ministry for security. A measure put in place during a time of crisis in the last war, and it was never revoked."
Well that's absolutely horrible. Making a note to never send anything critical by letter because to hell with that.
"How did you figure out the ward was there? Is there any way to remove it or alter it so I know where the letters are being sent now?"
"For a fee Gringotts can do this, yes. We are experts in warding; goblin wards far exceed the quality of a ward any wizard can produce, and whoever created this initial ward was definitely a human. It can be easily dismantled and a new one put in place per your specifications as you request it."
Harry's mind lit up and started racing with the possibilities. If the goblins were the best and they only wanted to be paid, well then… his had several vaults he wasn't using and this could be very useful.
"I definitely would like to do that, if what's in the trust vault will cover the fee." He agreed politely, not letting one how eager he was for this, and Axeclaw didn't seem to care as he was getting business either way.
"Of course—for something this simple the fee is six galleons."
That's it!? I'm seriously not quite sure about the value of a galleon here because that's insane.
"So, if I wanted a ward on a place with say…as single charm or something, how much would that be?"
"It depends on the size of the location and the strength of the charm in question."
"Let's say a building no bigger than this room, and a muggle-repelling charm."
The goblin raised one eyebrow and it was kind of amusing how normal that motion was given that his smiling and grimacing was essentially the same look.
"A full ward would be excessive, I think. There are ward stones that can be imbued with a small-area ward of one single intent. For a muggle repelling charm it would be absolutely nothing to create, as that's one of the easiest wards to create and no one bothers to take them down—muggles don't have magic to try even if they knew it was there. At most it'd be four galleons."
"I would like one of those as well."
"Very good, Mr. Potter, I'll see about fixing those things sometime today. Where would you like your mail directed?"
"Is it possible to send it all to my trust vault? Aside from Gringotts and Hogwarts letters. Ah—" He cut himself off, realizing this was an opportunity, corrected himself. "Aside from Gringotts and everyone at Hogwarts except Headmaster Dumbledore. Letters from him can be sent to the vault too."
Axeclaw gave him an unreadable look but wrote it down anyway.
"Can I add people to the ward as I see fit? Like when I get to Hogwarts and make friends hopefully."
"Of course, simply write to me with the name of the person who is to be added into the ward. Cost of an alteration to the ward is two sickles."
"Okay, then uh… Draco Malfoy should be allowed in too."
"Very good Mr. Potter." He finished making his notes and looked back up at the young wizard in front of him. "Gringotts will continue to pursue your missing statements and will likely find the store of the rest of your mail at that time. I will be in contact for when that happens."
"Thank you, Mr. Axeclaw." He smiled as innocently as he could, but the goblin very much did not seem to care. He was probably planning all the ways he could invest the Potter share portfolio now that he had the all clear to do so.
"I should have everything complete and a ward stone ready for you by 1pm today. If you come back at the time I can also arrange for the blood ritual you'll need to inherit the Monroe line. It should not take more than half an hour."
Well that's appropriately ominous coming from a goblin in charge of my money.
"Sure, I'll be here." He was very tempted to ask if it'd hurt but figured he wouldn't get an honest answer anyway—and he'd be heavily judged for being a wimp. Well, too late now.
"I know you requested to visit your vaults after this meeting; I will have Griphook escort you down. This is the key to the vault that has been storing your donations, and this is the Monroe vault." He withdrew two new golden keys from the drawer to his side, and Harry perked up in alarm. They too were golden, with slightly different patterns and made a point to memorize as soon as they settled in his hand.
"Should I have this key when I've not inherited the Monroe line yet?"
Axeclaw gave him a very eerily snarling smile. "You've given your word to accept their bloodline, therefore the right is yours. It would be… severely unpleasant, to rescind your word now, so in the eyes of our wards you are, shall we say, close enough."
Harry just nodded curtly once and stood up without another word.
Guess I'm going through with it whether I like it or not now. Not sure I want to know what's bad enough for a goblin to call 'severely unpleasant'. Maybe it's just death.
000
He stopped at his 'donated inheritance' vault first, and was honestly blown away. Yes there was a boat load of galleons in those oddly perfect pyramid-like piles the goblins seemed to like to arrange gold in, but in pure volume it only held about 5% of the entire space of the vault. When Axeclaw said people willed him everything with their deaths, he'd really meant everything. There was furniture, paintings, books, jewelry, fancy vases, clothes, trunks, clothes, crates, and more. He was totally baffled, and he could spend the next hour in here without much luck.
He wandered deep into the vault in awe, his head on a swivel as he tried to take this all in.
"What the quaffle am I supposed to do with all of this?" He asked of no one.
"Did you just use a quidditch term as an expletive?" A voice to his left asked in amused incredulity and he jumped a bit, whipping around… and a painting of a portly woman with dark curls on her head was looking at him from the frame of what looked to be an oil painting.
"Uh…" Was a picture talking to him? "You… can talk?"
"Of course I can." She lifted one brow at him, obviously thinking little of his intellect.
"Sorry… I'm still new to this whole magic thing. Can… all pictures talk, in the wizarding world?"
"Just about, I'd think." She mused, tapping her chin. "Although portraits are a little special. We're imbued with a bit of the person we're of—for example my name's Cassandra Longbottom. My portrait was passed down until my great-great-great- grand-niece Oliva Merriweather had me hung in her dining room. I think she must've died in the war she was fighting last I remember it."
"Oh. Sorry for your loss," He frowned. "My name's Harry… I accidentally killed the dark lord when I was one so a bunch of people willed me all their belongings and I suppose your great grand niece was one of them."
"Accidentally killed a dark lord when you were one? Now that's a story I bet!"
"Eh, not really. As I said I was one, so I remember nothing of it." He glanced around the room nervously, spotting many portraits here and there. "Will… you, and all these portraits be alright if I don't do anything with you today? I mean, you've been here ten years…"
"Don't worry dear, time works differently when you're a portrait—hasn't felt like any time at all since I was last talking with Olivia really."
"Oh… well that's good." He'd feel a little bad to walk away and dooming her to dead boredom for who knows how long when she'd already been sitting here for ten years without much to do. "Uh… I'm going to have a look around. Nice to talk to you."
"You too dear!" She waved him off, unbothered as he walked away.
Okay, it just keeps getting weirder.
The furniture was all… well, outdated was a kind term. He stopped briefly at the pile of clothes too and took about thirty seconds to realize it was all of a similar style—meaning retro at best—and smelled heavily of other people and moth balls. No thank you.
The area where there were seven bookshelves filled with books was more interesting… he spent longer here, actually scanning each title and picking out a couple things here and there that might be useful as he went into Hogwarts this year. A couple books on household charms, a new one on potions he hadn't seen before, one or two on history and herbology… the rest he wasn't sure about and was fairly certain a title like 'An Advanced Guide to Arithmancy' would be helpful for future-him, since he wasn't going to even get the option to take Arithmancy until third year, according to Draco. He slipped his finds into his bag and left the vault, where Griphook stood looking no more annoyed than Harry had left him, so this was probably not an uncommon practice to spend some time in one's vault.
"Would it be possible to sell of the furniture and clothes in there? I wouldn't even know how to start doing something like that and would think Gringotts would be experienced in liquidating people's assets."
The goblin snarled. "We have those services, yes. I will put in a request on your behalf and the quote for such a task will be mailed to you."
"Great, thank you."
Well that was one problem taken care of.
The next vault he stopped in was the Monroe vault—and to say he was stunned was an understatement. If his donation vault was chaotic and cluttered, this one was… well, still cluttered but it had a regal feel to it.
As he walked back, there was row after row of neatly organized bookshelves full of trinkets and books and more that he couldn't possibly begin to guess at. Ancient and Noble indeed; this place looked to be as filled with history as a museum, but five times as packed. The piles and piles of gold near the front weren't half as interesting as walking into its depths, and after ten minutes of going Harry realized he was going to have to come back one day to take a real look in here, because he couldn't even see the back wall yet, and he had things to do today.
It was all just so much… so many things and he was so curious but… he'd have to come back later.
It also filled him with a sense of excitement and heart-aching longing to wonder what was in the Potter main vault. Was there a level of history, of belonging in there too? Would his parents and grandparents and ancestors back as long as his line have filled their vault with books and valuables from their lifetimes that he could explore, and use to get to know them?
Unfortunately he'd have to wait until he was older to see into that vault, but at least he got a chance to see who this Monroe family he was inheriting a name from was. On his way back to the front he trailed through this shelf-way and that… opening trunks that were filled with journals and clothes and even more trinkets he couldn't identify. There was just so much he wasn't sure what would be useful or not but… it all seemed interesting.
It was one particular shelf he passed that a small bauble caught his eyes. It was a slightly dusty wicker basket with something flickering bright neon pink and a sky-colored blue, and when he pulled it down to see into it, he saw it was filled with bracelets and chains of every color. He glanced up and the shelf marker read 'Estate of Dell Monroe: 1617-1671'.
His eyes traced the shelves… this Dell Monroe seemed like a colorful woman, with mismatched tea cups and a crazy amount of colorful, oddly shaped goblets lined on the shelves. His favorite was a little stone basin no bigger than a soup bowl on tiny little pebbled feet with a shimmery opal lining inside. The bottom shelf was lined with books that seemed to be mostly about transfiguration, and the shelf above that had a full line of journals. On a whim he plucked one up and opened to the first page.
'That blast darn it, figgleworm-headed, over-priced piece of blubbering blaxwottle piss has done it for the last time! If he doesn't return my tempest watch by tomorrow morning I'm going to transfigure his pillow into Bubotuber pus bubbles—I don't know how I'll do it but mark my words I will!'
He let out a startled bark of laughter at that, instantly amused by her wild handwriting and crazy wit, deciding he very much liked this woman. Since he could, he swiped the stone bowl, the basket of shiny things, all the journals and books below it and tossed them into his bottomless bag. Figuring he'd spent too much time here already and having at least a souvenir for his trouble, he went quickly back to the front where Griphook was waiting, a smile on his face thanks to Ms. Dell's creative humor.
000
Even with how much time he spent at Gringotts, sitting with Axeclaw and visiting three vaults with an extended stay in two, when he left he was still walking down Diagon Alley pretty much alone since he still had half an hour until the earliest shops opened, and an hour until a lot of the main ones he wanted to frequent opened. Given that there wasn't a soul in sight, he took to getting the lay of the land without a huge crowd of people in the way, walking down the Alley and seeing the shops once more. He ended up by Knockturn Alley and remembered Hagrid's warning not to go down there.
And well, Hagrid wasn't exactly here and this place was a ghost town so early in the morning, so Harry strolled right on in.
The temptation of going where he wasn't supposed to go was left pretty much unsatisfied when the side street was just as boring as the closed down Diagon Alley—shops with their doors locked up and their windows professing much of what was sold on the main street except in danker, dirty venues. Was this considered the black market? Because if so it was clearly labeled with a sign on the main entrance marking it "Knockturn Alley" and these shops seemed very legitimate. These shops probably sold under the table too, although Harry didn't know enough to know what it could be. But it was good to know this was here, because it seemed useful.
What did surprise him was that at the end of the Alley, there was another little side alley one could stroll down with a bright open street on the other side. A curious investigation later, and Harry found himself on another street… which looked a lot like Diagon Alley except there were different shops. Baffled, he glanced around until he saw the green sign a couple meters down which read: "Contrair Alley".
Hagrid had never mentioned this place at all, and he felt obligated to investigate. It actually seemed as there were a lot of apartment-like buildings, but tons of cafes and shops that had a far more modern air than Diagon. There was an apothecary, two bookstores, a hair-dresser, like six clothes shops—and woah, back up a minute, a freaking library!?
THAT is helpful, and he was slightly put out Hagrid hadn't mentioned this place. Well, maybe Hagrid didn't care about libraries, and to be fair that last alley connecting Knockturn and here was pretty small, so maybe he just didn't fit through the entrance to this place.
Either way his original plan was derailed as he figured he could get everything he wanted done today done here instead of Diagon, including adding a few things to the list that he hadn't previously considered. Contrair Alley had several more options than its neighbor street and he planned to make use of them.
As it was getting to be around the time things started opening, he started with a small bakery that already smelled wonderfully and was he first thing to open on Contrair. He ordered some kind of tiny pie of meat with a muffin and a cup of tea, plus a side of bacon, and happily enjoyed it at a table out front while the rest of the stores started opening and one or two people appeared around the street to start their day off with some shopping.
He hadn't had a chance to sit down and enjoy a hot breakfast someone else had made in… well, ever. He enjoyed it quite a bit, and he took the time to read at least some of the papers Axeclaw had given him. Most of it was financial terms he didn't get and would have to look up, so he started making of list of terms he'd need to understand before he did much with this information.
By the time he'd eaten and decided to call it quits on deciphering his finances, the first shop on his list should've been open, so he thanked the lady behind the counter and went on his way—down to Osmias' Optical Solutions. Diagon hadn't had a single doctor shop of any kind and immediately after seeing this store on his way in Harry knew he wanted one of these solutions. If they couldn't fix his eyes since, you know, magic, then maybe they'd sell glasses not from a bargain-bin since he could not afford nicer ones that actually fixed his eyesight rather than letting him see slightly less blurry shapes while also damaging his eyesight further.
He walked in and a bell at the door alerted his entrance, and a man looked up from where he was writing something at a desk near the back. The shop consisted of plain tan walls and tiled floors, a long row of spinning black chairs on metal stands lined up on one wall and very muggle-looking eye charts on the other. It kind of gave a hair-dresser like vibe actually.
"Welcome to Osmias', what can I do ya for today?" The man, presumably Osmias, greeted cheerfully.
"I want to see what can be done to get rid of my glasses, if possible."
"Sure lad, come on in. No parents with you today?"
"No sir." He deflected politely, and the man didn't push for more details, but just nodded at that answer and set about writing something up at his desk. It was kind of suspect that a medical professional wouldn't ask to have parent approval before an obvious child asked for a medical procedure, but given that the set up was more like a hair-dresser than some kind of doctor's office, maybe the procedure wasn't actually that difficult or dangerous.
He was proven right pretty quickly. "Just hop up on the chair then lad and we'll see what we can do. Shouldn't take too long." Harry did just that while the man finished writing and stood, dusting his hands off on the front of his robe and pulling out his wand. Harry let the man get close, his warm brown eyes meeting his gaze but clearly examining his actual eyes rather than looking at him directly.
"Now then, just a quick diagnostic spell to see what's the matter." He said, lifting his wand and casting a light blue spell that laid over Harry's skin and made his eyes feel warm.
Magic.
It was still new enough that it was exciting to watch it happen, especially when it was happening to him.
His interest vanished at the frown the man got on his face though.
"Huh, that's weird. I've never seen something like this outside of the Potter family." He mused, scratching his temple with the tip of his wand, baffled.
Harry felt his heart skip a beat.
"Uh… well, my name's Harry Potter sir."
The guy blinked, then the words sunk in. "Well I'll be! Good lord boy, I didn't—well isn't that remarkable! My dear boy it's an honor to meet you!" Harry watched his eyes flicker to his forehead but his make-up covered scar wasn't visible thanks to quite a bit of practice on Harry's part at concealing it.
"Uh… likewise." He shifted in the chair uncomfortably as the man leaned closer, evidentially thrilled to have met him for some reason. "What was that about my eyes and the Potter family again?"
"Oh yes! It's a hereditary thing you see; certain lines are gifted and cursed in certain ways. The Potter family, so the stories go, has a larger magical capacity than most other families but is cursed with poor eyesight. Most known fixes don't work on Potter eyes which is why they've all had glasses, historically speaking."
He said this as if it was common knowledge, but Harry was only just now learning his father, and therefore probably a lot of his ancestors, wore glasses.
"There's an old joke that Potters don't need to see the broad side of a barn because their blasting curses can level it well enough," The man continued to chat merrily as if this were very entertaining, but Harry wasn't too amused. Especially since that joke seemed offensive somehow, though he wasn't sure how.
"So there's nothing you can do for my eyes?"
"Now I didn't say that, my boy! This is Osmias' after all! We've got your Odd Solution right here!" he turned and started rifling through some cabinets in the back happily, pulling out long white boxes.
"'Odd Solution'?" Harry wondered aloud.
"Of course! Contrair Alley is full of those who utilize 'Odd Solutions'—or really, muggle made or inspired solutions that are banned from Diagon Alley. Purebloods have the deeds to all of Diagon so if it ain't traditional wizard-like they don't let it be sold up there. So Diagon has the pure stuff, but if you need an Odd Solution or a bargain deal, Contrair's where it's at. You're in luck you came here since there's no regular magic solution for Potter eyes, but my Odd Solution is not only half the price of a normal fix but for a little inconvenience it'll do the trick for your eyes."
"What's the little inconvenience?" He frowned warily.
"Well it's not a permanent fix—see these things?" He opened the first white box, and inside were a line of a dozen or so very familiar shapes resting in shallow pools of water.
"Contacts?"
The man looked startled, then grinned. "So the rumors of you growing up in the muggle world are true then? Excellent! Then yes: I took the concept of muggle contacts and spun them to my liking. I can alter them for your vision problems and any extra features you'd like—another bonus traditional optical spells don't afford you! One pair will last about a year so the inconvenience is that you'll have to come back every year or so for a new pair."
"A year?" Harry was stunned for half a second before he remembered—oh right, magic. "Wait, what other features?"
"I can toss in a slightly increased ability to see at night, sun glare protection, and heat resistance if you'd like!"
"…heat resistance?"
"Have you ever rubbed your eyes after cutting up some peppers? I did once, and I regretted it." The man got very somber as if this was a traumatic experience for him. It probably was, if he went as far to include it into his product line.
"I'll take them. With the extra features—once a year is totally fine if I can be free of my glasses for all that time. Do I have to take them out at night?"
"Absolutely not! That would be a little too inconvenient to actually sell, now wouldn't it?"
Harry just smiled. The more wizards he met, the crazier they all seemed.
000
He spent a lot of the morning in the various bookstores Contrair Alley had, and found they had a ton more interesting options than Flourish and Blotts did. Two even had a 'Hogwarts Section' where people could buy the required books at Hogwarts that year, but everything else had a little more liberal titles than some of those. There was a whole section about information muggleborns should know upon entering the wizarding world and he got seven of them on different subjects, including 'A Muggleborn's Emergency Guide to Latin in 23 Basic Steps' which he considered a personal score on many levels. He was a little miffed Flourish and Blotts didn't have this section since that was the only bookstore Hogwarts seemed to acknowledge; one would think a school with a bunch of muggleborns would be a little more accommodating.
If he weren't extremely rich he'd be worried about how much he was spending, but as it was each book seemed to average a galleon or two, which was really quite pathetic. He was still trying to wrap his head around the true value of a galleon and was coming up confounded every time—a galleon could buy him a book, a week's worth of meals, upwards of a quarter ton of parchment paper, or 10 kilos of candy. And none of those things were of equal value.
Muggle logic of what cost what seemed to entirely fail in this world. For example a book at a normal Barnes & Noble could be 20-25 pounds, which would get you two, maybe three meals depending on what you ate if you were to eat out with that money instead. 10 kilos of candy could easily rake up to be in the 100 pounds area, and a quarter tone of paper was closer to 400 pounds. Those items weren't equal in the Muggle world but could all be bought with one gold coin in this wizarding world… Harry was going to have to re-learn how to buy things because this just made no sense at all to him.
The only pattern he'd established so far was that specialty magic seemed to cost exponentially more depending on how rare it was. Like, Osmias was going to charge him four galleons to fix his eyes, but his contacts only cost one galleon, 15 sickles. The goblin warding was several galleons, and yet a self-writing quill he'd seen in one of the bookstores was five sickles. Things that floated or had common charms no one seemed to think much of seemed to be cheaper, while if a salesman talked up a certain charm or ward, it probably meant they were the only ones or one of the few people around, who were any good at that bit of magic.
Magic could perform miracles, but it seemed it was still a precious commodity if you had a certain type of magic that others didn't. It was a good observation—being a specialist was more valuable than being a jack-of-all trades.
Once he was content that he had as many books as he could physically read in this coming school year (including one or two about the rules of quidditch, since he figured the sooner he could start engaging with Draco's quidditch rants the less lost he'd be when talking with his friend) he moved on to some other small errands.
From what looked to be an outdoors shop he got an enchanted bedroll for his shed/room, as well as a magical no-heat camp stove and portable fridge no bigger than a shoe box that would fit a full refrigerator's worth of food—and even had preservation charms so the food wouldn't ever expire. He also picked up an endless water bottle (it only lasted five years, the label said, like that wasn't insane enough already), a few blankets, and a portable toilet that just made everything disappear. Just to make his life more comfortable—he couldn't count how many times he hated being locked in the cupboard just because he wasn't in control of when he had access to a washroom or not, and while it hadn't been a real issue in years… just no, never again.
He stopped by several of the food markets that were open by then to stock up on food to put in his portable fridge and cook for himself later, including a ton of ingredients he was certain were magical and had no idea what they did or tasted like and a sinful amount of candy to experiment on his preferences. In a furniture shop he bought a small, bare-bones desk and chair, a middle-sized mirror, several small storage baskets, and tiny end table—he could've been more extravagant, but he didn't need more in that tiny shed/room. Low expectations and all of that.
He picked up a bunch more paper since he'd plowed through a lot of his just writing to Draco and taking notes on his texts, several journals as Draco insisted that was the best way to take notes, owl treats and supplies to spoil Hedwig, and several unique potions ingredients that were not on the Hogwarts list however Draco said the Hogwarts' public supply that was provided was sub-par and having his own would only help him.
He was buying a lot of things because Draco told him to, he realized belatedly, but it all seemed like decent advice, so he went with it.
His last stop in the wizarding world before lunch and then back to Gringotts, was the hairdressers.
He was not expecting the dramatic gasps from two brightly blond and neon-blue-haired women the minute he walked in, nor how they were suddenly all over him and gushing about is hair, but he can't say he was unhappy with the attention like he was whenever someone gushed about his name or what he did accidentally as a one-year-old. He had nothing to do with defeating Voldemort, but he was proud of his hair and he enjoyed their praise freely in a way he hadn't been able to before. Attention and compliments were nice… when he felt he deserved it at least, otherwise it was painfully uncomfortable. He point blank refused to accept credit as the 'Boy Who Lived'—but he'd bask in the warmth of them gushing over his pretty hair all the live long day and fully enjoy himself while doing it. It was very enjoyable.
It was even better because they could care less about what his name was, but demanded to know every little detail about his hair care routine—and when he said he didn't have one they were practically in raptures detailing all the ways he could make his hair gleam and having a field day arguing with each other about the best way to go about it.
It took an hour, much longer than he'd expected it to, but by the end he was walking out with his spine straight and big smile on his face as his hair shone brightly in the midday sun, styled up for once and looking mighty nice if he did say so himself. They had gleefully sold him magic brushes that would detangle without breaking ends, a set of five potions that when used like shampoo would grow his hair out six inches overnight if he wanted to change up his style, half a full shopping bag of baubles and clips for different things they showed him he could do with his hair, and about a dozen bottles of different shampoos and conditioners to be used for different occasions as they all had different effects—one made his hair wavy, another curly, another perfectly straight, and so on. They then enjoyed themselves very much whipping out their wands and getting to work right off the bat—they lengthened his locks ten inches on the spot, trimmed the split ends, and pulled it up into a high ponytail at the back of his head, an embellished twirl of their wands and he had his long bangs and even long pieces to fall down in front of his ears and frame his face in the wild manner his hair usually had.
He'd always hesitated in actually growing his hair long enough to put up into a ponytail, and it was definitely a commitment that he needed to be fully on board with for months to even consider. Given that they did it in five minutes though, he couldn't argue that he kind of very much liked it, despite how feminine it could've been seen as being. The witches didn't blink twice at it though, just gushed happily, so Harry though maybe the wizarding world didn't care about such things. Given their fashion sense it might be possible there was a very loose concept of what was considered feminine or masculine.
He was in very high spirits as he walked out of the hairdressers, the witches happily sobbing their praise and shouting at him to promise to take care of those 'lovely locks', and come back if he so much as got a split end, which he agreed to willingly.
He picked another random café in which to have lunch, not bothering with bringing down his mood with those indecipherable financial papers just yet and was thoroughly amusing himself by people watching and tucking into his meal. His mood lifted even more as he caught people looking his way, and when he'd smile they always smiled back.
Things seemed to be going right for once, and he was perfectly content.
000
An hour later he no longer felt very content but actually incredibly sore as he limped through the Leaky Cauldron's front door into muggle London, and was really regretting eating before doing the blood ritual at Gringotts. He stopped for two seconds to consider if he should go back into the pub and use their washroom to lose his lunch, but shook it off as manageable after a couple seconds.
He really should've gotten more details about a blood inheritance ritual before agreeing to it. He made a careful mental note to investigate these things more carefully in the future, especially when concerning goblins, because their concept of slightly painful did not in any way match Harry's own definition.
On the upside, he was officially henceforth Harry James Potter-Monroe. He'd even gotten confirmation from the goblins, although he didn't know how (he was learning that goblins were in everyone's business full throttle because they were in charge of everyone's money so they were allowed and somehow found it relevant to know a lot of personal information) that his name truly was 'Harry' and not short for something else. Having never seen his birth certificate before, that was a relief to confirm.
And now legally he could say his name was 'James Monroe' and it'd hold up just as well as 'Harry Potter' so far as any blood ward or tracking magic was concerned. Axeclaw had mentioned, as he handed over Harry's requested warding stone, the receipts of his transactions from this morning, and an invoice for the liquidation of his donation vault, that his name would be Potter-Monroe in the Hogwarts sorting too, though that meant nothing to him since he had no idea what the sorting entailed. Even Draco hadn't known, saying it was 'tradition' to leave new Hogwarts students in the dark so they'd find out all at the same time.
The Monroe name was growing on him, and with Dell Monroe's journals in his bag it was pretty likely he'd learn more about his inherited ancestor that he currently knew about his own parents, so it kind of helped him feel closer to the name Monroe than he did for Potter. He liked both to say the least, but he took the Monroe name on a whim and was quickly finding he didn't regret that snap decision at all, which was a mildly pleasant surprise.
It was only a little before two when he made it out into muggle London and traveled down several streets towards where Tom-the-toothless-bartender had pointed him: to a shopping district. His last order of business at Gringotts was to get a goblin equivalent of a debit card connected to the donation vault that would work in the muggle world—he wasn't allowed to have one on his trust vault and the Monroe account had limited withdrawals for money until he was 17, and he didn't want to take a boat load of money from his trust and change it all into physical muggle money that he may or may not use up.
In reality the thing looked like a debit card made by someone who'd only been told what a debit card was supposed to look like, and was entirely made of glass since apparently goblins didn't do plastic. It was supposedly unbreakable and had a mild muggle-confounding charm on it so muggles wouldn't question why Harry was handing them essentially a slightly gold-tinted shard of glass with alien-looking runes etched into it instead of a debit card to make his purchases.
Apparently, it also didn't work like a debit card either: it copied the memory of the muggle salesperson holding it, recording the price of whatever Harry was buying, and stored it. It'd be sent to Gringotts who would make note of the memory to determine the location of the store and the number of galleons needing to be transferred into muggle money, and apparently they had ways of making the money just magically appear in the company's account. This way it was untraceable back to the wizarding world, an no one was being cheated out of their money (muggle or not, the goblins took business very seriously). In fact, the goblins charged a galleon fee for this service any time he used it, which would've been outrageous for a normal credit card except that Harry was intending to go on a big spending spree in only two or three shops—three galleons was a fine price for not having lug around muggle money possibly until he could get back to Gringotts and transfer it back. He didn't need it at the Dursleys (he had no intention of stopping his grocery-skimming habit because his lovely relatives deserved it) and he'd definitely not need it at Hogwarts.
It was a win all around and so Harry happily shook off the rest of his nausea on his way down the street and to his first destination.
It was an extremely enlightening process, if not slightly terrifying as he'd never done anything like this before and suddenly he had choices and the ability to buy things—ANY of the things he wanted— and at the end he was actually very satisfied with his trip. School supplies was one thing as there was only so many options for what kind of cauldron you could get and pure gold was unnecessary and bronze seemed cheap, so it was either pewter or silver—bam, decision done. Shopping for what he was going to wear each day was infinitely more complex because it wasn't four or five options, it was literally thousands. He'd never had the opportunity to pick what he wore besides this hand-me-down or that hand-me-down (both of which had holes and were so washed out they were essentially the same color grey), so this was an terrifyingly thrilling prospect.
He got the basics as he was desperately in need of, such as underwear and socks and a couple plain white undershirts that actually fit him. He was amazed to realize underwear and socks could be pretty much any color or style you wanted and had a field day picking out every crazy color he could think of. They were just underwear after all and no one would see them, so that'd been fun. Socks were a little more visible, so he stuck to solid colors instead of the wild patterns, but still chose a large package of bright neon colors—the label proudly stating that no sock inside the package matched another. He was not quite sure what the point of un-matching socks was, but surprised himself by being totally on board with it, so he bought it without much issue.
Shoes were his next dilemma as none of the ones he had would be acceptable for this new leaf of his—in fact the pair he was wearing he was going to throw them out as soon as possible as they weren't even fit to donate really. He knew it'd be one of the more pricier expenses but it was worth it: he got one pair of plain black dressier shoes because that seemed like something he should have, but also got a pair of sneakers called Chucks that were bright red with gleaming white laces that made him grin. Red shoes were just such an appealing thought. He'd surprised himself again when, as he was walking to the check out with his two choices, he'd passed another pair that for the life of him he'd never imagined he'd want. Maybe he was just on a roll of too hyped up on his good day and all the possibilities in front of him to think straight, but he saw them and just thought , 'those looks so comfy and imagine me wearing that color—I think I want them.'On an impulse he didn't really think through until he'd set down his boxes and tried on his size, he realized he really liked them. They were canvas mostly, with pale grey rubber soles, but the canvas itself was a bright, sky-pale teal. He'd never imagined he'd like a color so bright, nor that he'd wear it, but suddenly they were on his feet and he couldn't quite bring himself to put them back. On an impulse he really couldn't defend himself on if asked about later, he bought two identical pairs in different colors—one in bright orange, and one in the periwinkle color almost exactly the same shade as his atmosphere bulbs.
He added them to his growing cache and was thankful for his bottomless bag for the umpteenth time today, immediately throwing his old shoes out as soon as he left the store and putting on his red chucks with a pair of his brand new un-matching socks. He'd never had brand new socks before and found it was amazing, by the way. One of those small pleasures in life he'd never had a chance to enjoy until now, like a million other things he'd experienced today, and it boosted his shopper's high to keep going.
Clothes shopping, he found out, was an experience, to say the least.
He wandered in an out of shops for a good half hour, but nothing really caught his eye until he stumbled on one with a metal song playing overhead and a lot of people wearing eyeliner both shopping and working the register it seemed. Ignoring the large amount of black on the racks, there were several shelves of t-shirts with colorful slogans and design that made no sense, like a pale red shirt with a giant purple handprint on the front, a pastel blue long-sleeve shirt with a big black crescent moon, one that was black and purple and pink and blue with stars like it was cut from a galaxy, and dark grey with a giant pink duck with fangs on the front…
It was all so weird and nonsensical.
He loved it.
As he layered his twelfth shirt over his arm and kept poking around, the salespeople seemed to realize they had a big-ticket customer, and after asking if he was with his parents (and he "innocently" said, no—but he had his mom's credit card and her permission to buy whatever he liked) they were gleeful in helping him hold his stuff and add in more to the pile if he asked curiously about something. One of them was kind enough to point out that he had the wrong size—it'd fit him but would ride up if he lifted his arms so he needed a size up, and since he was still growing maybe even a size larger than that so he could wear them all over the next year or so. He never had fitting clothes before so that was good information to have.
When he decided to switch gears to pants, he had ended up with twenty plus shirts in one of every single one of their weird designs plus five 'band shirts' as they called them. He'd never listened to any of the bands but they said he really should, so he purchased a CD-player, headphones, and the albums from the shop as well. He knew electronics didn't work at Hogwarts but it'd be nice to while away from of his time at the Dursleys getting caught up on things muggles his age would know—maybe he could make some muggleborn friends if they saw his shirt and liked the band too, it was something they could share. He wasn't particularly into music but he was into making friends with this fresh start of his, so he went for it.
For pants he let them toss style after style into his dressing room while he tried them on, giving everything a shot as he mixed and matched with the shirts he'd picked out. It was kind of fun, if not exhausting to be so self-critical as he looked in the mirror and had to debate if he really liked the look or not, and if he did would he be laughed out of Hogwarts for it?
He tried all sorts of styles and found that the one he kept landing on was a precise mix of feminine and masculine. For some reason he was all about that kind of look, and now that he had the time to sit down and think about it he realized this wasn't new in the slightest—it was just the first time he'd been in a situation where he could reflect on himself in a mirror and realize this was okay…
(…and feasible with his shiny glass debit card.)
Maybe it was because his first impression of a real wizard—not a giant character like Hagrid or all the wizened shop keeps he'd first interacted with in the Alley— was Draco Malfoy, who had delicate features and a regal grace about him. Harry too, wanted to be graceful and androgynous, especially because it made his hair, that one thing he had, stand out so.
Stand out was not a concept he'd ever entertained before, but his heart picked up a bit in both exhilaration and anxiety to think about it now. He wanted both to be seen for who he was, but also hide the fact he was Harry Potter the apparent celebrity. He wanted to be both masculine and strong since he was a guy he supposed and that was the expectation, but he also wanted to be graceful like Draco and beautiful like his mother—the mother he still knew not a thing about and who he apparently so looked like. But even Hagrid had said she was a wild beauty and Harry wanted that—wanted that part of him he could share with his mother to shine through, out of a desperate need to know her, even just a little bit more than he currently did.
He wanted with a want that he was wholly unfamiliar with, and it made his throat close up for a moment and his eyes get hot although he didn't understand why.
He both wanted to be seen, and also not. He wanted to be both masculine and feminine. He wanted to be both strong and for once in his life… maybe vulnerable. Draco's letters did more and more each day to encourage him that who he was… was actually good enough for someone. That maybe he could go a little crazy, walk a little farther out on that limb, and everything would still be okay.
And so as he played around with who he was as he looked at himself in the mirror and realizing he'd never just looked at himself in the mirror…he found himself going at least one step farther than he ever would've before, and embarrassingly enough a good portion of it was because of what he thought Draco might see in him when they met up in a couple weeks. He caught himself too many times thinking of what face Draco would make to see this or that… and had to quickly shake it off, reminding himself he was doing this to be himself and not for someone else.
But he couldn't avoid those thoughts entirely, and he found himself a little relieved that refined, beautiful Draco was the person he met first given that if he'd befriended a typical guy-guy right off the bat he probably would've just shelled himself up inside the typical guy persona he'd always worn and stuck to Dudley's hand-me-downs and tattered ill-fitting sneakers his whole life. He'd always hated his tattered clothes but simply resigned himself to that just being how things were—other things were more important and if he was going to defy the Dursleys there were other more critical things to spend his energy on, like hiding the tofu in the fridge or hiding his hair form Petunia or avoiding the dreaded 'Harry Hunting' episodes. He'd also never had anyone to try for… and now Draco Malfoy with his perfectly tailored clothes and perfectly styled hair was his friend and he was not about to go around in Dudley's ten-sizes-too-big ripped and stained t-shirts and too-big, once-white shoes that were now grey and had holes in the bottom.
Uh-uh, absolutely no way.
In the end, Harry managed to escape the gleeful sales people with a whole new wardrobe that he was quite happy with—and he knew for certain Petunia would faint in shock if he ever wore it around her or her husband and son. He'd also let them toss in half a bag of small buttons, pins, bracelets, hair pins, and bandanas because they were gushing like the hairdressers had about 'pastel goth', whatever that was, and he was mostly certain he was not going to wear even half those headbands but they kept pushing and he legitimately didn't care—he was already deep in the hole on this shopping spree, but that had always been the intention. Besides, he was exhausted after all of this and couldn't be bothered to argue as they added it to his pile.
He left the place happy with his purchases and with tittering sales people in his wake, lugging the heavy bags to the nearest alley before he slipped them into his own bag for lighter traveling. He went back to the Leaky Cauldron and ordered himself some dinner, setting up shop in a corner to enjoy it and pull out his 'Latin for Dummies' book he'd bought in Contrair that morning and read up.
All in all, it'd been a successful day, and while tomorrow he'd be right back to being the Dursleys non-confrontational housekeeper, things were looking up and he now knew the day Hogwarts came was never going to get here fast enough.