Riding with his uncle to London was almost like traveling with a man on autopilot. Harry had now been given permission to watch television. Legally. Yes, his vocabulary was expanding at something close to geometric speed — he'd developed an inexplicable love of new words. And an even greater love of using them, even in his thoughts, especially in his thoughts. Well, either way. Life was, without question, improving.
And while Vernon Dursley behind the wheel was doing everything in his power to convince himself that there was no one else in the car, Harry was desperately tempted to help him along with that delusion. It positively itched. The only thing holding him back was the knowledge that Disillusionment Charms weren't taught until fourth year — and probably for good reason — and that attempting it felt a little dangerous. Vernon Dursley as a nurse was already too much to picture. As a stern orderly wiping blood from his nose, equally impossible. And wandering Diagon Alley while completely drained wasn't wise either. It wasn't Knockturn Alley, granted, but still.
No, no, no, Harry stopped himself, shuddering at the memory. Later, all of that later. But I am absolutely buying that textbook.
Last week he had finally been able to appreciate the Dursleys' neutrality: he was being fed, given books, and left alone. In the past three days he had become, for Dudley, a source of compelling stories and something close to a household pet. Dudley was now prepared to go to the wall for his wizard cousin, especially when said cousin was reading. Harry had found he enjoyed telling stories too, especially watching Big D's completely unguarded, almost childlike reactions.
How is he "big" in any real sense? First or second year at most, Harry thought sadly, watching the houses blur past the window. He felt an odd pity for his former tormentor — Dudley still had no idea what it meant to read, not properly. What would become of him when Harry left?
He recognized Charing Cross Road immediately: they passed a large yellow-gray building, after which a plain gray door without a sign drifted past — tall enough that Hagrid hadn't even needed to duck, as Harry recalled. The clearance must be about one and a half Hagrids, he noted, but his uncle's car was already turning the corner.
Around the corner, near the junction, his uncle stopped the car and hurriedly put him out, pressing into his hands a small wallet and a map marking the route from that very spot to the bus stop. Harry had already gone over the map at home with Aunt Petunia and drawn the path himself in red marker — but the wallet? He turned it over thoughtfully and pushed it into his pocket.
A couple of steps more, a turn, and Harry recalled what the Leaky Cauldron had looked like inside on his first visit. And his second. It was unlikely anything had changed. He sighed and crossed to the other side of the street, to a small Muggle tea shop. He sat down at a table near the door and opened the wallet with curiosity. His eyes went wide. Sixty pounds?! He let out a half-strangled squeak. That converted to twelve Galleons at minimum — the summer before last, with fifty he'd bought everything he needed for an entire year of school, new clothes included, and still had money left over. A whole year. And last year had been nearly the same.
Harry had no way of knowing that by the most conservative calculations of his dear relatives, the cleaning he'd done — replacing what they had planned as a full renovation this year — had been worth many times more. The sum they had settled on was the minimum below which even tight-fisted Vernon and economical Petunia had considered it beneath them to go.
In the side pocket there was also nearly ten pounds more. In coins. Harry wiped his suddenly sweaty forehead and ordered tea. He needed to think carefully.
His original plan had been to go straight to Gringotts for his vault. Where else was he going to get money, without which Diagon Alley was more or less pointless? But now he had options. And so instead of dashing cheerfully off to the goblins, he decided first to walk through the shops with no intention of spending a thing, without even changing money. His memory, he now knew for certain, was working at Exceeds Expectations at minimum — so it made sense to look around and get a feel for prices.
And then something seemed to stop him. Perhaps it was the rather too-attentive glance of a passing woman in a long dress and an unusual hat. He paid quickly and left the café — but walked away from the Leaky Cauldron entirely, heading in the opposite direction from the woman, calmly putting distance between them while studying the shop windows. A block later he found what he was looking for and pushed firmly through a heavy half-glass door.
For just a pound and a half, he pulled a neat boy's cap down over his forehead, stepped back outside, and examined his reflection in the window. He approved: it sat snugly and comfortably, covering precisely what he didn't want on display. He gave himself a second look. The borrowed suit — Dudley's old dress costume, which Dudley had gleefully foisted on him with a contemptuous sneer — was nearly his size, and looked… roughly like the sort of thing Malfoy's hangers-on wore, only in plainer fabric. He wasn't fond of the cuffs and lapels, but Harry decided to follow wizard convention outwardly for now. He needed to pass as one of them. Otherwise—
Otherwise what, exactly? he asked himself, as though writing in the notebook. And, naturally, began answering: People will stare and point again. Right, I don't need that. But I don't need to look like an aristocrat either — I just need to look like an ordinary boy. More or less like this. And to hell with the cuffs and stupid folds.
Tom, the unchanged barman of the Leaky Cauldron and the steadfast informant of a number of individuals with considerable money and considerable influence in the wizarding world, barely noticed the boy who slipped past. He moved with confidence, as though returning from somewhere, heading straight through the back courtyard toward the passage to Diagon Alley. Something vaguely familiar had flickered — but another customer was demanding ale, and there wasn't much left, so Tom was distracted. As if he didn't have enough to do watching after every stray kid in London.
Harry walked through Diagon Alley in astonishment. How had he ever found this beautiful? Crooked little buildings with not-particularly-clean windows, equally crooked streets, even the cats had crooked legs. The general shabbiness produced something close to physical discomfort in Harry, now accustomed to the pristine, well-kept nature of Privet Drive. And yet he distinctly remembered finding this place delightful to a degree that might have been described as squealing.
The few passersby paid him no attention, and Harry relaxed slightly. He was idly kicking a pebble along when a rather elderly matron in a solid blue robe called out to him:
"Hey, boy! Yes, you! Want to earn some money?"
Harry considered her thoughtfully. Agree? Refuse?
"Is it dangerous?" he asked, blinking innocently. He'd read that children found it useful. He was still a child, after all, wasn't he?
The woman smiled warmly. This was exactly the sort of boy she needed — a simple courier, like a postal owl, passing things along without curiosity, but at the same time cautious. And she had never seen him before, which meant he appeared here rarely and tracking him down would be nearly impossible. A home-raised child, nothing like the feral types out of Knockturn Alley — it wasn't for nothing she'd been walking these streets for three days already. She would have to pay a little more, but the main thing was not drawing attention to herself.
And so Harry marched purposefully toward the post office, jingling coins in his pocket: five Sickles for the postal owl and a special delivery, and one for himself for the errand. Quite generous, even excessive. He didn't trouble himself with questions about what was in the letter — for that kind of money — but the thought that his eyes were rather too memorable gave him pause. He needed to do something about that. Were there spells for it? Or perhaps potions? He'd love to find out.
At the post office everything went without a hitch: he passed for a two-legged owl — no one thought to ask him anything. The clerk simply took the money and produced a strange little dark-gray barn owl, which fixed Harry with a piercing amber gaze and immediately lost all interest in him, as though he weren't there at all. They even helped him attach the package to the bird's leg and release it. Then he walked back out quite calmly, gradually beginning to feel himself a part of this strange and baffling world.
Bookshop or Malkin's? he wondered at the next junction. I'll get lost in the bookshop for hours — there's so much to find. And I'll probably attract less attention dressed as a respectable schoolboy rather than a street kid. He turned right. With a whole Sickle to his name. Brilliant.
Madam Malkin, however much he tried to persuade her to extend credit — or at least allow a fitting — didn't so much as look at him. He, on the other hand, looked around carefully and concluded that if he ever bought anything in this establishment, it would be robes only. Not a stitch beyond that. It was a good thing he'd walked past the Muggle shops before coming here. The price difference was staggering — and entirely in the Muggles' favor.
Gringotts after all, then — but just to change money for now, Harry decided. He wanted to deal with the goblins about his own funds only once he had at least some grasp of wizarding financial realities. He hoped to find some kind of overview of the wizarding monetary system and was mentally prepared for less-than-riveting reading — detectives in books relied on such things, and he'd manage.
Though he hadn't yet written it down in the notebook, the thought occasionally nagged at him: how exactly had it come about that the wizards had apparently won the Goblin Wars, yet the losing goblins now controlled all wizarding money? Not urgently, but — it was a paradox, surely? Harry had so many other, far more immediately pressing questions that every time this entertaining fact surfaced, he resolved to think about it tomorrow.
He changed money quickly. Identifying himself turned out to be unnecessary: he set five ten-pound notes on the counter in front of a goblin, received his coins, nodded silently, and left. After his failure at Malkin's he had decided to open his mouth only when required.
He had also gone off the idea of buying robes there. There was another wizarding clothiers somewhere nearby, wasn't there? Something like Twilf— two similar-sounding names? The name had slipped away, but a gold monogram badge with two intertwined letters stood clear in his mind.
Probably absurdly expensive, he thought, recalling remarks he'd overheard from Narcissa Malfoy, but he walked straight past Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions without even glancing at the door. He was insulted.
He found Twilfitt and Tatting's in the next alley over. Instead of a bell above the door, something let out a hoarse croak as he entered. Harry startled, looked up, and saw a large, sleek, blue-black raven winking at him. It winked again, tilted its head, and produced a soft "Crrr."
"Good afternoon, young sir, good afternoon — I see Krom has taken a liking to you. What may I do for you?"
A friendly, rather stout wizard in a neat suit bowed ceremoniously. Harry attempted to copy the bow.
"I'd like… I need a robe. A perfectly ordinary one, lightweight summer weight, but not too thin."
The shopkeeper — or was he the owner? — raised his eyebrows.
"How gratifying to see so young a customer who knows precisely what he wants. Price range?"
If the stout man thought to embarrass Harry with the phrasing, he had miscalculated.
"I'm visiting you for the first time, as you may have noticed," Harry said without flinching, "and therefore I find myself in a state of ignorance regarding the alignment between my wishes, your inventory, and my purchasing capacity."
The shopkeeper's mouth fell open slightly.
"However, I would be most obliged if you could illuminate me on the matter," Harry finished cheerfully. He was rather pleased with himself. And that wasn't from any book.
The shopkeeper closed his mouth, threw up his hands, and happily poured a wealth of fascinating information over the delighted boy, addressing him throughout as "young lord." Potter, having at least a vague notion of what his ancestors had been — on his father's side at least — had no objection whatsoever. He learned a great deal that was new: the properties of certain magical fabrics, for instance. Magical stitching. Magical thread. He caught himself on the verge of letting his own mouth fall open.
"Young lord, er — perhaps you would care for some tea?"
Harry reflected that his throat was probably not the only one that had gone dry.
"Only if you'll join me, my dear sir."
He had apparently made the right call. The shopkeeper's face passed through an entire spectrum of positive emotions. Harry even felt a twinge of guilt at having planned to spend as little as possible here. He now understood where the prices came from. Still, he had definitely made the right choice in coming.
Over tea, having stored away several more facts he might never have discovered elsewhere, Harry finally moved to the purchase, coming away with the firm conviction that the moment he got a reasonable sum from the goblins, he would order everything — from undershirts to boot laces — right here.
Leaving the shop, seen off by a contented shopkeeper, Harry continued to marvel and add mentally to his notebook.
Why is the shopkeeper so pleased when I only bought one inexpensive robe?
I wonder whether Ron knows any of this about clothing? Hermione? Did Mrs. Weasley tell her? Or not? Well, Hermione ought to know, that much is certain. But me?!
The bookshop happened to him suddenly, like an attack — and it looked like one from the outside: he nearly stopped breathing. Magnificent, sparkling with magic in the most literal sense of the word, Flourish and Blotts blazed so brilliantly that his mind simply refused to function. Presumably from sheer delight. But it was precisely that which put him on guard — a warning chill ran across his skin beneath the new robe. Something was pulling him toward that shop far too strongly.
He had promised himself he would buy a fourth-year Charms textbook.
He wanted to buy everything. His eyes scattered, gathered themselves, and nearly rolled back in his head. Harry yanked the door shut and fled.
After catching his breath, he concluded that this was almost certainly some kind of enchantment — one he had almost no protection against, and which worked on him exactly the way it worked on Hermione. He remembered her face, transported and utterly blank in a way entirely unlike his usually sharp-minded friend. No. He was not setting foot in there. Not until he was properly outfitted in wizarding things. And he absolutely had to tell Hermione about this. The only question was how. Writing it in a letter was out — he had no idea how the post actually worked around here.
That made him think of his first odd job today. Excellent. He'd go right now and send her a note, just like the one he'd delivered for the lady. He remembered — "Mode S-1." Only it was expensive. And did they even deliver to Muggle addresses? How much he still didn't know. He slowed his pace.
From Hand to Hand — he read the modest sign on the door of a two-story building across the street.
If it's not books, I'll have to go to Flourish and Blotts — time is running out, and I am not going home without fourth-year Charms, Harry resolved firmly, crossing to the other side. As it happened, he was in luck.
Inside he found shelves of worn volumes, and felt not the mad rapture of before — only clean, simple joy. He went straight to the counter. Harry honestly spread every last Knut before the thoughtful-looking shopkeeper and told him exactly what he was looking to read, in the order he himself considered most important.
The shopkeeper, who turned out to be the nephew of the owner of this rather large second-hand shop, brightened and his eyes lit up.
"You've set me a most interesting problem, young man. Very interesting, and a fine one at that. And you were entirely candid — entirely — since you haven't a coin left?"
Harry grinned and jingled his Muggle change. The shopkeeper smiled broadly.
"Young man imagines I can't tell the sound of gold, silver, and bronze from his little iron coins?"
"I don't imagine anything, except that practice is the measure of truth," Harry said without thinking, and appeared to have hit the jackpot.
The shopkeeper threw his hands in the air.
"Words of gold! Absolute gold! Surely those are your own, young man?"
"Not at all," Harry actually flushed, not quite catching the sly squint of his interlocutor. He knew they weren't his words, couldn't remember whose they were, but something had to be said. "That's what my… teacher used to say. Says."
The shopkeeper went on at some length singing the praises of the mythical teacher and Harry's good fortune in having such a one, then disappeared among the stacks. Harry stopped his head from nodding automatically, regretted not having mentioned that his time was limited, and began examining the books, carefully lifting one then another. He became completely absorbed in a slender volume titled The Young Artificer's Handbook.
He would have lost all track of time and place had the shopkeeper not materialized from the half-dark, laden with a stack of about ten books ranging from quite small to one tome as thick as Harry's forearm.
"Here you are, young man. Well worn but perfectly readable. Price-to-quality ratio is ideal. The Charms textbook is battered and stained, but you'll see. Now — what's that you're looking at? Oh… How interesting. How unusual for your age, and for your generation as a whole, I would venture to say."
"How much do you want for it?" Harry asked in a slightly hoarse voice.
The shopkeeper opened a drawer behind the counter, sorting quickly through papers.
"Ah, here. Starting price — two Sickles. Rare item, these days."
Harry swallowed. He couldn't imagine letting it go. And the shopkeeper asked:
"Do you have enough Muggle coins to exchange for a couple of Sickles?"
If he went to the bank and came back, he'd miss the last bus. At home they'd kill him.
The shopkeeper seemed to read his thoughts.
"I could do the exchange myself…"
"Could you?"
"Why would I offer otherwise?"
"Yes! Thank you!"
Harry shot out of the Leaky Cauldron at a run — he was already late. It was only when he looked at the station clock that he realized — it was all over. He didn't have enough left for the bus. His lovely books pulled at his arm with satisfying weight, the string cutting into his fingers. He could have asked for them to be shrunk — but no, hadn't thought of it. He still wasn't thinking clearly enough, nothing to be proud of there.
What now? Beg? Claim he'd lost his money? Cry? What else could he do?
Right. What did he have. His wand. Of course — the Knight Bus. He stepped well away from a cluster of passersby and thrust his wand-hand sharply forward.
The Dursley family rose almost in unison from the table at the sound of scratching at the door.
"Harry!" Petunia threw up her hands, while Dudley managed to grab his pale-green cousin by the shoulder just as he threatened to lie down on the doormat.
Vernon found himself holding a very heavy bundle of books and a parcel wrapped in dark blue, near-black fabric.
Harry drew a long breath and forbade himself from passing out. As much as he wanted to. He was home.
It was the first time in his life he had called this place that. Around number four Privet Drive, a barely visible ripple passed — as though a shield of warm air had risen. But no one noticed, not even Mrs. Figg's perceptive Kneazles.