The Road Not Taken: Chapter Three Part One
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, I don't make any money off of this.
See Master Post for details.
Chapter Two
The Road Not Taken: Chapter Three Part One
August thirty-first found Harry fighting the horde of other last minute shoppers, most of them families with children all bound for Hogwarts as well. Harry tucked himself up next to the corner of a shop, watching the crowd as it surged past. Familiar faces were dotted here and there, a few future Aurors, a few future victims. There were more people than Harry wanted to count who had ended up as the casualties of two wars less than twenty years apart.
Harry shook his head, as if he could shake the memories from his mind. His Hogwarts letter was folded in his pocket. He needed money, first off. Gringotts was his logical first stop, but he didn’t have his key. So, what to do?
Harry shrugged and decided to risk it. If all else failed, the goblins would know to whom his key had been given to. Why Dumbledore had not included it with his letter, Harry wasn’t sure.
Harry dashed across the entrance to Knockturn Alley and headed up to the snow-white granite building that towered over the other shops on the alley. Harry slipped past the burnished bronze doors, sparing a glance at the engraved words and stepped inside.
The cavernous room was exactly as he remembered it. The great crystal chandeliers lit the space, dangling down from the ceiling like brilliant yellow teardrops. The goblins had gone underground during Hammerstein’s invasion. The loss of infrastructure had helped spread the panic in wizarding England, but Harry hadn’t blamed them. He would have liked to have taken his family and hidden them underground where Hammerstein couldn’t find them, too.
Harry found the smallest queue and used his short wait to gaze around. The bank’s vaulted ceiling, he realized, was made up of intricate runes set in large recessed squares. He spotted the dull glimmer of gold and silver at the corners. It looked like the bank building had been reinforced by spells, which answered one of the questions Harry had had about how the whole structure had simply vanished one day.
Then it was his turn at the teller. A familiar face greeted Harry over the tall desk. “Key?” Griphook asked.
“Uh,” Harry couldn’t help but smile at the goblin. “I haven’t got one.”
“Haven’t got one?” Griphook peered down his long nose at Harry.
“I’m uh, Potter,” Harry dropped his voice. “Harry Potter? I was told my parents had a vault here but I never got -”
“Harry Potter?” The woman behind him gasped.
Harry ducked his head, panic jump starting his heart. “Um…”
“Merlin, it’s Harry Potter!” Her voice rang out over the bank. Silence spread. Harry met Griphook’s stare.
“Help?” He didn’t mean to sound that pathetic. Pandemonium erupted around them. People grabbed for him. Harry struggled away. He had never been comfortable with the mass hysteria that had accompanied his name. People had always crowded around him, tried to touch him, like he was an inanimate good luck charm carved from human flesh.
Now the press of bodies brought back worse memories, like the howling horde of reporters during his divorce trial, the screams of the mob as people panicked in the streets during a blitz attack. It reminded Harry of the way he had been thrown in a packed cell full of other prisoners and finding Hugo, Ron and Hermione’s son, dead in the corner from biting off his own tongue.
Then the goblins were forcing their way through the crowd. Magic created a barrier between Harry and a couple of hysterical witches who were fighting over Harry’s small form.
“This way, Mr. Potter,” Griphook took his arm. Harry didn’t mean to flinch - he was a thirty-six-year-old man in an eleven-year-old body for Merlin’s sake, not a baby - but Griphook’s tight hold softened and Harry was ushered in through a door at the back of the lobby.
Harry found himself in a pleasant sitting room. A few normal sized chairs as well as a few smaller ones dotted the area. “Please forgive us,” Griphook let go of Harry and bustled over to the desk set in front of the only other door in the room. “The wizarding world knows your name.”
“Apparently,” Harry muttered, rubbing at a sore spot on his back.
Griphook adjusted his glasses. “We must be sure, Mr. Potter, of your identity. With your permission?”
“What?” Harry glanced around. “I don’t understand.”
“I must cast a spell on you to verify that you are, indeed, Mr. Harry Potter,” a touch of impatience colored Griphook’s tone. “With your permission?”
“…Sure,” Harry frowned as the goblin drew a wand from his pocket and flicked a spell over Harry. He caught a bright glow from the corner of his eye. An identification spell. Harry had gotten used to casting them during his first few years as an Auror. He and his partner had been put on what was called the drunk patrol, a hazing duty all the Aurors were put through when they first joined the force. The spell was useful in identifying passed out drunks at pubs, as well as finding the name of broken bits of bodies strewn about after a blitz.
Harry clamped down on his lower lip, pushing the thought away. Would he always be plagued by those thoughts? It hadn’t happened yet. If Harry were clever, it would never happen. There was no bloody reason to dwell.
“Welcome to the wizarding world, Mr. Potter,” Griphook said, disrupting Harry’s thoughts. The goblin’s hands were clasped at his waist. “How may we serve you today?”
“I,” Harry blinked a few times. He hated losing small bits of time like that. “I need some money? For my supplies,” Harry pulled out his list. “I got this letter, see. And the man at the Leaky Cauldron wouldn’t take my money, uh, my normal money?” Harry knew he was laying it on a bit thick, but he was supposed to be eleven, right?
“I see,” Griphook appeared grave. “You have not had any contact with the wizarding world before this.”
“No, sir,” Harry scratched at the back of his head. “My aunt said a few things, but I never thought it was this big.”
“If you require some advice, I would be able to explain some of the basics to you, Mr. Potter. Is there a guardian we should inform about your whereabouts?” Griphook’s eyes gleamed.
“Um, no. I came on my own,” Harry shrugged. “How much will I need for all this?” He gave Griphook his list.
The goblin’s gaze flicked down over the paper. “No more than fifty galleons, if you bought everything new,” Griphook handed it back.
“How much do I have in my account?”
“Account?”
“…vault?”
“You should have been issued your key upon your arrival to our world,” Griphook made a rude sound. He gestured for Harry to follow him. They went through the far door. “We shall set up a new lock for you, Mr. Potter, and key it to your magical signature so that no duplicate keys may be issued.”
“…Thanks,” Harry ducked through a smaller door. They came to a spiral staircase.
“You are of a long line of wizards, Mr. Potter. Your family has had vaults with us for a very long time.”
“I have family?” Harry had always been curious about that.
“I am not aware of anyone else in your direct line, Mr. Potter.”
“Oh.”
“As to your question about the amount of money in your vault,” Griphook continued. Another goblin scuttled up to them as they passed a hall branching off to one side. The giant spiral stairs were starting to make Harry dizzy.
“Ah, yes.” Griphook shuffled the papers. “You have ten thousand galleons in your school trust.”
Which sounded about right to Harry’s memory. “All that will pay for my schooling?”
“Yes. Your parents also had another vault, their savings and other sundries, to be remitted to you upon your seventeenth birthday.”
Another thing Harry had known. Ginny had squealed the first time he had brought her to the Potter family vaults after they had been married. Looking back, after three children, a house, utilities and a host of other adult responsibilities, the money hadn’t been all that much, even with the Black family’s vault added to his. Ginny had acted like they were stupendously rich, though, so Harry had never given the vaults much thought. It wasn’t until they started to have problems making ends meet, with Ginny’s spending and Harry’s tendency to spoil his children, that the vaults had started to run dry.
This time around, Harry vowed, he would be more careful.
“So,” Harry pulled out his list again. “Is there stuff on here I can get used?”
Harry caught Griphook’s wince and hid a smile. “Yes, Mr. Potter. Many of the texts you should be able to find used. A little worn, perhaps marked, but serviceable.”
Which reminded Harry of Snape’s potions text and the way the notes had been scribbled in the margins. “I don’t mind,” he said.
“Very well, then,” they came to the platform with the carts. It occurred to Harry that Hagrid must have come and gone with the Sorcerer’s Stone already. Harry jolted, partially from the steep drop they rounded, but also from the memory. The Stone! He’d forgotten about the Stone and Quirrell and the great bloody dog Hagrid had tried to keep as a pet and -
“Here we are, Mr. Potter,” Griphook clambered out of the cart.
“Thank you,” Harry wobbled off after him. He had so much to remember, he realized as he watched Griphook re-key his vault. He needed a bloody list of things he needed to do!
Harry counted out fifty galleons, thanked the goblin for his help and received a new key as he departed from the back exit of the bank. Harry flattened his fringe over his scar and pulled Dudley’s old jacket around his body. The late August heat had been tempered by an early fall storm. The overcast sky rumbled from time to time.
Harry eyed the graying sky, then his list. This time around he didn’t have Hagrid to help him with his packages. He needed to plan this out. A trunk was necessary, but impossible to move on his own. His books might be manageable, and - Hedwig!
Harry scrubbed at his face with both hands and decided to take one thing at a time. The smallest, easiest thing he could carry was his wand, which meant Ollivander’s was his first stop.
The shop was quiet as Harry entered. The bell over the door tinkled. Harry peered around, trying to spot Mr. Ollivander in the gloom.
“One moment!” The man’s voice floated out from the back of the shop. Harry peered at the thick layer of dust. For a maker of wands, the man sure didn’t know his cleaning charms.
“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander appeared. “Welcome back.”
For a moment, Harry panicked. “Back?” He squeaked.
“Your absence from the wizarding world has been long mourned,” Ollivander’s smile was just as creepy as Harry remembered. “And now you’re here for your wand. I remember your parents’ wands. Lily Evans. Willow. Very swishy. Good for charms.”
And Potions, Harry wanted to add. “Will my wand be like hers?” He played dumb.
“Sometimes, sometimes not. The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. Not the other way around. Now, where to start? Where to start!”
It seemed to take twice as long as Harry remembered to find his wand. Ollivander seemed to take each failure as grand fun, clapping his hands with a laugh every time Harry knocked down a stack of boxes or blew out the lights.
“I wonder,” Ollivander’s mirth vanished as he reappeared with a familiar box. The magic in Harry’s blood sang. It was his wand. His wand.
Harry smiled, even before he had the familiar wood cradled in his hand. The fountain of brilliant sparks flooded the air around him.
“Curious,” Ollivander murmured. “How very curious.”
Harry wasn’t about to hear the tripe about Voldemort’s supposed great, yet terrible, achievements. “I’ll take it,” he dug out his money. Ollivander’s strange smile followed Harry out of the shop.
The books were next. Harry ducked around the crowd in Flourish and Botts, heading for the used section. Harry remembered the Weasleys pouring over the books every year, buying the bare supplies the children had needed. Ginny had been adamant that their children should have brand new supplies every year, brand new robes and clothes and every thing else they could possibly have. Harry had enjoyed seeing his children so happy, the memory of having to make do with Dudley’s hand-me-downs also a sore spot on his soul.
Looking back, it had been silly. There was nothing wrong with used books. Hermione had loved hunting through old bookstores - she had dragged Harry out on book hunts once a month, when Ron and Ginny and the rest of the extended Weasley clan came together. The weekends at the Burrow had been crowded, noisy affairs - Harry had loved the family, really, but he had never been completely comfortable around all that noise. Hermione either, as it had turned out. So it had become a tradition of sorts, that when the Weasley clan would gather, at one point or another, Harry and Hermione would spend a day out together, searching for old books. Hermione’s love of knowledge had not dimmed with age or motherhood - thanks to his old friend, Harry had gotten into the habit of reading every night - years too late, as Hermione often liked to lament.
This time around, Harry vowed, he would befriend Hermione before the troll tried to kill her. He remembered how miserable she had been the first few months at school. He’d try to change that, if he could.
Harry was able to find used versions of the Standard Book of Spells, as well as a copy of A History of Magic that had cramped notes in the margins. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi had a number of used volumes on the shelves and Harry found a battered, but much annotated copy of Magical Drafts and Potions. The former owner seemed to have had Snape, since many of the recipes were detailed, on the side, as to which steps went where, how and when. With any luck, Harry would be able to avoid Snape’s constant, critical eye that year. The rest of his books he had to buy new.
Harry was ecstatic to learn that he could have the books delivered to his room at the Leaky Cauldron. He didn’t even have to give his name. He ordered his trunk to be delivered as well as his cauldron and potions supplies. His quills and ink were small enough to carry in a shopping bag. All he needed was robes and Hedwig and he was finished.
It always surprised Harry how people could enjoy shopping. He was exhausted by the time he slumped into Madam Malkin’s, ready to have an early supper and then sleep.
The familiar robe shop brought back more memories for Harry. He’d met Draco here, so young and ridiculous. He felt his smile falter. Draco had married a Greengrass girl, but Harry had rarely seen either of them together. Malfoy had shrugged it off the one time Harry had been drunk enough to ask. “Some people marry for love,” Draco had said, cutting him a sardonic glance and a raised eyebrow. “And some people settle for what they can get.”
Harry had never asked about it again. That had been early on in their adult dealings. Draco had taken over his father’s spot in public life - Lucius Malfoy had been too visible as a follower of Voldemort for anyone to trust him again. The man had been unstable, also, after his stay in Azkaban. Harry had hated the man, hated his choices, hated the way he had molded Draco into a mindless model of himself, but Harry also had to admit that, as dysfunctional as the Malfoy family had been, they had loved each other. Narcissa’s desperation had hit Harry hard - he knew full well to what extent a mother’s love could do to drive a person to save a child. Draco was a lucky bastard to have all that bounty, and the fool had never realized it until the Dark Lord was ready to murder them all if Draco failed his task.
Draco had never seemed happy, Harry remembered as he waited for Madam Malkin. Especially after the Battle of Hogwarts and his marriage. Scorpius was the only thing that got the man to light up. Harry had never asked what had made him so sad. It was…almost too close to the same melancholy that threatened Harry from time to time.
“Sorry to keep you waiting!” Madam Malkin rushed him back to the measuring area. Another familiar face greeted him as Harry hopped up on the stand.
“Hello,” Harry said. “I’m Harry.” He couldn’t help but grin.
“I’m Neville,” said the other boy. Harry never remembered Neville being so small. The Neville in his memory was the tall, proud Gryffindor that had pulled Godric’s sword from the Hat and slew Nagini in the Battle for Hogwarts.
“Are you off for Hogwarts, too?” Harry held his arms out for Madam Malkin to measure.
“I am,” Neville’s answering smile was shy. “I got my letter and everything!”
“It’s my first time here,” Harry tried to catch his eye. Neville had been a brilliant Herbology professor and a dear friend.
“You’re Muggle-born?”
“A Muggle-what?”
Neville blinked at him. “Your parents aren’t wizards?”
“I don’t have parents,” Harry shrugged. “I live with my aunt and uncle.”
“Oh,” Neville chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t have them either. Exactly. It’s complicated. I live with my Gran.”
“Do you live in the regular world or here?” Harry made a face as Malkin’s measuring tape circled his neck.
“The regular world? Oh, you mean Muggle, no.” Neville shook his head. “My Gran and I live in the wizarding world.”
“Must be grand.”
Neville shrugged. “It’s all right.”
“You’re off to the train station tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, everyone is.”
“How do you get there?”
Neville peered at him. “Hasn’t someone been sent to explain it all to you?”
“No.”
Neville scratched his head. “Well, for people outside of Diagon Alley, they go to King’s Cross station and go through the barrier. But if you’re here, you can just floo.”
“Just what?”
“Merlin are you lost,” Neville bit his lip. “Do you - where are you staying? Is your aunt here too?”
“I’m by myself. My aunt,” Harry shrugged. “She said I could figure it out on my own.”
Neville’s eyes went huge. “That’s not right.”
“It’s fine,” Harry shrugged. “I’m staying at the Leaky Cauldron. Can you believe they rented me a room? It’s wicked!”
“But…you’re all alone.”
“Yeah, my own room and everything,” Harry grinned, trying to distract the boy. He had a headache starting to bloom behind his eyes. The corners of his vision were starting to fade in and out of focus.
“My Gran and I are staying at the Leaky Cauldron, too,” Neville said. “Would you like to have supper with us?”
“I’d love to,” Harry didn’t have to force his smile.
“Measurements are all done, dear. What’s your name, love, and your room at the inn? I’ll have it sent over.” Madam Malkin cut in.
“I’m in room four,” Harry dug out his money. He caught Neville goggling at the bright glint of the coins. “How much do I owe you?”
“Three galleons, dear. Do come again!” Madam Malkin took the coins and slid them into her apron pocket. “Now, Mr. Longbottom, we’ve seem to have hit a snag…”
Harry chuckled as Neville’s shoulders drooped. Harry slid out the door with a wave to the other boy, still feeling the rising tide of his headache start to beat in time to his pulse.
Part Two
See Master Post for details.
Chapter Two
The Road Not Taken: Chapter Three Part One
August thirty-first found Harry fighting the horde of other last minute shoppers, most of them families with children all bound for Hogwarts as well. Harry tucked himself up next to the corner of a shop, watching the crowd as it surged past. Familiar faces were dotted here and there, a few future Aurors, a few future victims. There were more people than Harry wanted to count who had ended up as the casualties of two wars less than twenty years apart.
Harry shook his head, as if he could shake the memories from his mind. His Hogwarts letter was folded in his pocket. He needed money, first off. Gringotts was his logical first stop, but he didn’t have his key. So, what to do?
Harry shrugged and decided to risk it. If all else failed, the goblins would know to whom his key had been given to. Why Dumbledore had not included it with his letter, Harry wasn’t sure.
Harry dashed across the entrance to Knockturn Alley and headed up to the snow-white granite building that towered over the other shops on the alley. Harry slipped past the burnished bronze doors, sparing a glance at the engraved words and stepped inside.
The cavernous room was exactly as he remembered it. The great crystal chandeliers lit the space, dangling down from the ceiling like brilliant yellow teardrops. The goblins had gone underground during Hammerstein’s invasion. The loss of infrastructure had helped spread the panic in wizarding England, but Harry hadn’t blamed them. He would have liked to have taken his family and hidden them underground where Hammerstein couldn’t find them, too.
Harry found the smallest queue and used his short wait to gaze around. The bank’s vaulted ceiling, he realized, was made up of intricate runes set in large recessed squares. He spotted the dull glimmer of gold and silver at the corners. It looked like the bank building had been reinforced by spells, which answered one of the questions Harry had had about how the whole structure had simply vanished one day.
Then it was his turn at the teller. A familiar face greeted Harry over the tall desk. “Key?” Griphook asked.
“Uh,” Harry couldn’t help but smile at the goblin. “I haven’t got one.”
“Haven’t got one?” Griphook peered down his long nose at Harry.
“I’m uh, Potter,” Harry dropped his voice. “Harry Potter? I was told my parents had a vault here but I never got -”
“Harry Potter?” The woman behind him gasped.
Harry ducked his head, panic jump starting his heart. “Um…”
“Merlin, it’s Harry Potter!” Her voice rang out over the bank. Silence spread. Harry met Griphook’s stare.
“Help?” He didn’t mean to sound that pathetic. Pandemonium erupted around them. People grabbed for him. Harry struggled away. He had never been comfortable with the mass hysteria that had accompanied his name. People had always crowded around him, tried to touch him, like he was an inanimate good luck charm carved from human flesh.
Now the press of bodies brought back worse memories, like the howling horde of reporters during his divorce trial, the screams of the mob as people panicked in the streets during a blitz attack. It reminded Harry of the way he had been thrown in a packed cell full of other prisoners and finding Hugo, Ron and Hermione’s son, dead in the corner from biting off his own tongue.
Then the goblins were forcing their way through the crowd. Magic created a barrier between Harry and a couple of hysterical witches who were fighting over Harry’s small form.
“This way, Mr. Potter,” Griphook took his arm. Harry didn’t mean to flinch - he was a thirty-six-year-old man in an eleven-year-old body for Merlin’s sake, not a baby - but Griphook’s tight hold softened and Harry was ushered in through a door at the back of the lobby.
Harry found himself in a pleasant sitting room. A few normal sized chairs as well as a few smaller ones dotted the area. “Please forgive us,” Griphook let go of Harry and bustled over to the desk set in front of the only other door in the room. “The wizarding world knows your name.”
“Apparently,” Harry muttered, rubbing at a sore spot on his back.
Griphook adjusted his glasses. “We must be sure, Mr. Potter, of your identity. With your permission?”
“What?” Harry glanced around. “I don’t understand.”
“I must cast a spell on you to verify that you are, indeed, Mr. Harry Potter,” a touch of impatience colored Griphook’s tone. “With your permission?”
“…Sure,” Harry frowned as the goblin drew a wand from his pocket and flicked a spell over Harry. He caught a bright glow from the corner of his eye. An identification spell. Harry had gotten used to casting them during his first few years as an Auror. He and his partner had been put on what was called the drunk patrol, a hazing duty all the Aurors were put through when they first joined the force. The spell was useful in identifying passed out drunks at pubs, as well as finding the name of broken bits of bodies strewn about after a blitz.
Harry clamped down on his lower lip, pushing the thought away. Would he always be plagued by those thoughts? It hadn’t happened yet. If Harry were clever, it would never happen. There was no bloody reason to dwell.
“Welcome to the wizarding world, Mr. Potter,” Griphook said, disrupting Harry’s thoughts. The goblin’s hands were clasped at his waist. “How may we serve you today?”
“I,” Harry blinked a few times. He hated losing small bits of time like that. “I need some money? For my supplies,” Harry pulled out his list. “I got this letter, see. And the man at the Leaky Cauldron wouldn’t take my money, uh, my normal money?” Harry knew he was laying it on a bit thick, but he was supposed to be eleven, right?
“I see,” Griphook appeared grave. “You have not had any contact with the wizarding world before this.”
“No, sir,” Harry scratched at the back of his head. “My aunt said a few things, but I never thought it was this big.”
“If you require some advice, I would be able to explain some of the basics to you, Mr. Potter. Is there a guardian we should inform about your whereabouts?” Griphook’s eyes gleamed.
“Um, no. I came on my own,” Harry shrugged. “How much will I need for all this?” He gave Griphook his list.
The goblin’s gaze flicked down over the paper. “No more than fifty galleons, if you bought everything new,” Griphook handed it back.
“How much do I have in my account?”
“Account?”
“…vault?”
“You should have been issued your key upon your arrival to our world,” Griphook made a rude sound. He gestured for Harry to follow him. They went through the far door. “We shall set up a new lock for you, Mr. Potter, and key it to your magical signature so that no duplicate keys may be issued.”
“…Thanks,” Harry ducked through a smaller door. They came to a spiral staircase.
“You are of a long line of wizards, Mr. Potter. Your family has had vaults with us for a very long time.”
“I have family?” Harry had always been curious about that.
“I am not aware of anyone else in your direct line, Mr. Potter.”
“Oh.”
“As to your question about the amount of money in your vault,” Griphook continued. Another goblin scuttled up to them as they passed a hall branching off to one side. The giant spiral stairs were starting to make Harry dizzy.
“Ah, yes.” Griphook shuffled the papers. “You have ten thousand galleons in your school trust.”
Which sounded about right to Harry’s memory. “All that will pay for my schooling?”
“Yes. Your parents also had another vault, their savings and other sundries, to be remitted to you upon your seventeenth birthday.”
Another thing Harry had known. Ginny had squealed the first time he had brought her to the Potter family vaults after they had been married. Looking back, after three children, a house, utilities and a host of other adult responsibilities, the money hadn’t been all that much, even with the Black family’s vault added to his. Ginny had acted like they were stupendously rich, though, so Harry had never given the vaults much thought. It wasn’t until they started to have problems making ends meet, with Ginny’s spending and Harry’s tendency to spoil his children, that the vaults had started to run dry.
This time around, Harry vowed, he would be more careful.
“So,” Harry pulled out his list again. “Is there stuff on here I can get used?”
Harry caught Griphook’s wince and hid a smile. “Yes, Mr. Potter. Many of the texts you should be able to find used. A little worn, perhaps marked, but serviceable.”
Which reminded Harry of Snape’s potions text and the way the notes had been scribbled in the margins. “I don’t mind,” he said.
“Very well, then,” they came to the platform with the carts. It occurred to Harry that Hagrid must have come and gone with the Sorcerer’s Stone already. Harry jolted, partially from the steep drop they rounded, but also from the memory. The Stone! He’d forgotten about the Stone and Quirrell and the great bloody dog Hagrid had tried to keep as a pet and -
“Here we are, Mr. Potter,” Griphook clambered out of the cart.
“Thank you,” Harry wobbled off after him. He had so much to remember, he realized as he watched Griphook re-key his vault. He needed a bloody list of things he needed to do!
Harry counted out fifty galleons, thanked the goblin for his help and received a new key as he departed from the back exit of the bank. Harry flattened his fringe over his scar and pulled Dudley’s old jacket around his body. The late August heat had been tempered by an early fall storm. The overcast sky rumbled from time to time.
Harry eyed the graying sky, then his list. This time around he didn’t have Hagrid to help him with his packages. He needed to plan this out. A trunk was necessary, but impossible to move on his own. His books might be manageable, and - Hedwig!
Harry scrubbed at his face with both hands and decided to take one thing at a time. The smallest, easiest thing he could carry was his wand, which meant Ollivander’s was his first stop.
The shop was quiet as Harry entered. The bell over the door tinkled. Harry peered around, trying to spot Mr. Ollivander in the gloom.
“One moment!” The man’s voice floated out from the back of the shop. Harry peered at the thick layer of dust. For a maker of wands, the man sure didn’t know his cleaning charms.
“Ah, Mr. Potter,” Ollivander appeared. “Welcome back.”
For a moment, Harry panicked. “Back?” He squeaked.
“Your absence from the wizarding world has been long mourned,” Ollivander’s smile was just as creepy as Harry remembered. “And now you’re here for your wand. I remember your parents’ wands. Lily Evans. Willow. Very swishy. Good for charms.”
And Potions, Harry wanted to add. “Will my wand be like hers?” He played dumb.
“Sometimes, sometimes not. The wand chooses the wizard, Mr. Potter. Not the other way around. Now, where to start? Where to start!”
It seemed to take twice as long as Harry remembered to find his wand. Ollivander seemed to take each failure as grand fun, clapping his hands with a laugh every time Harry knocked down a stack of boxes or blew out the lights.
“I wonder,” Ollivander’s mirth vanished as he reappeared with a familiar box. The magic in Harry’s blood sang. It was his wand. His wand.
Harry smiled, even before he had the familiar wood cradled in his hand. The fountain of brilliant sparks flooded the air around him.
“Curious,” Ollivander murmured. “How very curious.”
Harry wasn’t about to hear the tripe about Voldemort’s supposed great, yet terrible, achievements. “I’ll take it,” he dug out his money. Ollivander’s strange smile followed Harry out of the shop.
The books were next. Harry ducked around the crowd in Flourish and Botts, heading for the used section. Harry remembered the Weasleys pouring over the books every year, buying the bare supplies the children had needed. Ginny had been adamant that their children should have brand new supplies every year, brand new robes and clothes and every thing else they could possibly have. Harry had enjoyed seeing his children so happy, the memory of having to make do with Dudley’s hand-me-downs also a sore spot on his soul.
Looking back, it had been silly. There was nothing wrong with used books. Hermione had loved hunting through old bookstores - she had dragged Harry out on book hunts once a month, when Ron and Ginny and the rest of the extended Weasley clan came together. The weekends at the Burrow had been crowded, noisy affairs - Harry had loved the family, really, but he had never been completely comfortable around all that noise. Hermione either, as it had turned out. So it had become a tradition of sorts, that when the Weasley clan would gather, at one point or another, Harry and Hermione would spend a day out together, searching for old books. Hermione’s love of knowledge had not dimmed with age or motherhood - thanks to his old friend, Harry had gotten into the habit of reading every night - years too late, as Hermione often liked to lament.
This time around, Harry vowed, he would befriend Hermione before the troll tried to kill her. He remembered how miserable she had been the first few months at school. He’d try to change that, if he could.
Harry was able to find used versions of the Standard Book of Spells, as well as a copy of A History of Magic that had cramped notes in the margins. One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi had a number of used volumes on the shelves and Harry found a battered, but much annotated copy of Magical Drafts and Potions. The former owner seemed to have had Snape, since many of the recipes were detailed, on the side, as to which steps went where, how and when. With any luck, Harry would be able to avoid Snape’s constant, critical eye that year. The rest of his books he had to buy new.
Harry was ecstatic to learn that he could have the books delivered to his room at the Leaky Cauldron. He didn’t even have to give his name. He ordered his trunk to be delivered as well as his cauldron and potions supplies. His quills and ink were small enough to carry in a shopping bag. All he needed was robes and Hedwig and he was finished.
It always surprised Harry how people could enjoy shopping. He was exhausted by the time he slumped into Madam Malkin’s, ready to have an early supper and then sleep.
The familiar robe shop brought back more memories for Harry. He’d met Draco here, so young and ridiculous. He felt his smile falter. Draco had married a Greengrass girl, but Harry had rarely seen either of them together. Malfoy had shrugged it off the one time Harry had been drunk enough to ask. “Some people marry for love,” Draco had said, cutting him a sardonic glance and a raised eyebrow. “And some people settle for what they can get.”
Harry had never asked about it again. That had been early on in their adult dealings. Draco had taken over his father’s spot in public life - Lucius Malfoy had been too visible as a follower of Voldemort for anyone to trust him again. The man had been unstable, also, after his stay in Azkaban. Harry had hated the man, hated his choices, hated the way he had molded Draco into a mindless model of himself, but Harry also had to admit that, as dysfunctional as the Malfoy family had been, they had loved each other. Narcissa’s desperation had hit Harry hard - he knew full well to what extent a mother’s love could do to drive a person to save a child. Draco was a lucky bastard to have all that bounty, and the fool had never realized it until the Dark Lord was ready to murder them all if Draco failed his task.
Draco had never seemed happy, Harry remembered as he waited for Madam Malkin. Especially after the Battle of Hogwarts and his marriage. Scorpius was the only thing that got the man to light up. Harry had never asked what had made him so sad. It was…almost too close to the same melancholy that threatened Harry from time to time.
“Sorry to keep you waiting!” Madam Malkin rushed him back to the measuring area. Another familiar face greeted him as Harry hopped up on the stand.
“Hello,” Harry said. “I’m Harry.” He couldn’t help but grin.
“I’m Neville,” said the other boy. Harry never remembered Neville being so small. The Neville in his memory was the tall, proud Gryffindor that had pulled Godric’s sword from the Hat and slew Nagini in the Battle for Hogwarts.
“Are you off for Hogwarts, too?” Harry held his arms out for Madam Malkin to measure.
“I am,” Neville’s answering smile was shy. “I got my letter and everything!”
“It’s my first time here,” Harry tried to catch his eye. Neville had been a brilliant Herbology professor and a dear friend.
“You’re Muggle-born?”
“A Muggle-what?”
Neville blinked at him. “Your parents aren’t wizards?”
“I don’t have parents,” Harry shrugged. “I live with my aunt and uncle.”
“Oh,” Neville chewed on his lower lip. “I don’t have them either. Exactly. It’s complicated. I live with my Gran.”
“Do you live in the regular world or here?” Harry made a face as Malkin’s measuring tape circled his neck.
“The regular world? Oh, you mean Muggle, no.” Neville shook his head. “My Gran and I live in the wizarding world.”
“Must be grand.”
Neville shrugged. “It’s all right.”
“You’re off to the train station tomorrow, right?”
“Yes, everyone is.”
“How do you get there?”
Neville peered at him. “Hasn’t someone been sent to explain it all to you?”
“No.”
Neville scratched his head. “Well, for people outside of Diagon Alley, they go to King’s Cross station and go through the barrier. But if you’re here, you can just floo.”
“Just what?”
“Merlin are you lost,” Neville bit his lip. “Do you - where are you staying? Is your aunt here too?”
“I’m by myself. My aunt,” Harry shrugged. “She said I could figure it out on my own.”
Neville’s eyes went huge. “That’s not right.”
“It’s fine,” Harry shrugged. “I’m staying at the Leaky Cauldron. Can you believe they rented me a room? It’s wicked!”
“But…you’re all alone.”
“Yeah, my own room and everything,” Harry grinned, trying to distract the boy. He had a headache starting to bloom behind his eyes. The corners of his vision were starting to fade in and out of focus.
“My Gran and I are staying at the Leaky Cauldron, too,” Neville said. “Would you like to have supper with us?”
“I’d love to,” Harry didn’t have to force his smile.
“Measurements are all done, dear. What’s your name, love, and your room at the inn? I’ll have it sent over.” Madam Malkin cut in.
“I’m in room four,” Harry dug out his money. He caught Neville goggling at the bright glint of the coins. “How much do I owe you?”
“Three galleons, dear. Do come again!” Madam Malkin took the coins and slid them into her apron pocket. “Now, Mr. Longbottom, we’ve seem to have hit a snag…”
Harry chuckled as Neville’s shoulders drooped. Harry slid out the door with a wave to the other boy, still feeling the rising tide of his headache start to beat in time to his pulse.
Part Two