subconscious spirits

Eyes. Eyes, everywhere, locked onto him like missiles following their target's every move. People ‘accidentally‘ bumping into him just to make contact, some not even having the decency to pretend, flailing hands skimming his clothes as he hurried by, desperate to escape the mob crowding his way. All Harry wanted to do was enjoy a nice afternoon out with his friends, you know, finally relax and get some school supplies after they lost their teenage years fighting an adult's war and such. What a crazy idea.

As the crowd surged forward, the air felt thick and stifling, pressing in from all sides. Each breath became a struggle, the warmth of so many bodies surrounding him igniting a sense of dread deep within. He could hear the cacophony of voices, laughter, and the shuffling of feet, but it all blended into an overwhelming roar that drowned out his thoughts.

His heart raced, pounding against his ribcage like a wild drum, each beat echoing the rising panic. He felt trapped, the walls of the crowd closing in, and the familiar sensation of claustrophobia gripped his throat. The world around him blurred, and he could no longer distinguish faces or find a way out. The sensation of being engulfed by the throng made him feel small and powerless, as if he was back in his cupboard again.

In that moment, he fought against the urge to flee, to break free from the suffocating mass. He focused on his breathing, willing himself to find a rhythm, but it was a battle against the tide of anxiety. All Harry wanted was to escape, to find a quiet corner where he could breathe and regain his sense of control. The panic surged again, and he closed his eyes, desperately trying to anchor himself to the present, to remind himself that he would find his way out, that this was not the war, this was not his childhood. These people meant well, they really did. He was their saviour after all.

“-rry, Harry!” He was lost in his thoughts, the world around him fading into a blur, when suddenly a voice cut through the haze. “Hey, you good mate?” 

Startled, he blinked and turned his head, his heart racing for a moment as he realized someone was actually speaking to him. The familiar face of one Ron Weasley appeared, eyebrows raised in curiosity. 

“I didn’t even see you there!” he exclaimed, a mix of surprise and relief washing over him. The unexpected interaction pulled him back to reality, and shaking off the surprise, Harry realised he probably should respond.

“Sorry, I was a bit overwhelmed, any way we could pop into a shop for a moment? There's just a lot of people..” he said, hand wringing as he fought the urge not to bring them to his mouth and gnaw at his nails.

“It's great isn't it?“ Ron beamed, seemingly oblivious to his friend's internal panic. 

“Three girls have asked me out already today. Three! And we just got here!” he exclaimed somewhat incredulously, but with a slight arrogance that Harry had noticed seeping into his tone since they had started braving the public.

“Bet you're used to this though, right?” Ron continued, a derisive smirk donning his face, “the light of the wizarding world since birth. Well you're not the only saviour anymore! Everyone wants a piece of Ron Weasley!” He finished, punctuating his statement with a wink to a group of giggling girls, who squealed, running over, brandishing a thing they had with hopes of signatures.

As the throng of people began to push towards them again, Harry looked desperately to Ron for help, but he was too busy revelling in the adoration to notice his friends returning panic. At a loss, Harry quickly managed to cast one of the non verbal spells he'd been working on, the disillusionment charm, before slipping into a dilapidated bookstore he'd never noticed before.

As the door swung shut behind him, the tinkle of the bell sealed away the thrum of the masses in the street, as Harry stumbled into an alcove, trying to get his breathing under control. 

Harry knew that Ron didn't quite understand him. He never really had, they were too different. Since the Triwizard tournament, he knew that. To Ron, fame was a blessing, recognition, a gift to a child of seven, overlooked in old clothes. Ron never managed to understand that to Harry, fame was a curse. All his fame was, was just a reminder of his parents death, just a target on his back. He sighed, running a hand through his hair that he had previously smoothed over his scar like it would do anything to hide his identity, before finally deciding to explore his spontaneous hiding spot.

Looking around, Harry was in what appeared to be teetering piles of books disguised as a shop, the smell of old parchment and ink flooding his nose, grounding him. Contrary to what others would tell you, He had always loved reading. Originally, it had started as a refuge from Dudley and his gang, who would never dream of setting foot in a library, but quickly Harry had grown immersed between the pages of his local libraries collection, rainy November afternoons curled up on the beanbag by the window, spent in a different world than the harsh reality of his life. It was his escape. However, once Petunia found out it was something he enjoyed from a comment made by an elderly neighbour who saw him there frequently, that was the end of books for Harry. He could've picked it back up in Hogwarts, but you know, regularly fighting for your life can take up quite a bit of your free time, so he just never did. Maybe this was his chance.

Harry walked further into the dim shop, a pleasantly muted contrast from the harsh colours of diagon, skimming titles as he dandered by; medical charms for any emergency, Transfiguration: What Hogwarts Doesn't Teach You, Perfect Pranks for Pesky Poltergeists, and the like adorned the shelves, seemingly with little to no organisation. He walked further into the shop, before he felt the air change. Jis magic was humming, excited, urging him to go to the right of the branching room deep in the doubtlessly magically enlarged space. It didn't feel like imperious, or a compulsion, Harry mused, he knew what those felt like. Apparently his magic just wanted to go that way. Fine by him, he thought, making his way over, his instincts had always done him well.

The books nearer to the front of the shop had been haphazardly displayed, squeezed onto shelves, stacked precariously high. This section, however, had even lines, mimicking what one would expect in a library. Whether it was due to lack of customer disruption all the way in the back or whatever drew his magic there, the difference was stark.

Suddenly, Harry's magic acted without his command, summoning a hefty, midnight purple book on the far right side of the shelf he was about to look at, it landing in his hands with a thump. Accidental magic? What was he, ten? Maybe it was his heightened emotions from his panic in the alley, Harry pondered, vowing himself to investigate it later. He stared down at the book in his hands, the swirling font adorning the front cover, illustrated with symbols he didn't recognise, read: The Branching Paths of the Tenebris Anima: Volume one: the basics

What the fuck did that mean?

Just as Harry was about to flick through the pages to try to understand what on earth this book actually was, he heard a wheezing laugh from behind him. He jumped round, startled by what he realised was the first other person he'd registered in the shop. He found himself face to face with a lady appearing on the more elderly side, except she had thick black curls, and strikingly green eyes, a much deeper shade than his own, a wicked sparkle in them, as she laughed wryly at him.

“It is not often people are able to find this part of our shop” the woman said, in a lilting Irish accent, tilting her head in a way that reminded Harry of a crow.

“What book have you got there, Son” she questioned, peering over his shoulder as Harry had yet to conjure a response. Something about the energy she radiated told him to keep his mouth shut and listen to her.

She chuckled, a grin breaking her judging expression, “Oh, you're new!” she exclaimed, somewhat excitedly.

“I’ve never been in this shop before, ma'am, sorry if i wasn't supposed to be back here” Harry said hurriedly, wondering if he had overstepped.

“No, that's not qui-. Did you feel your magic pull you here?” she questioned him, eyes assessing.

Harry, unsure of the correct answer here, decided honesty was the best policy.

“Um, yes? It wasn't forceful or anything, it just wanted to come here, but then it randomly summoned this book into my hands! I didn't mean to, Miss, really” he spluttered out.

“Don't worry” she remarked, seeing his worry, “that book was clearly calling to you. I just couldn't believe you haven't even started you journey because of your energy”

Baffled, Harry responded, a puzzled look on his face. “What do you mean, my energy? What journey?”

Instead of answering his questions, the woman only laughed. “Any other books take your magic’s fancy?” 

Understanding answers appeared unlikely, Harry complied with her request, letting his magic scan the bookcase again. Immediately, two more books flew onto his pile; ‘Rituals and rites - Volume One’, and ‘Magiae altae: ab incipientibus ad provectos ’. More books he didn't understand, fantastic.

“Incredible, simply incredible. You are going to change everything, Mr potter” the lady said, leading him to the till at the front of the shop. “let me ring you up , and give you my name so you can write if you have any questions.” 

“I have questions now!” Harry exclaimed, incredulous. “What kind of crazy sales pitch is this? I'm so confused”. He looked at the woman, eyes pleading her for an explanation.

“I'm afraid this part of the journey you must walk yourself, Mr potter” she stated elusively. “that would be two galleons please”

Somewhat dazed, Harry pushed the money into her hands, taking these books he hadn't intended to buy, but his magic buzzing inside him with what he could only describe as joy sealed the deal. 

“My name is on top, please do write, son. I am hopeful we will see a lot more of eachother” she smiled, ushering him out the door, with his shrunken bag weighing in his pocket.

The door creaked shut. 

“Have a nice day I guess” Harry muttered.

What a weird experience,he thought. All he wanted to do was get away from the crowds surrounding him and Ron. Oh shit, Ron! Harry was in that shop for ages, he must be looking for him. Just as he was about to start a panicked search, Harry felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Alright Harry? Lost you for a sec in the crowd there” his best friend remarked, as if Harry had been gone for a minute, not an hour.

“Ron! I'm sorry i was gone so long, i ended up in that random bookshop there” Harry exclaimed, turning to gesture at the shop.

“Mate, what are you on about? I saw you ten seconds ago. You feeling okay?” Ron laughed. Harry furrowed his eyebrows, staring at the brick wall where the bookshop had just been.

“Yeah, nevermind. Let's finish our shopping.” he forced out, confused.

“Wicked that Hogwarts is letting us come back for an eighth year isn't it. I heard because we're adults now they can't give us curfew! But we aren't gonna be in Gryffindor tower anymore which is a shame..Never thought we'd be supply shopping again though, did you? Shame Hermione is still in austria skidding or whatever that muggle sport is called” Ron rambled, as him and Harry wandered from shop to shop, collecting the new items needed on their letter, Harry only having to respond occasionally, his mind still ruminating his bizarre encounter.

Mrs Weasley insisted that Harry spend the last night of summer with them, because ‘it’s tradition!’, and after the usual last minute packing frenzy in the morning, the whistle of the train had sounded, and the hogwarts express was chugging underneath him for the last time.