Departure.
Diagon Alley was crowded as ever, filled with the clamor of children and the cluster of weary guardians. But Harry barely heard any of it.
The weight of the cross tucked beneath his shirt was a constant presence, pressing cool and solid against his chest.
He hadn't hesitated when he took it.
He didn’t pray to it, didn’t whisper the verses the nuns used to murmur over their rosaries, but the memory of the untouched night—the first peaceful night he had in months—was enough to make him keep it close.
A precaution. A ward. A piece of sanity he could carry with him.
As he adjusted the strap of his trunk, his eyes drifted to the letter from the Ministry.
Sirius Black.
A convicted murderer. An escapee from the infamous Azkaban.
Harry frowned, folding the parchment and stuffing it into his pocket. The words had been polite, informative—but something about the letter felt off. He had no family, no legal guardian that he knew of, yet the Ministry had still seen fit to send him a personal warning.
Did they think he was in danger?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of the Leaky Cauldron ahead. Tom, the innkeeper, grinned at him as he stepped inside.
"Room's all ready for you, Mr. Potter," Tom said, his tone far warmer than most of the greetings Harry had gotten at the church. "Stay as long as you need."
"Thanks," Harry said, managing a small smile.
The room was small but comfortable, with a modest fireplace and a large window overlooking Diagon Alley. As soon as the door closed behind him, he locked it, exhaled deeply, and sat on the bed.
He wasn’t in the church anymore. He wasn’t trapped within those suffocating stone walls. The nun—the demon—was far away now.
And yet…
Harry reached beneath his shirt, gripping the cross between his fingers.
He wasn’t taking any chances.