Chapter 2
The thirty-minute hike to the nearest bus station hadn't been all that awful. The glaze of rain over the pavement and dirt made the light from the lampposts reflect off the ground.
Leaving has always been easy. Whether it was for Hogwarts or just to get away like he had the summer before third year, leaving number four was never a task.
Harry shrunk all his belongings to fit into a backpack. He didn't have much. His trunk had squeezed into the size of a brick and his clothes–of which there weren't many–all neatly shrunk to fit into a mesh pouch. Hedwig’s cage was easily twisted into a cage keychain whilst she was instructed to stay close but high. The only things he didn't bother transfiguring or shrinking were the Marauders Map–he wasn't sure if the charm work would even allow that–and the moving picture of his parents Hagrid had gifted him in first year.
He’d stared at the smiling faces of his mother and father, whose faces moved and waved at him. The photo was so lifelike that the first time he saw it Harry had to blink several times to make sure it wasn't really them.
And then he’d left.
Sat at the bus station Harry was still unsure of what he’d planned to do. It was careless and unsafe to leave as he had. He knows. But a sort of flow state of frustration and sorrow had taken over him as he’d moved mindlessly to pack.
It was still his birthday, he’d thought. He might as well take himself out. It was late Monday night so by Tuesday morning all the shops would be open but not crowded.
He thought of Diagon. The silence made the winds sound loud. There was no one with him. Maybe he didn’t fancy going to any wizarding-centric places. He realized that perhaps he’d never gone to one alone. Whether it was Diagon, Platform 9 ¾, or the Quidditch World Cup, Harry had always had an adult with him. Regardless if it was Hagrid or Mr. Weasley, he had never had the opportunity to experience it just for himself.
The last time Harry left, during the summer before his third year, he went straight to London, then Diagon Alley. There, he met the Weasleys and Hermione. Preferably, he didn’t want to do The Knight Bus part two, so he’d settled for the Muggle overnight coach. Surrey to London would be about an hour and a half, and hoping there weren’t any other stops, he’d reach in time to secure himself a room at a hotel.
Harry counted his money. He had about 120 pounds, give or take, from when he’d exchanged it before returning from Hogwarts—his emergency fund—and enough galleons to get a single scoop at Fortescue’s.
He cringed. He was definitely going to need more. Considering he’d have to pay for nearly a month at a hotel and for food, what he had would probably last him all of two days, give or take. That could be fixed. He’d just make a detour to Gringotts.
When the bus rolled up Harry pulled out £25 and quickly handed it to the driver who gazed at him questioningly but thankfully said nothing.
Harry was flung forward in the hunched-over stance he’d taken.
Christ.
“London! Covent Garden! Last stop, so you strays need to beat it!”
Scrambling for his backpack, he rushed to the front, nearly forgetting to put on his trainers.
He paused. He had no idea where Covent Garden was. Somewhere near Soho, he presumed, and that was the extent of his knowledge. Oddly, he was reminded of the twins. This was the sort of chaos Fred and George would find amusing. Harry remembered second year when the two had managed to pick the lock on his barred windows, saving him in a harrowing escape by flying car. Comparatively, this escape was far tamer.
“Um, so, uh, I have a question?” Harry scrunched his nose, hearing the sleep evident in his voice.
“Make it quick, lad, I gotta get goin’. And no, you can’t spend the night.” The driver rushed, momentarily eying Harry up and down.
Dang, he didn’t think he genuinely looked homeless. Sure, his clothes were overwashed, pale, and six sizes too big, and his trainers were ratty and nearly brown from being dragged in dirt…okay, so maybe he could see where the driver was coming from. He was sure his hair, being as wild as it came, didn’t help.
“How far of a bus ride from here to…” he paused and tried to remember the nearby shopping attraction that Diagon rounded on, “Leadenhall Market?”
“Eh… around twenty, twenty-five minutes. You get a bike and beat the traffic it'll be maybe sixteen, seventeen minutes.”
“Thank you—” He leaned forward to read his name tag. “Mr. Billie, sir.”
As he turned to the steps, the driver called after him.
“Kid, take a sweet,” he beckoned, holding a wooden bowl with a sympathetic half-smile.
Harry took a foil-wrapped chocolate and went on his way.