When Patterns Are Broken

Harry sat on his rented bed in Room 11, the clamor of the evening crowd in the pub below a distant murmur. Hedwig moved from his arm to his shoulder to nip at his hair while he thought. 

He never wanted to go back to Privet Drive, and he doubted he’d be welcomed if he did. Not that he had ever been welcome. One would think blowing up Aunt Marge would have been the last straw; after all, it had to be some kind of assault, accidental or not. It was strange that he hadn’t got in trouble for it, when the Ministry had threatened expulsion for some magic Dobby had done. Minister Fudge hadn’t even mentioned his other accidental magic: unlocking his cupboard and summoning the Knight Bus. 

The Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry seemed really selective. No one got any threatening owls from the Ministry at the Burrow last summer, what with flying cars and the twins’ explosions. Harry doubted Malfoy got any, with his father being involved with the Ministry somehow, calling for resignations left and right. Surely other children who lived in magical homes weren’t routinely harassed and cornered by the minister himself. And if it was safe for him to do magic at the Burrow, a place as magical as Diagon Alley ought to be safe as well. 

Harry felt like he hadn’t eaten for days, but he didn’t feel like subjecting himself to the crowd below. How had the minister known where he would be? Harry shifted uncomfortably. Fudge’s warning to stay in Diagon Alley, that the Leaky Cauldron’s barman Tom would be keeping an eye on him, seemed more like another threat. What had at first felt like weeks of freedom from the Dursleys now felt more like he was in a prison. Or a zoo. And someone else was out to kill him. 

Suddenly, he was a lot less hungry. 

He thought back to the man he’d first seen on the Dursleys' television, then in the Daily Prophet. Harry rubbed his arms absently, chilled despite the lingering summer heat. Hedwig ruffled her feathers, picking up on his unease. It seemed like every year something or someone was out to get him. His family trying to beat and starve the magic out of him, mountain trolls, a possessed professor, man-eating spiders, ancient basilisks, and now a deranged mass murderer. Harry had never seen any police around Diagon Alley, he wasn’t even sure wizards had any. Not that he trusted them, at least not the muggle kind. None had ever put a stop to the Harry Hunting, none had noticed how poorly treated he had been by his family. The bars on his bedroom’s window were surely a sign something was wrong?

It was a miracle he was alive. Maybe it was magic, or simply luck. He didn’t even have his wand on him when he fought the basilisk, Tom Riddle had hold of it right away. It was only Fawkes showing up with the Sorting Hat of all things, and a sword falling on his head while he begged for help, and getting gored by the beast. 

“Hedwig,” he said, and she fluttered onto the mattress so he could speak to her face to face. “Do you think you could get into the Chamber of Secrets?”

She cocked her head. 

“That’s what I thought. How do you think Fawkes did? He just sort of…showed up. I thought no one knew where the Chamber was? And if Fawkes knew, why didn’t Dumbledore? Surely he could have brought him along?”

Hedwig, being an owl, preened her feathers in response. 

“How could Hermione have figured out it was a basilisk when no one else in the school did? There can’t be that many animals that petrify people, right? And, you know, thinking about it, it only made sense that it was a snake since it was part of the Heir of Slytherin thing…”

Harry trailed off, the anxiety from his earlier flight from Privet Drive ratcheting up. “And that…trap or whatever for the stone in first year. If three kids could get past it, why wouldn’t Voldemort be able to? Or anyone else, really. Seems a bit ridiculous.”

All those clues they had put together. Hagrid taking the stone from Gringotts the same day he picked up Harry. The headmaster’s warning about the third floor corridor, like catnip to a roomful of teenagers, the newspaper clippings. Was it really Voldemort the headmaster wanted to lure?

“Voldemort, Tom Riddle I mean, said we were alike,” he said to Hedwig. “Orphans, halfbloods…he begged to stay at school over the summer, did you know that? If I did that, I’d probably get the same answer…”

He yawned, stretching out on top of the covers without bothering to take off his clothes. So someone was out to kill him again. Harry thought back on what his friends had said at the end of first year, while he was laid up in the infirmary.

“...he already knew…he just said, 'Harry's gone after him, hasn't he?' and hurtled off to the third floor…”

"D'you think he meant you to do it? Sending you your father's cloak and everything?”

Once is an accident, twice is a coincidence, three times is…

At least this year he knew who was after him, and he could make sure he was prepared. 

Harry slunk downstairs before dawn the next morning, unsurprised to see few others awake. One shaggy haired witch was planted facedown on a table, haloed with empty bottles and mugs. A terribly pale person lurked in one shadowy corner, sipping from glass filled with a dark red liquid Harry felt reasonably sure was blood. Behind the counter a young woman worked while listening to some radio broadcast, humming along to the song playing and generally being excessively cheerful for the time of day. Tom was nowhere in sight.

“Good morning!” the woman said brightly, smiling down at Harry. “You’re the boy who came in last night? Tom said to keep an eye on you. Would you like breakfast? I’ll grab you a plate.” She bustled off to some backroom, leaving Harry to climb onto a stool. She returned with a steaming plate of eggs, beans, and sausage. “How do you like your tea?”

“Black is fine, thanks,” Harry said, feeling the situation was already out of control. 

“I’m Meg, by the way. Tom’s my uncle, he works the afternoon shift.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Harry poked at his food, overwhelmed by the sheer amount of it after weeks of deprivation. He felt immense pressure not to waste anything, but he knew if he ate it all half of it would come right back up. 

“I’m Harry,” he said, seeing the young woman still watching him. 

“I think everyone knows that,” Meg said with a smile. “Still, nice to finally meet you. My uncle goes on and on about the day you first walked in here, it’s his favorite story to tell customers…”

Harry nodded weakly, making some effort with his food. Maybe he could have meals in his room. He already felt eyes on him, and it would be worse for the lunch and dinner crowds. 

“So,” he said, after making some dent in his breakfast, “Minister Fudge said to stick to Diagon Alley. Is it safe?”

Meg nodded, “Yeah, the aurors went around to let shop owners know. They’ve also been on the lookout for Black, so the patrol’s increased.”

“Aurors?” 

“Oh, right, you grew up in the muggle world? They’re our version of pollies.”

“Police?”

“That’s it! They wear red robes, so they’re very easy to spot if you need help.”

Harry felt stupid for not knowing something so basic as who was in charge of law enforcement. It was just one of many simple things he didn’t know about the magical world, the kind of thing that made him stand out as someone who didn’t belong, part of two worlds and not really accepted in either. He wasn’t just a thirteen year old wizard, he was Harry Potter. He wasn’t just someone’s nephew, he was a freak. His resolve from the night before, to be prepared, meant he had to be less ignorant. 

“Are they the same ones who guard the prison, Azkaban? The minister said they were angry.”

“Aurors? At Azkaban? Not unless they’re putting someone in, or taking them out. No, those are the dementors. You won’t see them around here.”

Harry held his tongue, unwilling to reveal more of his ignorance, especially with the growing audience of customers. He finished what he could of his food and, after Meg waived off payment as part of the cost of his room, made his way to Diagon Alley. 

No owls swooped down at him after he tapped the brick wall, confirming his suspicion that he could get away with doing magic here. As he walked, he looked around the sleepy Alley. People were putting carts out, or yawning as they unlocked front doors. Shadows flickered from side streets—aurors, he thought, or perhaps some denizens of Knockturn Alley. Looking back on his brief experience there, he couldn’t help but think Knockturn Alley was less dodgy, as Hagrid had put it, and more poor. He fit in better there, with Dudley’s ragged cast-offs of obviously muggle origin, than in the colorful explosion and bright lights of Diagon. That dissonace made him stand out even more. 

At least this summer he’d be able to take his time shopping. He wasn’t being hurried along by Hagrid, or embarrassed to spend money in front of the Weasleys. He could buy clothes that fit him, that fit in with wizarding styles. He could get his books early, and finish his summer assignments on time. And as he walked through the white marble pillars of Gringotts, nodding at the goblin guards, he realized he didn’t have his vault key. He froze in place, vaguely aware the guard nearest him was now baring her teeth. 

“Is something wrong?” She asked, hand lightly touching the ax at her side. 

“I’ve lost my key,” Harry blurted out. “I mean, I never had it in the first place. Am I allowed to get a new one?”

The goblin wrinkled her nose at him. “Ask a teller to see your account manager.”

Harry wisely did not ask who his account manager was and continued walking, footsteps echoing in the near empty lobby. The teller was marginally less hostile, and when Harry asked for his account manager, checked his wand then walked off, returning with a familiar goblin.

"Mr. Griphook?" 

"Just Griphook," he said. "Follow me, Mr. Potter." 

Bemused, Harry trailed Griphook through a corridor, as stark white and pristine as the rest of the establishment, and into a room. He stepped inside and paused, surprised at the drastic change in scenery. After two years of Binns droning about goblin wars, how could forget the bloody history of their people?

Griphook led him to a desk, a slab of black stone with sharp edges set on an intricately woven rug glimmering with wool from some strange creature. The floor was rough, like that of a cavern, and the walls were lined with banners, tapestries, and all manner of weapons.

"My ancestors," Griphook said, noting Harry's curiosity. "From when we still had separate tribes."

"They aren't separate now?"

Griphook tapped his claws on his desk. "You learn about our wars in your history class, correct?"

Harry shifted in his seat, a chair of hardwood plainly meant to be uncomfortable. "Professor Binns talks about you fighting each other."

Griphook waved his hand dismissively. "Those are skirmishes, usually for territory. Humans do that too."

"Right," Harry said, recalling from his primary school education how England had been divided into different kingdoms, the Norman invasion, colonies. "So the tribes united? Against what?"

Griphook smiled at him, showing all his sharp teeth, then waved his hand. The pressure in the room increased.

"I put up a ward for confidentiality," Griphook said. "History is written by the victors, Mr. Potter. I doubt your professor, or the booksellers in Diagon Alley, have any goblin accounts."

Harry stopped himself from asking, goblins write books? He didn't want to sound like his uncle, who deplored foreigners for destroying English culture while giving him dirty looks. If Harry had to guess, goblins had been around just as long as humans, if not longer. Of course they had books, music, art, homes, families.

"I've only ever seen goblins here at the bank," Harry said slowly. "Why is that?"

"We control the mines," Griphook said simply, "but banking isn't our only business."

"Right." It wasn't as if humans all did the same job, why would goblins? "My friend Ron's brother works as a cursebreaker."

"We aren't here to discuss that today. Bogrod said you don't have a key?"

Harry nodded. "You remember Hagrid brought me here the first time? He had my key somehow, but he never gave it to me. Last year Mrs. Weasley had it, and she never gave it to me either."

"I see," Griphook said, taking notes with a quill. "If you'd like to prosecute through our courts, I can recommend a solicitor."

"Prosecute?"

"You named two people who had possession of your key, without your knowledge, and you don't currently have it. I can only conclude it was stolen." He looked up at Harry with a serious expression. "Anyone who has access to your keys has access to your vaults."

"Vaults, as in multiple?" 

Griphook smirked. “I manage your trust vault, which is a vault in your name only, as well as the Potter vault. I believe your mother, Lily Evans, merged her vault with the Potter vault when she was married.”

“Is there…a list of things in the vaults? Like, a summary. Or a list of transactions?”

“There is,” Griphook said, pulling a scroll from a drawer. “Since you’re underage your parents did put limits on what you’re able to withdraw. Between both vaults, it is still several hundred galleons a year, which will see you through school.”

Feeling overwhelmed, Harry took the scroll and unraveled it. His eyes glazed over the totals, tens of thousands of galleons, and glanced over the list of transactions. “I don’t see anything suspicious, I guess? There are some names that come up repeatedly.”

“Those would be recurring transactions,” Griphook said. “Like a subscription to the Daily Prophet, or a lawyer on retainer.”

“Sleekeazy's?” Harry asked.

“One of Fleamont Potter’s inventions. Your grandfather licensed the formula to a manufacturer, which is a regular source of income.”

“Can I take this with me?” Harry asked.

“Of course.”

Harry looked over the numbers again. “I don’t…is this all my parents left me? Just money?”

Griphook snorted; clearly it wasn’t justmoney to him. “Some customers store artifacts or other goods in their vaults. We have few limitations. I imagine if there is just money in your vaults, that your parents and grandparents left their other assets in their various properties.”

Harry looked up from the scroll. “Properties? You mean, I have my own house?”

Griphook’s eyes flicked up to his forehead. “Your parents famously lived in Godric’s Hollow. That’s where He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named attacked them.”

"Like Godric Gryffindor? I saw his name on a sword once."

Griphook's eyes lit up, but he only said, "The legend is that he was born there."

Harry nodded absently, wondering briefly what happened to the sword. Weren't people usually buried with their swords? Or for wizards was it with their wands? He hadn’t even heard of Godric’s Hollow. Then again, the only magical places he knew of were Diagon Alley and Hogwarts, and where the Weasley family lived. Clearly not everyone was isolated in a Surrey suburb. 

“Do you know where they are? The properties?” Harry asked eagerly. If he had his own house, he never had to go back to the Dursleys. He could live on his own. But Griphook shook his head.

“This is a bank, Mr. Potter. We store money, issue loans, and profit from the interest. Most people keep track of their own belongings, or hire someone to do it. An asset manager, an accountant, a solicitor.”

“And you think my family had one of those?”

“Many of the old, wealthy families do,” Griphook said. “Now, we need to discuss your other vaults.”

Harry blinked at him. “I’m sorry?”

“You were listed as a beneficiary of Arcturus Black III, who passed away several years ago.”

“Black, as in Sirius Black?”

“Sirius Black is his grandson. Incidentally, he is also listed as your godfather.” Griphook offered Harry a sheaf of parchment, which he took with numb hands. 

“My godfather,” Harry said flatly, moving the parchment around but not really absorbing its contents. “Who just escaped from Azkaban. Who is a deranged murderer.”

“Precisely,” Griphook said, smiling viciously. “When Arcturus Black died, Sirius Black presumably inherited the Black estate. We are not estate managers so I cannot speak to what that fully entails, but suffice to say the Black vaults are now in his name. You are listed on the account as a mutual holder.”

Harry looked at him skeptically. “It doesn’t matter to you if he’s a criminal?”

“He’s a wizard criminal,” Griphook pointed out. “The Ministry has, in the past, attempted to seize vaults.” He smiled again. “It hasn’t worked.”

“Great,” Harry said. “Do you have a folder I can use? I didn’t bring my bag with me. I don’t want to wave all this around. And I suppose an account statement for the past ten years? I’m guessing the Black family has a solicitor too, or someone, kept on…what’s it called? Retainer?”

“Of course, Mr. Potter.”

After a wild ride to his trust vault, Harry stumbled into the early morning light with a pouch of coins, a sagging pocket of keys, and a bulging folder of financial information he had no idea what to do with. Feeling exposed once again, Harry hurried down the street, making for a shop where a worker was levitating various trunks to put on precarious display. Once past the threshold, the harried proprietor intercepted him. 

“It’s a bit early, but good morning,” the man said, looking Harry up and down. “What can I help you with?”

“I need a new bag for school,” Harry said, turning to look at the trunks. His trunk from first year had been somewhat beaten around, by Vernon especially, and was near bursting with two years worth of supplies. “And a new trunk, I suppose.”

Harry was ushered around the store, shown everything from coin purses to briefcases, and ultimately picked a messenger bag he cynically thought would be harder for someone to snatch without dragging him along with.

“Hebridean Black,” the proprietor said. “Resistant to spells, so it’s all handtooled. Takes ages, which is why we only have the one in stock. It’s charmed for extension, and featherlight.”

“Extension?”

“About twenty square meters, up to five hundred kilos. The leather’s ethically sourced, of course, from a sanctuary.”

“Of course,” Harry said, running his hand over the scaled leather. There was a faint iridescence over the deep black. The price, to him, was almost obscene at 200 galleons, and he couldn’t imagine carrying around hundreds of kilos of anything, but it was nice and he wanted it. He could always tell Ron it was fake. “I’ll take it.”

“Excellent! Now, for trunks, are you looking for just this year or for the remainder of your career at Hogwarts?”

Harry left the trunk store, the trunk in question shrunken and dumped into his new bag, and an extendable cord for his trust vault keys worn around his neck. He learned, to his relief, that he wasn’t expected to cart around thousands of galleons, but could use his keys in the same way his aunt used credit cards, authorizing transfers between vaults.

Running a hand through his hair, he almost missed a flash of red fabric darting out of sight. As best he could, he pretended not to notice and started walking towards the optometrist the trunk seller had recommended. 

Physick Alley was several blocks past Gringotts, in a part of Diagon Alley Harry had never explored. There were houses, and flats, and a greengrocer on the corner, and it occurred to Harry that the limited time he spent in Diagon Alley was rather like tourism.

When he turned the corner onto Physick Alley, he should have been less surprised to see what was apparently a gym. People were certainly running in place and straining under various weights. There were probably other sports besides quidditch, too. Harry shook his head and kept walking, past various stores, apothecaries, specialized healers, until he spotted a massive monocle winking down at him, engraved with the name Nette’s. He resisted the urge to check if he was being followed and walked inside. 

“My goodness, are you Harry Potter? My name is Lou Nette, it’s an honor to meet you!”

Harry smiled politely at the elderly man hurrying towards him, the man himself wearing a spectacularly thick pair of glasses. Harry knew that muggles had some way to correct vision, using lasers of all things, surely there was some magical way to do it. He’d had all his arm bones regrown, after all. Why not his eyes?

“Good morning, Mr. Nette, I need a new pair of glasses.”

“I see that,” Nette said, laughing wetly at his own joke. “Go on, have a look around. I do the rune work myself. Give any pairs you like a try.”

Harry reached hesitantly for a square-framed pair on display, nearly dropping them when the color shifted from black to gray to match his shirt. 

“Go on!” the Nette urged. “Some people prefer to do their own color charms, but it’s a handy feature to have.”

Harry tucked his own round, scratched, generally horrible glasses into a pocket and put on the ones he held, failing to rein in his response when he could actually see the world with some clarity. The old man pushed him towards a mirror, which offered its own compliments. If he ever wanted to go unrecognized, in the wizarding world at least, a different style of glasses would help. Or he could wander around blindly, the story of his life.

He took another look at the display, disregarding the more creative shapes like stars and hearts and, amusingly, snitches complete with fluttering wings, and found a pair of round glasses near identical to his old ones. 

“A classic Potter style,” Nette effused. “I believe your grandfather and your great-grandfather were both partial to it. Impervious, spelled to stay put, resistant to blunt force. I haven’t engraved these to shift color, but I can do that for ten extra galleons. Won’t take long.”

Harry slid off the square glasses and tried on the round ones. “I think I like the black.”

“It goes with everything!”

Harry passed off the two pairs he had chosen while the old man, who was apparently less of a healer and more of a craftsman, went to find cases and cleaning cloths and other paraphernalia. Harry wandered over to a somewhat neglected display, shifted out of the way, sign yellowed from its exposed place by the window. It said, simply, Spectacles!

“Something else caught your eye?” Nette said upon his return. “These were popular, oh, ten, twenty years ago.”

“What are they for?” Harry asked, picking up a pair. It looked like a simple pair of glasses, until he saw something gold written inside one of the arms. He looked closed, but it was so small he could barely make out separate lines. 

“These cast a glamor over your face. The most extravagant ones people would wear to fancy dress parties. I haven’t made one in years, my eyes aren’t quite what they were!”

Harry nodded absently. “So it’s like a disguise, then?”

Nette smiled knowingly. “Trying to hide from someone?”

“Did you see Flourish and Blotts last year?” Harry retorted, face heating. “It was a madhouse.”

Nette grinned at him. “Well, come on, put them on and let’s see how you look. Should be fairly nondescript.”

Harry was once more thrust in front of the mirror. He saw a sandy haired boy with watery blue eyes and pale skin. He looked at his hands, where the glamor didn’t extend, and made a note to buy gloves. “Why don’t people do this instead of polyjuice?”

“For most glamor spells a simple finite is enough to undo them. Or if it’s poorly cast, and you move wrong or are in the wrong lighting, someone could see through it. It’s also much more complicated to create an illusion than people think, which is why the rune work is extensive. It would be easier to give you a blurry face than a very specific one.”

Harry followed Nette to his counter, switching out his glamor glasses for his new round ones. “I didn’t know runes could do something like that.” To be fair, he didn’t know anything about runes. 

Nette added Harry’s purchase up with an abacus, nodding to himself. “You’re going into third year? Well, if you take Ancient Runes you’ll learn that each rune represents a concept, or multiple concepts. Runes also represent sounds, like our own alphabet. It’s another language. People often forget that.”

Harry wrinkled his nose at the total on the slip Nette passed him, and added some extra galleons. “I don’t know how bribes work, but could you not tell anyone about that pair?”

“I respect the confidentiality of my clients,” Nette said solemnly, ruining the moment by winking. “If you need any work or repairs done, send an owl!”

Harry left Nette's, staring in awe at the world around him. "So this is what everyone else sees," he muttered to himself, looking at the individual leaves of a nearby tree instead of the green blob it had been earlier. He had always sat at the back of class with Ron, unable to see the board or wand movements his professors would make. In retrospect, it was stupid of him to do that, worse to not think of a solution sooner. It was nice to have friends for once, but not at the expense of his education. Or life. 

He walked back up Diagon Alley, thinking about the new clothes he needed, but also about the intricate symbols etched on his glasses. He stepped into Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions and was descended upon by the stout seamstress, who was wearing violently orange robes. “Harry, dear, welcome back! Here for your school robes?”

“And other clothes,” he conceded, letting himself be corralled onto a footstool and swarmed by tape measures, pins, and various other torture implements. “I’m trying to embrace our culture.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Madam Malkin exclaimed between a mouthful of pins. “This muggle fashion of yours is very…large.”

Harry looked down at the jeans he wore, hems unraveled and stained with mud and grass no amount of scrubbing could get out, fabric fraying, bleached from all the cleaning he did. The t-shirt he wore was pocked with holes and hung nearly to his knees. “It is.”

“School robes and uniform, then,” Madam Malkin said, pinning something in place. “Trousers, shirts, undergarments, winter cloak. Casual robes as well. Do you have any particular styles or patterns in mind?”

Harry held back a grimace, eyeing the seamstress’s own outfit, and said, “Surprise me.”

It was, thankfully, less catastrophic than he feared. He unloaded his purchases, tapping his new trunk to enlarge it and migrate the contents of his old trunk. He set the passwords for each compartment as the trunk seller had instructed, cleverly using parseltongue as no one else he knew, except for a wraith, would be able to open it.

In went his old books, his new school robes, while he sorted out his old ones and set them aside. His other new clothes went in as well, as he suppressed the embarrassment of an older woman picking out his pants. The casual robes were a variety, open front unlike the more traditional closed robes his professors and other older people wore. One was a dark gray, with a geometric pattern in red. Another was light green, patterned with lilies rising from the hems, which he found remarkably thoughtful. The rest were in plain, solid colors, nothing that would make him stand out much. His old clothes he set aside in a pile. Maybe he would burn them.

Hedwig flew over to him and preened his hair. 

“You stand out too,” he said, stroking her breast feathers. “Both of us do. You because you’re a snowy owl, and because you’re my owl.”

Hedwig clacked her beak.

“I’m not saying you can’t defend yourself, but you shouldn’t be a target at all. Sometimes I have to send letters discreetly.” 

There was a knock at the door, and he opened it to find lunch being delivered.

"Tables are full down there," the man said, shoving the tray at Harry. He was gone before he could be thanked, so Harry carried his tray of shepherd's pie and butterbeer to the table in his room.

"Maybe Mr. Nette could make a glamor for you?" He suggested. Hedwig, for her part, looked miffed that anything was superior to her natural appearance, but throughout his meal Harry managed to convince her of the wisdom of his idea. Soon Hedwig winged away with his pair of quidditch goggles, which honestly did need to be charmed so he didn't have to wear his glasses under, along with a request for an owl accessory.

The documents from Gringotts proved unyielding. At a glance, it didn’t seem like anyone had taken money from his vaults without permission during his years with the Dursleys. Eventually, they would have been found out, so if it was not honesty it was at least prudence on their behalf. He could only assume, since Hagrid had his key, that it was Dumbledore. 

Wearing his new clothes, runed glasses, and invisibility cloak, Harry slipped out of the Leaky Cauldron’s lunch crowd and into muggle London, ducking into a nearby alley to remove the cloak and reenter the pub. It was tedious, but less obvious than a strange boy wandering down from the rented rooms. From his pocket he pulled out his first year supply list, recovered from the depths of his old trunk. He’d left his new bag behind once he realized how distinctive it was, and was resigned to getting another.

“Excuse me?” He said, getting Tom’s attention. “My mum dropped me off. I’m supposed to get my school things?”

“Muggleborn, eh?” Tom said, smiling down. “Come along, I’ll let you in. You’ve got muggle money with you?”

Harry scrunched up his face and nodded, following Tom as he led Harry to the courtyard.

“Good, just walk straight to the big white building near the end of the street, and the goblins will sort you out.” Pulling out his wand, he said, “Remember, three up, two across. You’ll be able to let yourself back in once you have a wand.”

“Thank you, sir.” 

Harry hurried along, quickly making his way to different stores than ones he had visited earlier. He found a relatively decent canvas bag at a secondhand store, then made his way to Twilfitt and Tatting’s to clothe his new, unnamed persona. The staff gave him odd looks, what with his naive muggleborn act—it wasn't hard, he just acted like he did when he was eleven—but cheered up once he pulled out a stack of galleons. He walked out wearing a new robe and, after a brief conversation, a wand holster strapped to his arm. He wondered why no one had mentioned something like that before. 

He passed by the dark, noisy confines of Eeylops Owl Emporium, but decided against going in. It was a depressing store, with its caged and crying owls, and even if he did want to get another owl he doubted Hedwig would tolerate it. She was much too proud. Instead, he stopped at the Magical Menagerie. A massive orange cat came roaring out, an aproned worker chasing after with a broom. Harry watched the pursuit for a moment, then stepped in, ducking a swinging cage filled with agitated Cornish pixies. It felt somewhat redundant to call the store magical, given how obviously magical it all was. Harry doubted other pet stores had sentient balls of fluff with disturbingly long tongues licking both the customers and their fellow animals. It'd be like calling a muggle pet store Normal Pets. 

At the counter Harry asked, "Do you have any books on owls?"

The employee gave him an odd look. "Why didn't you go to Eeylops?"

"Too dark to read."

"Right then, we don't have many, but there's a shelf between the reptiles and amphibians."

"Isn't that a bit wet?"

She shrugged, turning away to help the next customer.

Sadly, the books consisted of various care guides, with nothing on owl defense. Harry was ready to call it, when he heard an annoyed hiss behind him.

Snakes, Harry knew, had very little to say. The ones he ran into in the Dursley’s garden were mostly concerned with sleeping and eating, and the brief novelty of a human who could speak with them. The boa at the zoo wanted to go back to his natural habitat, presumably to sleep and eat. The basilisk had been absolutely insane when it spoke, and terrifying in its silence. 

He walked towards a shelf packed with tanks. Various magical and non-magical snakes were coiled under heat lamps, buried in sand, sprawled across logs, or otherwise basking. Boomslangs, adders, vipers, pythons, mambas, and taipans in a rainbow of colors. One snake stood out for its lack of distinction, a small brown snake that was doing its level best to break out.

“What are you doing?” Harry asked as the snake once again threw itself against the glass. He glanced at the tag, which said common grass snake. The snake was no longer than his forearm, and looked young compared to the others. The snake paused and gave him a look.

“I’m trying to escape. I hate it here.”

“The tanks are a bit small, yeah. The other snakes don’t seem to mind.”

The snake's tongue flicked out. “They’re idiots.” 

Harry glanced at the other snakes. He wasn’t sure if they were simply ignoring their obnoxious neighbor, or genuinely disinterested. “Sure. I can buy you and release you if you want?”

Harry looked over his shoulder, then carefully lifted the lid of the tank to reach inside. The snake reared up, flicked its tongue at Harry’s extended hand then, coming to a decision, coiled up his arm. “Can you buy a frog for me to eat too? They kept giving me mice.”

“I may as well,” Harry said, walking to the counter. “Now be quiet for a bit. Humans are weird about me talking to snakes.”

“Did you find what you were looking for?” the employee asked. 

“I found a snake,” Harry said, lifting his arm. “I think she—”

“He,” the snake hissed.

“Or he is attached to me.”

Harry waved off the attempt to sell him supplies, claiming he had pet snakes at home, but did buy a non-poisonous frog for his new snake to eat later, and owl treats for Hedwig. He placed both snake and frog into an inner pocket of his robe and made for the bookstore. 

Inside Flourish and Blotts, he approached the middle aged manager, who was in the midst of a wrestling match with several snapping books. 

“Excuse me, sir?” Harry asked, standing out of range of the attack.

“Just a moment!” The man finally succeeded in lassoing two of the books. One scuttled towards Harry. Seeing the bookseller’s violent approach wasn’t working well, Harry offered his hand to the book, which sniffed it cautiously, then consented to be pet. Harry would have to unbelt his own copy and try to tame it the same way. 

“I think you’ve just got to be nice to it,” Harry said. “Like a feral animal.”

“Feral animals ought to be put down,” the manager bit out, glaring at the newly caged books. Pages were already flying. “Could you pass me that one? Or were you buying?”

Harry handed over the book, which was now purring. “My sister’s already got a copy. She needs the other third year books.” The manager pointed him towards the display, and Harry collected a small stack of books. His hand paused on Unfogging the Future. He wasn’t sure how useful divination would be to him. He knew Voldemort was after him, and that his followers were too. Unless he could get a specific date out of the bottom of a teacup, Harry didn’t think it would be of much use. Same with Care of Magical Creatures, but he already had the book and he did promise Ron. Maybe Voldemort had a weakness to flobberworms. 

Out of curiosity, Harry picked up the Ancient Runes and Arithmancy texts as well, carrying it all to the counter. The manager was pulling off his gloves, having crammed another creature book into the cage. “I was wondering if you had anything like a telephone book?”

“A fellytone book?” The manager asked. 

“It’s like a directory of people and businesses. It has business addresses. It’s a muggle thing.”

“You must mean the Short List,” the manager said, rifling under the counter. “Most people have these at home. It’s a self-updating list of businesses registered with the Ministry.” He hauled out a thick book, which was by no definition short, and set it on the counter. “It’s 50 galleons, well worth it if you pass it down. We also have the Book of Statutes, containing all the Ministry rules, regulations, processes and proceedings since its foundation.” The manager pulled out a much smaller book, no bigger than a pamphlet, but at the press of his finger it exploded into a tome thicker than Harry was tall, nearly breaking the counter beneath it.

“Uh, how much is that?”

“1000 galleons.”

“I think I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself.”

Once the giant book was put away, Harry glanced at the directory book and asked, “Is there a spell to search books for words?” 

The manager smiled at him. “Muggleborn? What house is your sister in?”

“Hufflepuff.” 

“Right then, there’s a few things you two ought to know. Household charms, every day charms, kitchen charms…she’ll need supplemental texts for runes and arithmancy. No use for Muggle Studies, eh? We also have some dictionaries, an encyclopedia series, and Compendium Magicae, which, honestly, should be assigned first year. Are you starting this year?”

“Next year, sir.” 

“Excellent, you’ll have a head start then. Now, you don’t need to carry anything, we can just use a levitation charm…”

Harry’s canvas bag strained under the weight of the dozens of books the Flourish and Blott’s manager had pressed him into buying. Sneaking back into the Leaky Cauldron was no issue, he just had to make sure the stairway was clear. Hedwig was long since returned, eyes closed as she settled down to sleep for the night. Harry carefully hung up his robe, assuming the snake had fallen asleep as well, then unloaded his second haul. He was momentarily overwhelmed by the events of the day. The things his parents had left, the gaping holes in his education, his godfather…

He began with sorting the books. References for his school books, supplements, general information on the magical world, from histories of magical communities and the government to common household pests. Things someone like Ron would just know, or take for granted, and never think to tell Harry about.

“There’s a charm to put your shoes on?” Harry said incredulously, idly flipping through This Charming Life. At first, he thought it was lazy, but then he remembered how sometimes Mrs. Figg from across the street struggled to move around. Some people needed spells like that. He set that book aside and looked over his stacks of books. He wasn't sure where to start, so he picked up his Gringotts folder instead.

The list of businesses wasn’t organized in any helpful way. The newest ones were at the front of the book, and the oldest at the back. Maybe that’s why so many businesses had an established date on their signs.

Harry sighed, found the incantation the bookseller had written down for him, opened his folder from the bank, and got to work finding out who, exactly, was taking money from him.