Diagon Alley
Harry’s summer had been eventful, to say the least.
He had started the summer at the Dursleys, dreading his time with them and counting down the days until he could return to Hogwarts. The only thing he’d been looking forward to was hearing from his friends, but as time went on with no contact, he had begun to worry that his time at Hogwarts had all been a dream.
That was, until, a strange creature who called himself Dobby showed up at possibly the worst time he could have.
Uncle Vernon had some clients over, and Harry, who was hidden away in his room, was supposed to make absolutely no noise whatsoever. Harry had been content with that plan until he had entered his room to find Dobby sitting on the bed. Dobby warned him not to return to Hogwarts—which Harry had adamantly refused—and made enough of a racket to alert not only his uncle, but also the Ministry of Magic, who accused him of using magic outside of school (Dobby had been the one to actually do magic, but Harry couldn’t very well explain that to them). Thus began the miserable time when he was locked in his room for days; he only ate when Aunt Petunia slid a cold can of soup through the cat flap. Harry wasn’t sure how much more he could take when Ron and his brothers, Fred and George, showed up in a flying car in the middle of the night, broke into his room, and took Harry to the Burrow to live with them for the rest of the summer.
Which led him to sit at the table a few days later for breakfast, surrounded by Ron’s family and looking at the list of supplies they needed for their next years at Hogwarts.
Fred peered at the list over Harry’s shoulder.
“You’ve been told to get all Lockhart’s books, too!” he said. Harry looked back over his list and nodded—nearly all of the books he needed were by Gilderoy Lockhart. Ron had told Harry that Mrs. Weasley was a fan of the acclaimed wizard, but he wasn’t entirely sure who he was. Fred continued, “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a fan—bet it’s a witch.”
Fred caught his mother’s eye and quickly busied himself with the marmalade.
“That won’t come cheap,” said George, glancing at his parents. “Lockhart’s books are really expensive…”
“Well, we’ll manage,” Mrs. Weasley said, but Harry saw the worried look on her face. “I expect we’ll be able to pick up a lot of Ginny’s things secondhand.”
Harry turned to Ron’s younger sister, Ginny. “Oh, are you starting at Hogwarts this year?” he asked.
She nodded, blushing to the roots of her flaming hair, and put her elbow in the butter dish.
Luckily for her, no one saw this except Harry, because just then Ron’s elder brother Percy walked in. He was already dressed, his Hogwarts Prefect badge pinned to his sweater vest.
“Morning, all,” he said briskly. “Lovely day.”
He sat down at the last remaining chair but leapt up again almost immediately, pulling from underneath him a molting, gray feather duster—at least, that was what Harry thought it was, until he saw that it was breathing.
“Errol!” said Ron, and Harry suddenly remembered that the Weasleys had a family owl. Ron took Errol from Percy and extracted a letter from under his wing. “Finally—he’s got Hermione’s answer. I wrote to her saying we were going to try and rescue you from the Dursleys.”
He carried Errol to a perch just inside the back door and tried to stand him on it, but Errol flopped straight off again, so Ron laid him on the draining board instead, muttering, “Pathetic.” Then he ripped Hermione’s letter open and read it aloud:
“‘Dear Ron, and Harry if you’re there,
“‘I hope everything went all right and that Harry is okay and that you didn’t do anything illegal to get him out Ron, because that would get Harry into trouble, too. I’ve been really worried if Harry is all right, will you please let me know at once, but perhaps it would be better if you used a different owl because I think another delivery might finish your one off.
“‘I’m very busy with schoolwork, of course’—How can she be?” Ron said in horror. “We’re on vacation!—‘and we’re going to London next Wednesday to buy my new books. Why don’t we meet in Diagon Alley? I've already sent this letter to Raph and his brothers, and they've all agreed.
“‘Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can. Love from Hermione.’”
“Well, that fits in nicely, we can go and get all your things then, too,” said Mrs. Weasley, starting to clear the table. “What’re you all up to today?”
Harry, Ron, Fred, and George were planning to go up the hill to a small paddock the Weasleys owned. It was surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of the village below, meaning that they could practice Quidditch there, as long as they didn’t fly too high.
They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, of course; it would have been too hard to explain if the balls had escaped and flown away over the village. Instead they threw apples for one another to catch. They took turns riding Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Ron's old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies.
Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked Percy if he wanted to join them, but he had said he was busy. Harry had only seen Percy at mealtimes so far; he stayed shut in his room the rest of the time.
“Wish I knew what he was up to,” Fred said with a frown. “He’s not himself. His exam results came the day before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated at all.”
“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” George explained, looking at the puzzled look on Harry’s face. “Bill got twelve, too. If we’re not careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the family. I don’t think I could stand the shame.”
Bill was the oldest Weasley brother. He and the next brother, Charlie, had already left Hogwarts. Harry had never met either of them, but knew that Charlie was in Romania studying dragons and Bill in Egypt working for the wizard’s bank, Gringotts.
“Dunno how Mum and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year,” said George after a few moments. “Five sets of Lockhart books! And Ginny needs robes and a wand and everything…”
Harry stayed silent, feeling a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a small fortune that his parents had left him. Of course, it was only in the wizarding world that he had money; you couldn’t exactly use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in a Muggle shop. Despite this, he had never mentioned his Gringotts bank account to the Dursleys; he didn’t think their horror of anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold.
Mrs. Weasley woke them all early the following Wednesday. After a quick half a dozen bacon sandwiches each, they pulled on their coats. Mrs. Weasley took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside.
“We’re running low, Arthur,” she said with a sigh. “We’ll have to buy some more today.… Ah well, guests first! After you, Harry dear!”
And she offered him the flowerpot.
Harry stared at the Weasleys, who were all watching him.
“W-what am I supposed to do?” he stammered in bewilderment.
“He’s never traveled by Floo powder,” Ron said suddenly. “Sorry, Harry, I forgot.”
“Never?” said Mr. Weasley. “But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school things last year?”
“I went on the underground—”
“Really?” Mr. Weasley said eagerly. “Were there escapators? How exactly—”
“Not now, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear, but goodness me, if you’ve never used it before—”
“He’ll be all right, Mum,” Fred said. “Harry, watch us first.”
He took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames.
With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Fred, who stepped right into it, shouted, “Diagon Alley!” and vanished.
“You must speak clearly, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said as George dipped his hand into the flowerpot. Harry, meanwhile, was staring at the fireplace in astonishment. “And be sure to get out at the right grate…”
“The right what?” Harry repeated nervously as the fire roared and whipped George out of sight, too.
“Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you now, but as long as you’ve spoken clearly—”
“He’ll be fine, Molly, don’t fuss,” said Mr. Weasley, who was helping himself to some Floo powder.
“But, dear, if he gets lost, how would we ever explain it to his aunt and uncle?”
“They wouldn’t mind,” Harry said at once. “Dudley would think it was a brilliant joke if I got lost up a chimney, don’t worry about that.”
“Well… alright… you go after Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley. “Now, when you get into the fire, say where you’re going.”
“And keep your elbows tucked in,” added Ron.
“And your eyes shut,” Mrs. Weasley advised. “The soot—”
“Don’t fidget,” said Ron. “Or you might well fall out of the wrong fireplace—”
“But don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you see Fred and George.”
Harry’s mind spun with the information as he took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze, but when he opened his mouth, he immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash.
“D-Dia-gon Alley,” he coughed.
It felt as though he was being sucked down a giant drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast—the roaring in his ears was deafening. He tried to keep his eyes open, but the whirl of green flames made him sick. Something hard knocked his elbow, and he tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning—now it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face—squinting through his glasses he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond. His bacon sandwiches were churning inside him. He closed his eyes again and wished it would stop, and then—
He fell, face forward, onto the cold stone and felt the bridge of his glasses snap.
Dizzy and bruised and covered in soot, he gingerly got to his feet, holding his broken glasses up to his eyes. He was quite alone, but where he was, he had no idea. All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s shop—but nothing in here was ever likely to be on a Hogwarts school list.
A glass case nearby held a withered hand cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones lay upon the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling. Even worse, the dark, narrow street Harry could see through the dusty shot was most certainly not Diagon Alley.
Harry frowned. The sooner he got out of here, the better. Nose still stinging where it had hit the hearth, Harry made his way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before he’d got halfway toward it, two people appeared on the side of the glass—and one of them was the very last person Harry wanted to meet when he was lost, covered in soot, and wearing broken glasses: Draco Malfoy.
Harry looked around quickly and spotted a large black cabinet to his left; he shot inside it and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack to peer through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Malfoy stepped into the shot.
The man who followed could only be Draco’s father. He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold, gray eyes. Mr. Malfoy crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son and saying, “Touch nothing, Draco.”
Malfoy, who had reached for the glass eye, said, “I thought you were going to buy me a present.”
“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said his father, drumming his fingers on the counter.
“What’s the good of that if I’m not on the House team?” Malfoy complained, looking sulky and bad-tempered. “Harry Potter got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year. Special permission from Dumbledore so he could play for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s famous… famous for having a stupid scar on his forehead.”
Malfoy bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls. “Everyone thinks he’s so smart, wonderful Potter with his scar and his broomstick—”
“You have told me this at least a dozen times already,” Mr. Malfoy said, looking coldly down at his son. “And I would remind you that it is not—prudent —to appear less than fond of Harry Potter, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear—ah, Mr. Borgin.”
A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face.
“Mr. Malfoy, what a pleasure to see you again,” Mr. Borgin said in a voice as oily as his hair. “Delighted—and young Master Malfoy, too—charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced—”
“I’m selling today, Mr. Borgin, not buying,” interrupted Mr. Malfoy.
“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin’s face.
“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,” said Mr. Malfoy, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. “What with the little… incident at Hogwarts last year, and the growing trouble across seas, well, the Ministry’s growing a bit paranoid. Ridiculous, if you ask me, but I do have a few—ah—items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call…”
Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list.
“The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?”
Mr. Malfoy’s lip curled.
“I have not been visited yet,” he said stiffly. “The name Malfoy still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act—no doubt that flea-bitten, Muffle-loving fool Arthur Weasley is behind it—”
Harry felt a hot surge of anger.
“—and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear—”
“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let me see…”
“Can I have that?” Malfoy asked suddenly, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion.
“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Malfoy’s list and scurrying over to Draco. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friends of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.”
“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” Mr. Malfoy said coldly.
Mr. Borgin’s eyes widened, and he quickly said, “No offense, sir, no offense meant—”
“Though if his grades don’t pick up,” Mr. Malfoy continued, more coldly still, “that may be indeed all he is fit for—”
“It’s not my fault,” Draco protested immediately. “The teachers all have favorites, Hamato Donatello and that Hermione Granger—”
“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that you were beat in every exam by children of no wizard family,” snapped Mr. Malfoy.
“Ha!” Harry said under his breath, pleased to see Draco looking both abashed and angry.
“It’s the same all over,” Mr. Borgin said in his oily voice. “Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere—”
“Not with me,” Mr. Malfoy said with a flare of his nostrils.
“No, sir, nor with me, sir,” said Mr. Borgin, bowing deeply.
“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” said Mr. Malfoy shortly. “I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today—”
They started to haggle. Harry watched nervously as Draco drew nearer and nearer to his hiding place, examining the objects for sale. Draco paused to examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read, smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals—Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed—Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.
Draco turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of him. He walked forward, stretching out his hand for the handle—
“Done,” said Mr. Malfoy from the counter. “Come, Draco—”
Harry wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Draco turned away.
“Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.”
The moment the door closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner.
“Good day yourself, Mister Malfoy, and if the stories are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in your manor.”
Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room. Harry waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop door.
Clutching his broken glasses to his face, Harry stared around. He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one he’d just left, Borgin and Burkes, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads and, two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders. Two shabby-looking wizards were watching him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Harry set off, trying to hold his glasses on straight and hoping against hope he’d be able to find a way out of here.
An old street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn’t help Harry in the slightest—he’d never heard of Knockturn Alley, much less knew where he was compared to Diagon Alley. Harry supposed he hadn’t spoken clearly enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the Weasleys’ fire. Harry tried to stay calm as his mind raced with thoughts on what to do.
“Not lost, are you, my dear?” said a voice in his ear, making him jump.
An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of what looked horribly like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, showing mossy teeth. Harry took a step back.
“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “I’m just—”
“Back off,” a familiar voice said from behind him, and Harry turned to see Hamato Leonardo and his brothers all walking towards him. Each of them was glaring daggers at the witch, who smiled, showing more of her graying teeth.
“Well, I was just asking if he was lost,” the witch said, even as the four brothers reached them. Harry didn’t know how the witch was still smiling—if he had been on the receiving end of those glares, he would have been sprinting the other way faster than you could say “Run”.
“Well, he’s clearly not,” Raphael snapped.
“Yeah, we’ll be going now,” Donatello added.
“But—” the witch tried to protest.
“Later, dude,” Michelangelo said, grabbing Harry’s arm and pulling him away. The four of them turned around and walked the other way, the witch muttering after them.
“What are you doing here?” Leo murmured, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure the witch wasn’t following them.
“I got lost,” Harry said. “Er—well—”
“HARRY!” someone boomed, and the five of them whirled to see Hagrid striding toward them. “What d’you all think yer doin’ down here?”
“Hagrid!” Harry said, relief flooding through him. “There was Floo powder—and cabinets—”
“Yer a mess!” said Hagrid gruffly as he led the five of them through a twisting alleyway out into bright sunlight. Harry saw a familiar, snow-white marble building in the distance—Gringotts Bank. They were back in Diagon Alley. “And you four, too!” he said, turning to the brothers. “Skulkin’ around Knockturn Alley, the lot of yeh, I dunno what yeh were doin’ in that dodgy place—don’ want no one ter see yeh all down there—”
“I realized that,” Harry said, ducking as Hagrid made to brush the soot off of him. “I told you, I was lost—what were you four doing down there?” he said suddenly, turning to look at Leo and the others. They suddenly looked very guilty.
“We, uh—”
“We took a wrong turn,” Donnie said, cutting Mikey off with a glare. Before Harry could really react to that, Donnie turned to Hagrid. “What were you doing down there, anyway?”
“I was lookin’ fer a Flesh-Eatin’ Slug Repellent,” Hagrid growled. “They’re ruinin’ the school cabbages.”
“Harry, what are you doing here?” Leo asked. “Are you here alone?”
“Yeh didn’ come t’gether?” Hagrid said, brows raised in surprise.
Raph shook his head. “Haven’t heard from Harry since last year,” he said.
Harry chuckled sheepishly. “Erm—well—I came here with the Weasleys, but we got separated. I’ve got to go and find them.”
As they all set off down the street, Hagrid asked, “How come yeh never wrote back ter me?”
Harry (who was almost jogging alongside Hagrid, thanks to Hagrid’s massive strides) explained all about Dobby and the Dursleys.
“Lousy Muggles,” said Hagrid darkly, and Harry was surprised to see the set of Leo and Mikey’s jaws. “If I’d’ve known—”
“Harry! Donnie! Guys! Over here!”
Harry looked up and saw Hermione Granger standing at the top of the white flight of steps to Gringotts. She ran down to meet them, her bushy brown hair flying behind her.
“What happened to your glasses? Hello, Hagrid—Oh, it’s wonderful to see you all again—Are you all coming into Gringotts?”
“As soon as I’ve found the Weasleys,” said Harry.
As the four brothers greeted Hermione, Hagrid grinned and said, “Yeh won’t have long ter wait.”
They all looked around. Sprinting up the crowded street were Ron, Fred, George, Percy, and Mr. Weasley.
“Harry,” Mr. Weasley panted. “We hoped you’d only gone one grate too far…” He mopped his glistening bald patch. “Molly’s frantic—she’s coming out now.”
“Where did you come out?” Ron asked as Mikey bounded over to Fred and George, giving them fist bumps.
“Knockturn Alley,” Hagrid answered grimly.
“Excellent!” Fred and George said together with a grin.
“We’ve never been allowed in,” said Ron enviously.
“I wonder why,” Raph muttered as Mrs. Weasley came running into view. Her handbag swung wildly in one hand, and Ginny was just clinging on to the other.
“Oh, Harry—oh, my dear—you could have been anywhere—”
Gasping for breath, she pulled a large clothes brush out of her bag and began sweeping off the soot that still coated Harry. Mr. Weasley took Harry’s glasses, gave them and a tap of his wand, and returned them, good as new.
“Well, gotta be off,” said Hagrid, who was having his hand wrung by Mrs. Weasley. “See yeh at Hogwarts!” And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street.
Mrs. Wealsey now turned to the Hamatos. “Thank you four, as well,” she said breathlessly. “If you hadn’t been there—”
“No problem,” Raph said, waving his hand in dismissal as Leo bowed his head. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Weasley.”
“It is lovely to see you four, as well,” Mrs. Weasley said, beaming. “I do believe you’ve met Ginny?”
“Hey,” Donnie said, waving at Ginny, who was still standing at her mother’s side.
“How’ve you been, dudette?” Mikey said. Ginny grinned at him. Harry vaguely remembered them all meeting for the first time at King’s Cross Station last year, at the end of the term. Ginny and Mikey had immediately gotten along (though Harry hadn’t been all too surprised by that—Mikey seemed to get along with everyone).
“Well, I do believe we should get a move on, don’t you agree, dear?” Mrs. Weasley said, turning to Mr. Weasley. “Come on—into Gringotts we go.”
“Guess who I saw in Borgin and Burkes?” Harry said to Ron, Hermione, and the Hamatos as they climbed the Gringotts steps. “Malfoy and his father.”
“Did Lucius Malfoy buy anything?” Mr. Weasley asked sharply behind them.
“No, he was selling—”
“So he’s worried,” said Mr. Weasley with grim satisfaction. “Oh, how I’d love to get Lucius Malfoy for something…”
“You be careful, Arthur,” said Mrs. Weasley crossly as they were bowed into the bank by a goblin at the door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting off more than you can chew—”
“So you don’t think I’m a match for Lucius Malfoy?” said Mr. Weasley, but he was immediately distracted by the sight of Hermione’s parents, who were standing nervously at the counter that ran along the great marble hall, waiting for Hermione to introduce them all.
“But you’re Muggles!” Mr. Weasley said delightedly. “We must have a drink! What’s that you’ve got there? Oh, you’re changing Muggle money. Molly, look!” He pointed excitedly at the ten-pound notes in Mr. Granger’s hand.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Leo said. He turned to his brothers, and immediately they reached into their pockets. Leo gestured for Harry and the others to go ahead. “We’ll be here,” he explained, drawing Muggle money from his pocket.
“Meet you back here,” Ron said to them all as the Weasleys and Harry were led off to their underground vaults by another Gringotts goblin.
The vaults were reached by a means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped along miniature train tracks through the bank’s underground tunnels. Harry enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Weasleys’ vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than he had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened. There was a very small pile of Silver Sickles inside, and just one gold Galleon. Mrs. Weasley felt right into the corners before sweeping it all into her bag. Harry felt even worse when they reached his vault. He tried to block the contents from view as he hastily shoved handfuls of coins into a leather bag.
Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated. Percy muttered vaguely about needing a new quill. Fred and George had spotted their friend from Hogwarts, Lee Jordan (they had invited Mikey along, too, but Mikey had politely refused). Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were going to a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Weasley was insisting on taking the Grangers off to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink.
“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Botts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks,” Mrs. Weasley said as she set off with Ginny. “And not one step down Knockturn Alley!” she shouted at the twins’ retreating backs.
Harry, Ron, Hermione, Leo, Raph, Donnie, and Mikey strolled off along the winding, cobbled street. The bag of gold, silver, and bronze jangling cheerfully in Harry’s pocket was clamoring to be spent, so he bought them all strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, which they slurped happily as they wandered up the alley, examining the fascinating shop windows. Ron gazed longingly at a full set of Chudley Cannon robes in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until Hermione dragged them off to buy ink and parchment next door. Mikey rushed into a magical plant store that smelled of citrus and lavender, and even Raph lingered for a few moments outside of the pet store. In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, they met Fred, George, and Lee Jordan, who were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old cloaks covered in potion stains they found Percy, deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book called Prefects Who Gained Power.
“A study of Hogwarts Prefects and their later careers,” Ron read aloud off the back cover. “That sounds fascinating…”
“Go away,” Percy snapped.
“‘Course, he’s very ambitious, Percy, he’s got it all planned out… He wants to be Minister of Magic,” Ron told Harry and Hermione in an undertone as Leo physically dragged Donnie out of the store (“But what if there’s something useful in there? Come on, one of the potions looked decent!”)
An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop; as they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner that was stretched across the upper windows:
GILDEROY LOCKHART
will be signing copies of his autobiography
MAGICAL ME
Today 12:30 P.M. to 4:30 P.M.
“We can actually meet him!” Hermione squealed. “I mean, he’s written almost the whole booklist!”
“Who is he, anyway?” Raph asked skeptically, arms crossed as he regarded the swarm of people inside the store.
“Some famous wizard Mum won’t stop talking about,” Ron said, a flash of disgust crossing his face as they squeezed inside the store. A long line wound right to the back of the shop, where Gilderoy Lockhart was signing his books. They each grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Weasleys were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Granger. The Hamatos seemed a bit hesitant, but after a moment they joined them.
“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Weasley. She sounded breathless and kept patting her hair down. “We’ll be able to see him in a minute…”’
Gilderoy Lockhart slowly came into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Lockhart was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy blond hair.
A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash.
“Out of the way, there,” he snarled at Ron, moving back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet—”
“Big deal,” said Ron, rubbing his foot where the photographer had stepped on it.
Gilderoy Lockhart heard him. He looked up and saw Ron—and then he saw Harry. He stared for a moment, then leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It can’t be Harry Potter?”
Raph snorted, patting Harry’s shoulder. “Good luck,” he murmured.
The crowd parted, whispering excitedly. Lockhart dove forward, seized Harry’s arm, and pulled him to the front; the crowd burst into applause. Harry’s face burned as Lockhart shook his hand for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Weasleys.
“Nice big smile, Harry,” Lockhart said through his own gleaming teeth. “Together, you and I are worth the front page.”
When he finally let go of Harry’s hand, Harry could hardly feel his fingers. He tried to sidle back over to the Weasleys and Hamatos (two of which—Mikey and Raph—were laughing at him), but Lockhart threw an arm around his shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time!
“When young Harry here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography—which I shall be happy to present to him now, free of charge—” The crowd applauded again. “He had no idea,” Lockhart continued with a chuckle, giving Harry a little shake that made his glasses slip to the end of his nose, “that he would be shortly getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”
The crowd cheered and clapped. And Harry found himself being presented with the entire works of Gilderoy Lockhart. Staggering slightly under their weight, he managed to make his way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, where Ginny was standing next to her new cauldron.
“You can have these,” Harry mumbled to her, tipping the books into the cauldron. “I’ll buy my own—”
“Bet you loved that, didn’t you, Potter?” said a voice Harry had no trouble recognizing. Harry straightened, missing how Leo stiffened, and found himself face-to-face with Draco Malfoy, who was wearing his usual sneer.
“Famous Harry Potter,” said Malfoy. “Can’t even go into a bookshop without making the front page.”
“Leave him alone, he didn’t want all that!” said Ginny. It was the first time she had spoken in front of Harry, and she was glaring at Malfoy.
“Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!” drawled Malfoy. Ginny went scarlet as Ron, Hermione, and the others fought their way over, all clutching stacks of Lockhart’s books.
“Oh, it’s you,” Ron said, looking at Malfoy as if he were something unpleasant on the bottom of his shoe. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here, eh?”
“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley,” snapped Malfoy. “I suppose your parents will go hungry for a month to pay for all those.”
Ron went as red as Ginny; Raph bared his teeth. Ron dropped his books into the cauldron and started toward Malfoy, but Leo and Hermione grabbed the back of his jacket.
“Ron!” said Mr. Weasley, struggling over with Fred and George. “What are you doing? It’s too crowded in here, let’s go outside.”
“Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley.”
Mr. Malfoy stood with his hand on Draco’s shoulder, sneering in just the same way.
“Lucius,” said Mr. Weasley, nodding coldly.
“Oh, boy,” Mikey muttered. Harry shot him a curious glance.
“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” Mr. Malfoy was saying. “All those raids… I hope they’re paying you overtime?”
He reached into Ginny’s cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Lockhart books, a very old and very battered copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration.
“Obviously not,” Mr. Malfoy said. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”
Mr. Weasley flushed darker than either Ron or Ginny. The Hamatos all took a step back, and Harry was inclined to follow their lead.
“We have a very different idea of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy,” Mr. Weasley said.
“Clearly.” Mr. Malfoy’s eyes strayed over to Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who were watching apprehensively, and then to Leo and his brothers, who stiffened. “The company you keep, Weasley… and I thought your family could sink no lower.”
There was a thud of metal as Ginny’s cauldron went flying. Mr. Weasley had thrown himself at Mr. Malfoy, knocking him backward into a bookshelf. Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their threads. There was a yell of, “Get him, Dad!” from Fred or George; Mrs. Weasley was shrieking, “No, Arthur, no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over; “Gentlemen, please—please!” cried Lockhart’s assistant, and then, louder than all—
“Break it up there, gents, break it up—”
Hagrid was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Weasley and Mr. Malfoy apart. Mr. Weasley had a cut lip and Mr. Malfoy had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of Toadstools. He was still holding Ginny’s old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.
“Here, girl—take your book—it’s the best your father can give you—” Pulling himself out of Hagrid’s grip, he beckoned to Draco and swept from the shop.
“Yeh should’ve ignored him, Arthur,” said Hagrid, almost lifting Mr. Weasley off his feet as he straightened his robes. “Rotten ter the core, the whole family, everyone knows that—no Malfoy’s worth listenin’ to—bad blood, that’s what it is—come on now—let’s get outta here.”
The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop them leaving, but he barely came up to Hagrid’s waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried up the street, the Grangers shaking with fright and Mrs. Weasley beside herself with fury.
“A fine example to set for your children, brawling in public, what were you thinking? What Gilderoy Lockhart must’ve thought—”
“He was pleased,” said Fred. “Didn’t you hear him as we were leaving? He was asking that bloke from the Daily Prophet if he’d be able to work the fight into his report—said it was all publicity—”
But it was a subdued group that headed back to the fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where Harry, the Weasleys, and all their shopping would be traveling back to the Burrow using Floo powder. They said good-bye to the Grangers and the Hamatos, who were leaving the pub for the Muggle street on the other side (“It’s gonna be a long walk home,” Raph grumbled). Mr. Weasley started to ask them how the bus worked, but stopped quickly at the look on Mrs. Weasley’s face.
Harry took off his glasses and put them safely in his pocket before helping himself to Floo powder. It most definitely wasn’t his favorite way to travel, he thought as he stepped once more into the fireplace.