Chapter 22
Even with the snow still on the ground, the view from the guest room—Harry’s room—window is significantly improved from when Harry first arrived at Remus’ cottage.
A lot of the clutter and piles of dead plants have been cleared away, leaving an empty space for the snow to cover, and Harry’s already toying with ideas of things they can plant in the spring to really spruce the place up. He can’t help but picture the Dursleys’ garden, the one he slaved over every year according to Aunt Petunia’s exacting standards, the flowers she always demanded, always in perfect formation and condition, like something from those stupid magazines she liked so much. Those are the things he knows how to plant and take care of, but he doesn’t think they’re the kind of things he wants to see in Remus’ back garden.
He wants exciting plants, magical ones, like the ones Neville showed him at Longbottom Manor. Not neat and plastic pretty, but exciting and colourful and interesting. Harry wants to learn how to take care of them with Remus and have a chaotic, overgrown garden full of things that would make Aunt Petunia curl up her lip. He reckons Remus will probably let him.
He'll have to ask Neville what magical plants he recommends for a beginner. Harry’s made decent headway into the herbology book from Remus’ bookshelf, but it’s kind of dry reading, though admittedly with interesting bits if you can manage to push through the rest. It doesn’t really detail easy plants for starting off, though. Harry thinks it might be another of Remus’ old schoolbooks, maybe from a later year in school, since it seems to assume the reader already knows a lot of the basics. It doesn’t even say anything about muggles not being able to tend to magical plants, even though Neville said that’s very much the case.
Harry has wondered, fleetingly and uneasily, if he won’t be able to take care of magical plants. Remus will agree to plant something, Harry will touch it or get too close, and—well, something will happen. The plant won’t grow, or it’ll shrivel and die, or a banner will erupt up from the earth with a message for all the world to see, declaring Harry as dull and ordinary as Dudley. Remus will be disappointed and—and the Headmaster will tell Harry terribly sorry, been a mistake, and he won’t be able to attend Hogwarts after all—won’t be able to stay with Remus—and Madam Longbottom won’t want him, but nor will the Dursleys, so he’ll just have to—have to—Well, he doesn’t know, exactly. There’s a reason he never followed through on his fantasies of running away from the Dursleys, no matter how bad it got. He wouldn’t know where to go, what to do.
He hasn’t told Remus or written to Neville about these concerns because… because there isn’t much point, is there? It’s silly.
Remus is convinced that Harry is magic, even though Harry hasn’t done anything freaky around him, and Harry’s parents were both magic. Aunt Petunia always said he was a freak, always got upset when he did something strange and impossible, so. Probably magic. Probably. ‘Sides, even if he isn’t magic, he is a werewolf. They can’t chuck him out on his own, not when he’s going to keep turning into a monster, right?
Harry scowls down at the blank parchment in front of him. He’s been writing Neville for a little while now, and he no longer feels quite as nervous. In his last letter, Neville had assured him that his grandmother has stopped snooping through their conversations, which takes a lot of the strain off, too. But Harry is still feeling out this whole ‘friend’ thing, so the letters don’t really come natural.
He's not going to tell him about his worries that he isn’t really magical, even though he thinks Neville, of all people, would understand, but he is going to ask for advice about the holidays. Harry’s never been in this position before, with an adult in his life who he’s expected to get some kind of gift for—who he actually wants to get a gift for—and he doesn’t know how to go about it. How do kids get presents for their parents right under their noses?
Dudley rarely got anything for Vernon and Petunia, and when he did, it was usually some tat from the corner shop that even Aunt Petunia couldn’t find a way to display proudly, or Dudley would just make something. He’d given Uncle Vernon a white tie covered in crayon a few years ago, and Aunt Petunia got a clay imprint of a chubby fist because it was a school project one year (Harry hadn’t even bothered to take his home; he’d tossed it in the bin at school). Neither approach is particularly helpful for Harry. Remus has been largely resistant to the thought of Harry wandering around in public, not even taking him on trips to the shops for groceries with him, so he doubts he’ll be allowed to find a shop nearby, and he wouldn’t even know where to start for making something.
Neville should know. He probably has to get things for his grandmother all the time. Even better, maybe he can give Harry some gift ideas.
Dear Neville, he writes painstakingly with one of Remus’ quills. It still sits oddly in his hand, the nib scratching the parchment and getting ink where he doesn’t want it and nowhere near where he does. He has a stack of tissues at hand to help blot away the spills, lacking Remus’ handy magic spells. He doesn’t want to have to ask Remus to help clean it up before he sends it just in case he reads some of it by accident, so he has to be extra careful.
You’ve got me beat with the chocolate frog cards. I’ve only got about six, and two of them are Andros the Invincible. Maybe we can trade some? I think Remus said we’ll be visiting you again soon, maybe before Christmas if your gran says it’s alright.
Listen, about Christmas…
*
Harry eyes Remus dubiously. Remus gives him a strained, apologetic smile.
“Just some minor transfiguration and glamour charms,” he assures. “You’ve read about them, haven’t you? Similar concept as the household illusions in your mother’s book, just applied to a person. And temporary! Completely temporary. It’ll all wear off by the time we get home and, if they don’t, I’ll just cancel them. Do you remember the incantation for the general counter-spell?”
“Er, Finite Incantatem,” Harry says reluctantly, stilted.
“That’s right. I won’t be using any complex illusions, so everything I cast will be easy to dispel.”
“What are you gonna do to me?” Harry asks, keeping a wary eye on the wand in Remus’ hand. He doesn’t think Remus will go against his word, doesn’t think he’ll cast anything other than what he’s said he’s going to, but he can’t help it. The thought of someone casting anything at all on him, unable to stop it, is supremely unappealing.
“Change your hair and eye colour, maybe some kind of perception filter on your glasses,” Remus lists promptly. “I might try to grow your hair a bit longer as well, to help hide your face.”
Harry chews his lip. “The scars?”
Remus grimaces. “Unfortunately, most glamours don’t work on scars caused by a Dark creature,” he says apologetically. “Certain potions, like Polyjuice—you won’t learn about that one until your sixth or seventh year at Hogwarts—will disguise you as someone else and hide your scars for a little while, but they’ll be the first of your appearance to return. I considered trying to acquire some for this trip, but, ah, I don’t have a reliable source. Will you let me cast the spells?”
Harry weighs up his options. Remus has already offered to go without him if he feels too overwhelmed, or if he doesn’t feel ready to jump feet first into the magical world, but Harry wants to see more magic, wants to see it all. Remus has told him a little about Diagon Alley, where the bank is, and it sounds incredible. Harry wants to see it for himself, even if that means letting Remus raise his wand against him.
It’s fine, he tells himself sternly. It’s not like Remus hasn’t already cast spells on him, after all. He’s done warming charms and healing spells. All Remus has ever done is help him.
“Okay,” he says, nodding. “Go ahead.”
Even still, he squeezes his eyes shut tight and goes tense all over as soon as Remus moves his wand. There’s a long pause, long enough that Harry wonders if Remus has changed his mind.
“Mutare capillum,” Remus finally casts.
Harry shifts uneasily as he feels his scalp tingle and the ends of his hair tickle his cheek and the back of his neck as it grows longer. He keeps his eyes closed.
Remus casts a few more spells. One makes Harry’s eyes briefly itch, another makes him feel like he’s been dunked in a pool of ice water for a split second, but the sensation stops so fast he can’t be sure it was ever real in the first place.
“You’re done,” Remus tells him after that last one. “I’m not sure it’ll stand up to close scrutiny by someone who’s met you or knew your parents particularly well, but it should do for a quick trip to Diagon. Here, take a look.”
He waves his wand and a handheld mirror bursts out of one of the storage boxes in the living room. Harry’s taken aback by this, partly because a mirror flies towards them at startling speed, but mostly because he’d never noticed the storage boxes before, despite camping out in the living room to read or write letters for hours at a time. He wonders what Remus keeps in them—other than mirrors, of course.
Remus catches the mirror, handling it oddly gingerly. He holds it up for Harry to see.
Cautiously, Harry studies the boy in the mirror. Logically, he knows it has to be him, since the reflection moves when he does and is standing in Remus’ familiar kitchen, but it doesn’t quite click in his brain. It’s only after a minute or two of close study that he recognises his familiar features underneath the changes. Same nose, just bent a little crooked; familiar chin made a bit pointier. He has a sudden tan, skin a deeper brown he usually only sees closer to his birthday, after working in the garden all summer. But he has the same little tilt to his eyes, same scars across the side of his face.
His hair is longer now, just past his chin, and if he angles his head just right, it falls forward enough to cover some of the scarring, including the one on his forehead, which Remus says is the most important to hide. His hair falls into messy curls instead of its usual unruly bird’s nest, and it’s a deep reddish brown now instead of black. He’s still wearing his glasses, but his eyes kind of slide past them even when he tries to focus on them; he thinks they look the same but can’t be sure. His eyes are a deep brown, somehow one of the more startling changes to see. It’s definitely him, easy to see once you get past the cosmetic changes, but he supposes Remus is right; anyone who doesn’t actually know him will probably be fooled.
“What do you think?” Remus asks.
“I think I liked how I looked before better,” Harry says.
Remus cracks a smile, discarding the mirror to the counter. “Me too,” he says. “It’ll just be for a few hours. Hopefully this will stop anyone from recognising you, that’s the important thing. I don’t think the goblins will need to remove any of the spells to confirm your identity, but I guess we’ll have to see. Now, come on, get your shoes on, we’re going through the Floo again. I know, your favourite, but we’ll be able to arrive straight inside the Leaky Cauldron this way, and I won’t need to worry about apparating somewhere away from muggles.”
Harry grumbles but does as he says, hunting up his trainers left at the backdoor. If all goes well, this will be the last day he has to wear these beaten-up trainers and Remus’ hand-me-downs. As grateful as Harry is for anything Remus gives him, he can’t deny he’s excited at the prospect of getting clothes of his very own.
“The Leaky will likely be busy,” Remus warns as they step up to the fireplace. Remus hasn’t cast anything to obscure his own appearance, which seems unfair, but he has donned a fuzzy cap and scarf, though they might be due to the weather more than any attempt at hiding his identity. Harry’s got a matching hat and gloves of his own—well, of Remus’. “We won’t linger, but keep your head down and try not to stare. Tom gets all types in there.”
Harry has no idea what that means, but before he can ask, Remus has thrown green powder into the grate and the flames have roared up to meet them. Remus quickly grabs hold of Harry’s arm and away they go, falling and spinning into the Floo.
Harry hits the floorboards on the other side hard, almost going to his knees, but he manages to keep upright even without Remus’ help, which he considers a major win. As he wipes the ash and grime from his glasses, he peers around what must be this ‘Leaky Cauldron’.
It's a pub, clearly, and an old dingy one at that. It’s a big room with rickety tables shoved into shadowed corners, the whole place dark and shabby, a bar along one wall. Behind the bar is an old, bald man, who Harry assumes is the barkeep and probably the ‘Tom’ Remus mentioned. He looks friendly enough, as most barmen probably have to be, but also somewhat like a gummy walnut.
The place, as grimy and off-putting as it is, is decently busy. There are maybe half a dozen people—witches and wizards, Harry mentally corrects himself—seated at the tables, sipping sherries from tiny glasses or slugging back pints and glasses of amber liquid. A few more are eating at the bar, dishes varying from fish and chips to a plate of what looks like raw meat. Harry goggles at it all for a moment before remembering Remus’ warning.
At first, no one seems to take notice of their arrival, despite the fresh spill of soot on the floor and the general disturbance Harry thinks must still be caused by two people arriving by fireplace, no matter how normal it is to wizards. Remus steers him away from the fireplace, sticking close to the wall as he tries to navigate them around the room without running into patrons or tables. They make it several steps before a man in a massive, mouldy overcoat slams down his empty glass and shoves his chair back, right into their path.
Remus hastily pulls up short, bringing Harry along with him.
“Sorry, mate,” the man in the overcoat says, lumbering out of his seat. “Didn’t see you there—” As soon as he finds his footing and looks over to them, his mouth shuts with a click. He’s shorter than Remus by an inch or two, but he’s large and inebriated, face the same ruddy colour that Uncle Vernon’s gets. Harry takes an anxious half-step closer to Remus.
“Pardon us,” Remus says pleasantly.
The man doesn’t move so much as an inch. He’s openly staring. Remus had warned him this might happen if anyone recognises him, but the man isn’t looking at Harry—he’s fixated on Remus. From his angle, Harry can’t tell for sure what’s caught his attention, but as someone with plenty of experience with bullies, he can make a guess. Harry’s scars might be able to be hidden somewhat with his hair, but Remus’ are significantly more visible.
Remus doesn’t seem worried. When it’s clear the man isn’t going to step aside, Remus raises a hand behind Harry’s back and goes to guide him around.
“We’ll be on our way,” he says calmly. “Shopping to do.”
The man shuffles to the side, blocking their path again. His gaze flits from Remus’ face to Harry’s, scanning quickly. Harry tries to tilt his head to make sure his hair covers anything incriminating, but he doesn’t know how successful it is, since the man’s eyes darken all the same.
“Hang on,” the man says. “You’re—”
“Trouble, gentlemen?”
The old barman has left his post behind the bar to come investigate. He hovers a little ways behind Remus, a peacekeeping smile on his face. His teeth are yellow and jagged.
“Just trying to take my nephew through to Diagon,” Remus says. “Don’t mean to cause any trouble.”
“Ah, Lupin, good to see you,” the barman, Tom, says. The man in the overcoat twitches, but both Tom and Remus ignore it. Harry is the only one left eyeing him nervously. “Been awhile since you’ve been in these parts. No point in keeping you, I can see you’re busy. Go on, move aside, Abras, let ‘em pass.”
Abras’ nostrils flare. “You’re mad,” he protests. “They’re wolves, the both of ‘em, clear as can be.”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tom says stubbornly. “You’ve had more’n your share of drink, been here all morn’. Let ‘em through or I’ll be cutting you off and throwing you out for scaring off me customers.”
Tom stares him down until Abras growls lowly and does as he says.
“Thanks, Tom,” Remus says. His hand is firmly on the back of Harry’s shoulder, gently steering him farther away from Abras and the other patrons whose attentions have been caught. The place is suddenly much quieter than it had been when they arrived.
“Don’t worry about it,” Tom dismisses. “I’d offer the pair of you lunch, but I reckon you won’t want to linger much with this crowd. I’d get your shopping done quick if I were you. Alley’s not as friendly these days.”
Remus inclines his head, only looking slightly grim. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says. He sounds tired. “Come on, then.” He nudges Harry to get him moving.
A sea of eyes follow them across the bar, whispers breaking the silence of the tables they pass by. Remus’ steps don’t falter, so, consequently, neither do Harry’s. Harry tries to keep his own eyes trained on the floor, feeling his face burning and the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. He can only breathe again once Remus leads them outside into a small, walled courtyard. It’s dirty and snowed over, nothing to show except for a dustbin. Still, it’s better than being back inside.
Remus heaves a breath, taking his hand from Harry’s shoulder to scrub wearily at his eyes.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
Harry nods. Remus lowers his hand to squint at him for a moment.
“Bit of a bad start,” he says. “But don’t mind that now. Ready to see Diagon Alley?”
Dubiously, Harry looks around at the courtyard. It isn’t very impressive, and he certainly doesn’t see any of the promised wonders. Remus catches his eye and grins.
Withdrawing his wand, Remus starts counting the bricks just above the bin. Puzzled, Harry watches. When Remus reaches the brick he’s looking for—one that looks just like all the others around it—he taps it smartly three times with his wand.
To Harry’s astonishment, the bricks start to move. He openly gapes as a large archway opens in front of them, straight from the bricks that had definitely been a solid wall one moment ago. Through it, there is a cobbled street that curves just out of view.
“Welcome to Diagon,” Remus says.
He lets Harry take the lead through the archway. On the way through, Harry can’t help but reach out a hand to touch the bricks, just to make sure it isn’t all an elaborate illusion. Magic, he thinks dumbly to himself. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to it.
They turn the corner and Diagon Alley proper opens in front of them, as busy and fantastical as Remus had described. Harry can barely keep up looking at it all, swiveling his head around like an owl trying to drink it all in. Shops line both sides as far as he can see, the buildings all kinds of colours and sizes, and with random assortments of things just outside the doors. Wizards and witches bustle through the street, popping in and out of stores, threading through the crowd, muttering to themselves. There’s a shop advertising cauldrons of all makes and purposes, an owl emporium that kicks up a racket when Remus and Harry pass too close, a window display full of sleek looking broomsticks. There are barrels of unidentified plants and unsettling, slimy potions ingredients, a tailor’s just for those strange wizarding robes, and shops for many more things that Harry has never seen before.
Harry stops still in the street and just stares at it all. It’s loud and it’s bright and it’s overwhelming. It’s absurd and wonderful.
“Gringotts is up that way,” Remus tells him. “We’ll stop there first and then come back this way to pick up a few things. Robes for sure, and the bookstore.”
Harry wonders if he can convince Remus to let him investigate all of the shops. Or at least the particularly interesting ones—like the one with the broomsticks. Maybe the apothecary, just to see what kinds of things magic potions are made of. On second thought, that might put him off Madam Pomfrey’s potions even more.
The wizarding bank turns out to be a large white building with stone steps leading up to tall bronze doors. The building is significantly bigger than those around it and, even more eye-catching, it appears to have a guard at the entrance.
“Those are goblins,” Remus says lowly when Harry’s step falters. “Don’t stare.”
Hastily, Harry tears his eyes away from the goblin—almost of height with Harry, in fancy gold and scarlet uniform. The goblin inclines his head stiffly as they pass, granting them entry. Harry wonders, briefly, if he ever gets bored, standing out on the steps all day just watching people go about their shopping. He wonders if the guards ever have to actually use the sharp-looking, intimidating swords strapped to their backs. He doesn’t look too close at the stains on the blade.
“Whoa,” Harry can’t help but say as they enter an elaborate marble hall. High-vaulted ceiling, gleaming floor, a tall counter running the entire length of one wall—and about a hundred more goblins bustling about. They’re sitting at the counter, combing through stacks of jewels and paperwork, or they’re leading wizards and witches through one of the many doors out of the hall. Harry doesn’t think he’s ever been anywhere half as extravagant, or half as strange.
Remus leads them up to an available goblin at the counter. The goblin ignores them, peering down at a massive, ancient looking ledger book in front of him.
“Excuse me,” Remus says.
After a second’s thought, the goblin looks up, marking his place with a long finger. The look he levels on them is flat and uninterested, only darkening further as he lays eyes on Remus.
“We’ve come to make a withdrawal from Mr Harry Potter’s school vault,” Remus says evenly. Harry blinks at the sound of his name, quickly glancing around to make sure there isn’t anyone eavesdropping. Remus doesn’t seem overly worried, though, so maybe he has it handled.
“Do you have the key?” the goblin asks.
Remus deftly retrieves a tiny gold key from his pocket and holds it up for the teller to see.
The goblin curls his lip as he reaches out to take the key, taking great pains, Harry notes, to avoid as much contact with Remus as he can. Harry’s chest squeezes. The goblin studies the key closely and then peers down at Harry for the first time. Harry’s skin prickles under the scrutiny.
“Hm,” the goblin says. “Very well. I will have someone escort you down. After verifying your identify, you understand.”
“Of course,” Remus says. “Harry?”
“Oh,” Harry says. “Yes, fine.”
The teller calls for another goblin named Griphook, who quickly directs them to one of the assortment of identical doors. Whatever Harry might have been expecting beyond them—more marble and elaborate rooms, perhaps—it certainly hadn’t been a dim stone antechamber with only a desk, some comfortable chairs, and wooden shelves.
“We cast some glamours so we wouldn’t attract attention,” Remus explains as soon as Griphook starts browsing through the shelves. “Simple colour switching spells.”
Griphook hums and switches to searching the desk drawers, gesturing the two of them towards the chairs. They sit. Finally, he comes up with a heavy, leatherbound book and a handheld mirror. It’s small and oval, with an intricate gold frame that twists together at the bottom to form a handle.
“Please state your name,” Griphook says, angling the mirror towards Harry.
“Er,” Harry says. “Harry. Harry James Potter,” he adds hastily at Remus’ prompting look.
Griphook holds up the mirror to Harry’s face. For a moment, his altered appearance shows—reddish brown hair, dark eyes—but then the image ripples and changes to his normal face.
“Verified,” Griphook says. “Thank you, Mr Potter. And accompanying you?” He doesn’t seem to have any trouble meeting Remus’ eyes without a sneer, Harry is relieved to note, only cool professionalism.
“Remus John Lupin,” Remus says promptly. “I’m, ah, a family friend.”
“Hm,” Griphook says. He turns to the leatherbound book and starts flipping through the pages, but inclines his head towards Harry again. “Do I have your permission to share details of your account and the Potter vaults with Mr Lupin present, or would you prefer he wait outside?”
Harry starts. “Oh. Remus can stay.”
“We did only mean to make a withdrawal,” Remus says. “Some spending money for Diagon?”
Griphook looks up from his book with raised eyebrows. “Gringotts has not had anyone in to receive updates on or answer questions regarding the Potter vaults in several years,” he says, voice dry. “Mr Potter, having not yet reached his majority, may not be able to access the family vaults, nor make decisions on their use, but he can certainly receive information regarding his family’s finances. Mr Potter, were you aware of the unusual activity out of your trust fund these past nine years?”
Harry blinks at the sheaf of parchment that Griphook suddenly pulls from his book and slides across the table. There are columns of tiny, neatly written numbers crawling all over the page, ink swimming in front of his eyes. Floundering, he turns to Remus for help.
Remus has a speculative look on his face. “Griphook, what is Gringotts’ policy regarding Ministry sealed documents in your clients’ vaults?”
*
Back on the steps out the front of Gringotts, Harry is still buzzing with adrenaline from the rickety cart ride down to the vaults, and from the brief sighting of what he’s sure had to have been a dragon. He’ll have to write Hagrid about it straight away, and maybe if he sees Charlie again, he can tell him about it, too.
He's also excited about the little pouch tucked in his pocket, full to the brim with gold, silver, and bronze coins, as well as some muggle money Remus had made him exchange for at the counter. He doesn’t know the conversion from wizarding money to muggle pounds, but he can tell that he’s holding more wealth than he’s ever had before, more than Dudley’s ever had at once. It’s enough to give him a headrush.
Remus, slightly less thrilled by the cart ride, seems amused by his excitement. He had a funny look on his face during the ride back to the surface, ever since talking to Griphook and seeing inside Harry’s vault—full of gleaming, towering coins, enough to make Harry’s jaw drop—but he looks alright now.
“So,” Harry says, bouncing on his heels. “Where do we go first?”
Remus looks around the street. It’s still pretty busy, teeming with midday traffic. There are a bunch of kids Harry’s age and a little older roaming unsupervised, lugging heavy bags and boxes, and even more adult witches and wizards crossing the street from store to store with single-minded focus. Even magic doesn’t save them from holiday shopping in London.
“Robes are just over there,” Remus says, pointing. “Will only take a moment, we won’t bother with a fitting. We can always make do with shrinking and expansion charms, hm? Then we may go wherever you like.”
Remus takes him to Madam Malkin’s, where a short witch with a grimly blank face directs them towards the racks of second-hand robes. Harry combs through them giddily, glad to look for something that actually fits, even if it’s strange wizarding clothes. They find nice robes in slate grey that Remus says will do for most occasions, and a slightly nicer black set for more formal needs—though Harry wrinkles his nose at the idea and has to be reminded that Madam Longbottom tends to be very proper about things. Harry hands over a few of his newly acquired coins and Remus shrinks their wrapped purchases to fit in Harry’s pocket.
Next, they pick up some parchment and quills, because it’s nearby and the display window reminds Harry that he has several people to write to nowadays, and he doesn’t want to keep using up Remus’ supplies. On his snoop through the store, he finds a self-inking and stabilising quill, advertised to help children learn to write without spills, which he thinks would be handy, but the label indicates it’s meant for children younger than Harry. He hastily turns and directs Remus towards the normal quills. Remus picks up a couple rolls of blank parchment with him, though he refuses when Harry offers to buy the lot with his shiny new money.
Practical things out of the way, Harry all but begs Remus to let him check out the shop with the broomstick in the window. It turns out to be Quality Quidditch Supplies, and it has a variety of sleek looking brooms and broom accessories. Harry has no idea what most of them are for, but they sure look exciting.
“We’ve nowhere for you to fly,” Remus says, only slightly exasperated when he catches Harry’s longing looks at a Comet 260. “You’d be spotted in an instant, not to mention you don’t know how to use one and I certainly can’t teach you.”
Harry is only a bit disappointed. He enjoys just looking at them, though, imagining himself whizzing through the air.
Remus eventually pries Harry away from the Quidditch store and leads him to the book shop, a place called Flourish and Blotts. While not quite as exciting as the Quidditch shop, Harry is immediately drawn down the aisles, browsing the shelves. They make him think of Mr Alden, and a little tug at his chest makes him wonder what his old librarian would think of this place. Aside from the heart attack of realising magic is real, he’d probably like it a great deal.
Remus leaves him to it, disappearing amongst the shelves on his own search. Left to his own devices, Harry wanders up and down the precariously towering stacks in search of something interesting, making sure to duck and weave his way through the crowd.
He makes note of a few interesting titles but doesn’t pick anything out, knowing it takes real interest to entice him to read a book fully, and he doesn’t want to waste his money on anything less. He does hesitantly grab a small cookbook, Madam Pomfrey’s words rattling in his head, but stuffs it in his cloak so that Remus won’t see if he pops up out of nowhere.
He turns a corner and starts browsing another shelf when he sees it. His name. The more he looks, the more he sees it, spilling over one bookcase and into another.
Harry Potter: Our Tragic Hero.
The Boy-Who-Lived and the Potter Legacy.
Harry Potter’s Grand Adventures—Harry vs the Defiant Giant!
Modern Magical History (Now Including Special Chapter on Harry Potter!)
Tentatively, Harry slides one of the books off the shelf. He turns it over in his hands and sees a glossy, colourful picture of a boy holding a gleaming sword, bigger than he is, triumphantly in the air. It looks vaguely like him, he supposes, feeling dazed. Same dark hair—though the boy on the cover has his neat and slicked back—some general resemblance to the photos Harry’s seen of his dad, except paler, more like his mum. No glasses, though, and the boy is taller and stronger looking. No scars, either, except for the shimmery silver lightning bolt cutting across his forehead. On second thought, it doesn’t look like him at all.
He shoves the book back into its spot on the shelf and backs away. The bookcase is full of books about him, he’s sick to see. Some of them purport to be about magical history and wizarding wars, but many of them carry his name, his caricature. There are children’s books about him, comic books and adventure stories telling tales about him fighting sea monsters and saving helpless children.
Is this what people in the magical world will see when they hear the name Harry Potter? He isn’t anything like these books. People are destined to be disappointed.
Chest feeling tight and funny, Harry makes himself turn away and walk to the end of the aisle. He cringes away from the other shoppers, face turned low to the floor. He’s suddenly grateful that Remus insisted on casting the spells to change his appearance. He’s terrified of someone spotting that blasted lightning bolt on his forehead, similar enough to the one on the book covers to be recognisable. He wants to find Remus.
Thankfully, he finds him just a few rows down, frowning at a shelf of books. Harry quickly hurries to his side.
“Oh—” Remus says once he spots him, smoothly reshelving the books. “Everything alright? Find something you like?”
Harry chews his lip. Pulls out the book tucked in his cloak just enough for Remus to see it exists, but not to see the cover. “Just the one.”
“Okay. Ready to go, then?”
Harry turns to head to the checkout he spotted through the throng when they entered, but Remus reaches out a hand to snag his elbow and stop him. It’s too late, though. He’s already seen.
In front of the checkout are two table displays of new and expensive books, as well as flyers and magazines. They all have a central theme.
Fangs, Claws, and Other Signs You Might Be Dealing with a Monster.
How to Defend Against Dark Creatures.
Wagga Wagga Werewolf (Special New Foreword by Gilderoy Lockhart!)
There are pamphlets on vampires, werewolves, something called veela, and assorted others. Harry doesn’t know what’s written in them, but based on the pictures on them and the books around them, he maybe doesn’t want to. Near the end of the table closest to the checkout itself, there is a stack of newspapers, the kind Remus sometimes gets in the post. There’s a little placard asking for a sickle per paper.
Harry stands stock still until two witches bustle past to get their hands on one of the books. He hurriedly backpedals, bumping into Remus’ front.
“Let’s go around,” Remus says quietly, steering Harry with a light hand on his shoulder. They skirt the display tables, giving them a wide berth, and end up in line to the checkout as far away from them as they can reasonably get. Harry sticks close to Remus’ side, nervously combing his hair forward to cover his face. Remus keeps his head up, but Harry notices that his fuzzy cap is tilted slightly down, more so than it had been when they left home this morning.
As they wait, ahead of them in line a wizard pulls a boy some years younger than Harry up to the counter to pay for the stack of books in his hand. The boy whines and protests the entire time.
“Da-ad,” he says pitifully. “There’s a new story out—Harry Potter and the Hideous Harpy! You have to let me get it, please please please… My collection won’t be complete!”
Harry shrinks further into his cloak. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Remus grimace. Maybe Remus had been right—maybe he should have let Remus come without him.
They pay for their books quickly. The only good thing to come out of the trip is that Remus doesn’t see the book Harry’s buying because he’s busy buying his own stack that Harry doesn’t get to study before they’re shrunk and tucked away.
Frankly, Harry’s just glad to get out of the shop without someone pointing and screaming. He sucks in a great big breath of air as soon as they hit the street. Remus looks tired again.
“One more stop and then I think we’re done with Diagon for the day,” he sighs. “Unless there’s somewhere else you want to visit?”
Harry shakes his head. His excitement has deflated a bit.
“You said you had a letter to post for Neville? I’ve one myself to send out. Post office is back towards the Leaky Cauldron, across from the owl emporium. We’ll go there and then head to the muggle side of London.”