Exile?

Life as a Muggle

As a precaution, he ducked into an alleyway, checked it was empty, then covered himself with his Invisibility Cloak, before going back into Grimmauld Place. The Ministry or Voldemort might not be aware of what Grimmauld Place was used for, but there was always the off chance that one of the Order might be keeping an eye on the house. Sirius had agreed to put a milk bottle out on the doorstep as a sign that the meeting was over, and that everyone had gone. Even so, Harry opened the door as quietly as he could, still wearing the cloak to be on the safe side. He heard Sirius voice calling: “Is that you, Harry? The coast is clear.”

He took the cloak off and went down into the kitchen. Sirius was sitting at the table, a bottle of Butterbeer clutched in one hand.

“Get what you wanted?” Sirius asked, turning to look at him.

“Yeah. The Dursleys were only too happy to hand it all over, if it meant getting rid of me for good. Birth certificate was the most useful thing.” He rummaged in his backpack for the folder and pulled out the piece of paper. “How old do you think I really look, Sirius?”

His godfather was a little taken aback by the question. “Well, you're not the boy you were in the summer,” he equivocated.

Harry gave a wry smile at that comment. “Really?” Sirius looked a little embarrassed. “But could I pass for eighteen?”

Sirius looked at him more closely. “Maybe. An eighteen year old would have more stubble, but otherwise – yeah, maybe.”

“Right. So I could alter the date on the certificate. Backdate it three years.”

“Why'd you want to do that?”

“The bank,” said Harry patiently. “It'd much better if I were legally adult – save all the hassle of having to have a guardian and so on.”

“Yeah, there is that. By the way, Gringotts has already owled back. The account's ready to be activated. You've access to all the money in your vault now.”

“Already?” asked Harry, surprised.

“Goblins don't hang about. That's why Gringotts doesn't have any competitors. The Ministry tried setting up a bank – oh, years ago, but no one ever used it. They reckoned the Ministry wanted to keep tabs on people's money. Gringotts keep everything very private.”

“Right. Well, that helps. I suppose I could get some Muggle clothing that would help make me look a bit more respectable – a decent jacket and so on.”

“Coutts is very upmarket,” warned Sirius. “You'd need to look reasonably smart in there to carry conviction.”

“I'm going to have to borrow some more money then – for clothes and stuff.”

“That's no problem. I can lend you enough to be going on with.”

“Thanks a lot. Anyway, that's something I'll do tomorrow. Right now - I'm off to bed.”

Walking across London and Little Whinging had left him exhausted, and he wasn't really in a mood for conversation right now.

“Before you go ...”

“Yeah?”

“Something came up in this evening's meeting you ought to know about.”

“Yeah?” said Harry, standing by the door, looking back and Sirius, and suddenly now wary. Whatever it was, it probably wasn't good news.

“Those Tracking Charms – someone at the Ministry did a routine check on you this morning – and of course, you couldn't be found. According to Kingsley, all hell broke loose. Fudge was furious. He raised merry hell, and he's demanding checks every hour until you're traced.”

“This morning – I was here then. Could it be that – with Grimmauld Place being Unplottable?”

“Could be. On the other hand, you've been out all evening, and they still haven't found you.”

“True.”

“One other thing,” said Sirius casually – but Harry could hear the note of worry in his voice - “if they find you – Fudge has ordered that you should be sent straight back to Azkaban.” Harry stared at Sirius. He should have expected this – but even so. “They'll have to kill me first before they take you,” Sirius added, echoing his promise of the night before.

“If you're there when they find me,” said Harry quietly.

There was a long pause. Finally, with the air of one changing the subject, Sirius said, “How were your aunt and uncle?”

“As poisonous as ever.”

“Come on, they can't be that bad!”

“Can't they? Well, with any luck, you'll never have to meet them. I hope I don't have to again, either. Anyway, I've had enough for today. I'm going to bed.”

He stood up abruptly and marched out of the kitchen, leaving Sirius to his Butterbeer. Despite everything, there was still a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. Sent straight back to Azkaban if they ever found him ... he knew he wouldn't survive a winter there, despite all his contrivances.

Back in his room, he took a deep breath, then took his wand from the backpack. Despite carrying it around all evening, he'd not yet tried any magic since his release. In some ways he didn't want to – never wanted to again – but he had to know whether he still had the skills. He knew he'd need them sooner or later.

He put the birth certificate down on the bed next to him, and grasped his wand. He took a deep breath. Swish and flick. “Wingardium Leviosa.” The piece of paper rose obediently into the air, and a deep feeling of relief surged through him. He guided the paper down onto the bed again, then lay his wand down on the bedside table. Well, that was one thing less to worry about.

That night, his visions came back. His mind was clearer now, no longer dulled by the draining powers of the Dementors. He knew that somehow Voldemort was behind all this; how and why he didn't know. He knew that wherever this place was, there was something within there that Voldemort wanted very much. And as he walked down that corridor once again, a feeling of familiarity grew: he'd been down here in real life, he was sure of it. His mind was more alert now, and he searched his memories ... the Ministry! It was a passage that led past the courtroom, down to this mysterious place that he'd spent so many hours exploring. What was it in the Ministry that Voldemort was so desperate for? He knew the Order had been talking of something back in the summer, back in his other life. So what was it?

This time he let the urge at the back of his mind take him where it wanted, and it took him to that room full of shelf upon shelf, rack upon rack of little glass spheres. He knew Voldemort wanted one of these. Which, he didn't know yet. But he had all evening to browse the shelves.

Or he thought he had. Because suddenly the vision vanished, and he was jerked out his sleep by an enormous surge of emotion that could have come only from Voldemort himself. Why and how Harry did not know, but something somewhere had made Voldemort ecstatic, even rapturous with delight.

Harry sat upright, staring into the darkness, clutching his scar. It wasn't so much that it pained him, but it was now throbbing with an intensity he'd never experienced before. Slowly, very slowly, the feeling ebbed. But whatever had made Lord Voldemort so very happy couldn't be good news for the wizarding world.

Harry was woken the next morning by Sirius, again carrying a tray.

“There's no need to bring me breakfast in bed every day,” joked Harry.

But then he saw Sirius' face. Sirius put the tray down on the table, and tossed a copy of the morning's Prophet at him.

DEATH EATERS ESCAPE FROM AZKABAN! screamed the headline.

Horrified, Harry clutched the paper, and saw the front page was filled with pictures – pictures of those who had escaped. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he realised exactly what had made Voldemort so very happy the night before.

“Just as well you were released when you were,” said Sirius grimly. “If they'd have found you in a cell ...”

The implications of that hit Harry hard. He'd have been completely at their mercy – wandless, his powers sapped by the Dementors.

“I knew something like this had happened,” he said slowly.

“How?” demanded Sirius.

Harry told him about the previous evening, how he'd been woken. He made no mention of the visions, just about the feeling of ecstasy that had gripped him.

“How's your scar now?”

“Tingling. Not sore, or painful, but I know it's there. One of the things about being in Azkaban – I was too numb to notice it.”

“Hm. Odd things, curse scars. It seems to have given you some sort of link to Voldemort.”

In more ways than one, thought Harry, but he wasn't going to tell Sirius that. Instead he looked down at the pictures, then gave an exclamation.

“I know her!” he said, jabbing a finger at one of the pictures. He'd seen the heavy lidded witch in Dumbledore's pensieve, not so long ago. She'd been on trial as a Death Eater, with her husband and the young Barty Crouch ...

Sirius twisted round to look at the photo. “Cousin Bellatrix.”

“Of course. The tapestry.”

“Given Bellatrix one on one with a Dementor, and I'm not sure who'd win.”

Harry suddenly laughed.

“What is it?” Sirius asked.

“The Prophet reckons they're rallying to you!”

“So I see. Only the Ministry could make such a stupid cock-up.”

“No mention of Voldemort. Of course, Voldemort doesn't exist, according to them. Well, someone's in for a shock.”

“You better keep to your room for today. I can see quite a few meetings coming up.”

“I've a better idea. If you loan me some more money, I'll go out and get those clothes, then try the bank.”

Sirius gazed at him. “You'll be careful out there?”

“Do I look stupid?”

“With that lot on the loose ...”

“They'll have more immediate things to worry about. No, I think the Ministry'll be my biggest problem. But -” Harry shrugged “- I either have to get on with things or hide away in here for ever.”

“Better prepare a note so I can show it to Dumbledore and the rest. Something along the lines that you're safe and well and in hiding somewhere.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, okay.”

“Right – well, I've things to sort out. Enjoy your breakfast.”

Harry looked down at the tray. The news about the escape from Azkaban had dampened his appetite – but despite that, hunger won out. He picked up the toast from the tray.

As he munched, he thought: what now? Well, he couldn't stay at Grimmauld Place, and he had nowhere else to go. He really was going to have to begin life as a Muggle – at least for the time being – and so today was going to be the first day of his new life. First, though, money. Then go from there. And as he glanced at the front page of the Prophet again, his face hardened. Let Fudge sort this one out - if he could. Which, somehow, Harry doubted.

Sirius thrust a bundle of notes at Harry before he went out, which Harry insisted on counting.

“You don't have to pay me back, you know,” Sirius said gruffly.

“Maybe not, but I will.”

Sirius shrugged. “As you want.”

“We'll sort it out when I get back. I'm going shopping now.”

“Have a good time.”

“Shopping?”

“At least you can get out.” Suddenly contrite, Harry apologised. Sirius shook his head. “It doesn't matter. Go on then, if you're going.”

Feeling rather guilty at being able to walk out of Grimmauld Place and into the open air, unlike his godfather, Harry stuffed some hundreds of pounds, all in twenty pound notes, into a pocket. He climbed under his cloak and set out into the broken sunshine of the morning. Once clear of the square, he could duck into a side turning, take his cloak off, and stuff it into his backpack. Then he could catch a Tube to a more salubrious part of town.

He knew the people looking for him would be wizards, and they'd expect to find a hungry, scruffy, tired, hangdog teenager. His best bet would be to try and look as prosperous and Muggle like as he could, and do his best to blend in with the millions thronging London's streets. Rather than Marks and Spencer, he deliberately chose a much more upmarket tailors. He needed, at the minimum, a good jacket and shirt, pair of trousers, and shoes. More could come later when he'd got access to his vault. He quailed at some of the prices he saw in shop windows, but eventually summoned up the courage to go inside and browse until accosted by an assistant. He could see that he was getting rather curious looks, but insisted on being measured – what might Azkaban have done to his waistline? - before selecting some clothes to try on. Half an hour later he came out, his old clothes bundled into the backpack, the wad of notes a good deal thinner, but looking a good deal more reputable.

Next, a barber. After three months in Azkaban, and despite much washing, his hair was long and straggly. Again wondering what this was going to cost, he selected a swish looking salon, and debated with the barber as to how his hair be cut. He wanted to keep it quite long – the old Harry had had quite short hair – and brushed over his forehead so as to hide his scar as much as possible. That was a dead give-away to anyone looking for him, and he'd still no real idea as how to hide it properly. But his new hairstyle also settled more tidily on his head when longer, and the skill of the barber was such that most of the spikes that had been his characteristic were now flattened. He considered some form of tinting, but eventually decided against it. The more inconspicuous, the better, he decided.

Watching the mirror as his hair was being cut and styled was a salutary experience. He'd looked in the mirror at Grimmauld Place only fleetingly, as if reluctant to meet his own eyes, but being forced to sit and look at his own reflection for a quarter of an hour was another matter. There were deep dark hollows beneath his eyes, and the eyes themselves had developed a wary, feral look – more than just wary though ... he now understand why Uncle Vernon had been so cautious the night before. If he met this face in a dark alley one night ... he'd run.

Fortunately, the clothes and the styling took some of those rough edges off him, and although he was grateful for the change, he winced at the bill when presented. But at least he looked respectable enough for the bank. And from what he'd seen in the mirror, Azkaban had aged him sufficiently to pass for eighteen. He hadn't really the build of an eighteen year old, nor, as Sirius had remarked, the stubble, but the childhood innocence had certainly been ripped out of him.

The London branch of Coutts was in the heart of the city, and he had to take the Tube again. As he came out into the Strand, the pavements were crowded with jostling passers-by, and he had a sudden moment of panic. For three months, he hadn't seen another person, and now he was surrounded by hundreds of them, all weaving their way down the pavement. He stepped into a nearby doorway and closed his eyes, trying to shut out the mass of humanity.

“Are you all right, love?”

He opened his eyes again, to see a middle-aged woman looking at him with concern, and he was irresistibly reminded of Mrs Weasley.

“Yes, thanks,” he stammered.

“You were looking very pale. As if you were about to faint or something.”

“Just the crowds – I'm not used to them.”

“I'm sure it gets worse every time I come into town. Are you sure you're alright then?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, thanks very much. I'll be okay.”

“If you're sure ...” She regarded him rather dubiously.

He felt better now. “Yes, really. But thanks for asking.”

“Look after yourself then, won't you?”

Harry nodded, and the woman moved on down the street.

He hadn't realised the psychological effects of being in such a crowd of people after all that time in solitary confinement. Last night had been bad enough; this was worse. To help gather his wits, he dug out the piece of paper that Sirius had given him with the address of the bank, then began looking at shop numbers. Slowly and carefully, he moved out onto the pavement again and began making his way down the street until he found the bank.

Just looking at the outside made Harry realise this was a bank that catered for serious money. But then, according to the paperwork from Gringotts, in Muggle terms he really was extremely wealthy. And he knew something else: the chances of surviving out here for more than a few weeks were pretty slim. He might as well make use of his assets whilst he still had the chance.

He took a deep breath to steady himself. He knew he had to project the image of a rich, confident eighteen year old, when in fact he was a nervous fifteen year old on the run from Aurors and Death Eaters. He looked down at his new jacket, the smart trousers and shoes. He knew he could look the part. Now he had to act the part.

A doorman muttered something to him as he walked in, and he pulled out the letter of introduction. The doorman flicked his eyes over it, then over Harry, before asking him to wait for a moment. Harry stood by the wall, grateful for the tranquillity of the building.

A minute later the doorman was back, murmuring in his ear, and then escorting him past the counter and down a corridor to an unmarked door. Harry took a deep breath as the man stopped: he had to relax. He knew he had to make it seen as though it was him doing the bank a favour, and not the other way round.

The doorman knocked, opened the door, and ushered Harry in. Behind the desk was a man of perhaps forty; a solid, prosperous looking, well dressed man, who rose to his feet as Harry approached.

“Mr Potter.”

He reached out and they shook hands. The man gestured to a seat, and Harry took his time, looking round the wood panelled room as best he could without trying to seem too inquisitive. There was nothing overtly magical about either the room or the man. Harry did have the advantage that there had been nothing in the Prophet about his trial or imprisonment, and whilst he was being sought by the Ministry, that knowledge was confined to a handful in the Auror Department.

Harry was also inquisitive for another reason: he'd never been in somewhere quite like this before. When he was with the Dursleys, he was lucky to get any pocket money at all. After Hagrid had taken him to Gringotts for the first time, it had taken quite some time for it to sink in that he was really quite rich. Even then it hadn't meant much – he hadn't much to spend the money on. But he reminded himself once again that he had to pretend to be at home in surroundings like this: that he had to put over the impression that he was just another rich kid opening yet another bank account.

Harry was handed a card. “Justin Heaton-Watson.” There was a phone number and an email address, but that was all. Harry took the card, slipped it away, and passed over the letter from Gringotts. Heaton-Watson read through it carefully.

“Yes indeed, Mr Potter, we received a communication about you yesterday. Before we go any further, could I ask you for some other form of identification? This letter does seem to be in order, but it might be a good idea if you had something else to back it up?” The man raised an eyebrow at him.

Harry slid his birth certificate across the desk. He'd asked Sirius to alter the date so as to read three years earlier. Sirius hadn't asked why Harry didn't do it for himself – the truth was that he was somehow still afraid to attempt even that little bit of magic just yet.

If the man were a wizard, then he might well know the date of Harry's birth – after all, it had been just before the downfall of Voldemort. But the man might be a Squib, perhaps, and the name of Harry Potter might mean nothing to him. Certainly he picked the piece of paper up and looked at it carefully, before looking back at Harry. Could he pass for eighteen?

“I don't have a passport or driving licence yet,” said Harry apologetically.

The man nodded. That might be the case for many eighteen year olds. “Of course.”

He passed the birth certificate back. Harry was relieved to find that his cover story was holding up so far.

Heaton-Watson hesitated, then went on: “The only address we have for you is care of your other bank.”

Harry noticed that the word 'Gringotts' was not mentioned.

“That's right. I'm staying with my guardian at the moment - well, he was my guardian until I became eighteen. My parents died when I was very young.”

Keep as close to the truth as possible. If this man did know his past, then too many lies would make him suspicious.

“I'm sorry about that.”

“I was too young really to remember them.”

Harry suspected the condolences were merely convention.

“Are you intending to stay with your guardian in the longer term?” Heaton-Watson asked.

“No, I'm looking for a flat somewhere in London,” said Harry, trying to sound blasé. “A financial reference from you would be useful.”

“That shouldn't be a problem. We can provide that. Now, the arrangement we usually make with your other bank is that we can provide cheque books, credit cards and the like, and when the bills arrive here, we pay them, and bill your account there. Does this seem reasonable?”

Harry was slightly amused at some of the circumlocutions. No doubt there a substantial 'handling charge' too. “Seems fine to me.”

“We'll provide an account of the bills that are presented here. Your other bank will provide you with an account of transfers from them to us.”

No mention of Galleons on a Coutts account then. Again Harry nodded.

“I take it you'd like a cheque book? And a card of some sort?” Harry nodded. “In these circumstances,” the man said delicately, “we recommend a debit card. We pass the payments straight through, and the money is effectively paid directly from your other account.”

“That's fine. A cheque book, a card, and, if possible, I'd like to make a cash withdrawal before I go.”

Heaton-Watson was making notes. “How much would you be wanting in cash?”

“A thousand, I think.”

Not a flicker on the man's face. “Denominations?”

Harry was momentarily perplexed. “Sorry?”

“Notes. Fifties?”

Harry imagined himself handing over fifty pound notes in shops. Not a way to stay inconspicuous. “Twenties would be better.” Fifty notes. Not too large a bundle.

“No problem. You'll have to sign a lot of paperwork, I'm afraid.”

“I was expecting that.”

“Right. Well, first of all, confirming your account details. You'll get a separate card with these on. You'll need to be careful with that. If it's stolen, let us or your other bank know as soon as possible. Same, of course, with the cheque book and debit card.”

Heaton-Watson pushed papers across to Harry, with little 'x's to mark where he should sign. Harry did his best to read and understand what he was signing, although a lot of it was quite incomprehensible to him. When all was done, Heaton-Watson gathered together the papers and said: “You'll have to give us a few minutes to get this all sorted out. We have a waiting room, if you don't mind ...?”

Harry nodded and allowed himself to be led out to a room with a few comfortable armchairs and magazines scattered on a low table. He settled himself down with the day's paper – although he did wonder, with a slight feeling of anxiety, whether he was being kept here whilst a squad of Aurors could be summoned, ready to take him back to Azkaban. He told himself that there was a difference between paranoia and being alert, although he wasn't really comfortable until Heaton-Watson came back with some folders.

“Your debit card – you need to sign it on the back.” Harry obliged. “A cheque book.” Harry riffled through its pages. He could really go to town with this lot if he wanted to. “Your money,” he said rather more delicately, handing over an envelope. Harry looked inside, saw the notes, but thought it rude to count them there and then. He'd need to get a wallet this afternoon. Something else he'd never needed at Privet Drive.

“If there's anything else we can do for you, please do drop in,” said Heaton-Watson, holding out a hand.

“Thanks for your time.”

“Not at all, Mr Potter. We value your custom.”

Harry gave him a smile, and walked back out into the lobby, then into the sunshine of the Strand. He'd got away with it! With the card and the cheque book, he could do what he liked. And what was most important of all, he was now independent.

He looked up and down the busy street. Only just lunchtime, and a lot achieved already. He could do with something to eat. He realised that with his fake birth certificate he could now go into a pub, but then he'd had his mind dulled by Dementors for the last three months – adding alcohol to that probably wasn't a good idea.

He also thought it might be a good idea to find out whether his new debit card worked. He walked further down the street to a cash machine. Coutts might be an old established bank, but to survive, they'd had to move with the times, and even a Coutts card had to be acceptable to a high street hole in the wall. He inserted his card, typed in his PIN number, and asked for a hundred pounds. Slightly to his surprise, the machine disgorged the money and gave him his card back. Well, he was certainly flush with cash now.

So, lunch. After three months of starvation in Azkaban, he was permanently hungry. He'd have to be careful, or those new clothes wouldn't fit anymore. But in this part of the town, there was plenty of choice, and he could afford to splash out on a decent meal.

Over steak and chips – well, it was one step up from burger and chips – he glanced through an early edition of the Evening Standard. He needed somewhere to live other than Grimmauld Place, which wouldn't be tenable for very long. He was bound to run into a member of the Order sooner or later. And how long would it be before Sirius, however inadvertently, let something slip? He hadn't bumped into Kreacher yet either, and he had no faith at all in the house-elf's ability to hold its tongue. The snag was that he wasn't sure what he was looking for, or even where. Somewhere convenient in London away from wizards – but then, who'd have thought Grimmauld Place housed a family of purebloods? Property a little way out would be cheaper, but he needed to be able to get into the city if he needed to - perhaps Docklands? Maybe he'd be better off finding an estate agent rather than browsing through the paper. And not to buy either – tempting though that was, that'd be way too much paperwork.

Docklands – Canary Wharf – full of bankers and yuppies. Not a wizarding area, he'd have thought. Lots of new developments. Canary Wharf – that was on the Jubilee Line. He tucked the paper under his arm and walked down to the Underground at Embankment.

The station was much more crowded now. He was swept along with the crowds, coming out onto a crammed platform. He found himself close to the edge, and looked down at the rails. Somehow they made him nervous, but moving back meant fighting through people again – and he didn't know which he feared the more. There was a rush of air, and the noise of a distant train. He saw the light appear at the tunnel like the eye of a cyclops, and again had to fight the urge to push away back into the crowd.

The train drew to a halt, and he allowed himself to be swept through the doors. He stood, straphanging, and could feel the cold sweat on his forehead. Down to Waterloo, then he could step out, and change lines. At least the Jubilee line was less crowded than the Northern line – he could breath more easily – literally and metaphorically.

Four stops from Waterloo to Canary Wharf. He stepped out from the station onto a empty, windy street, surrounded by high rise office blocks. He felt a feeling of relief at the lack of people. But how long would this phobia last? Would he ever be able to mix with people freely again? Don't be so morbid, he told himself. At least, on the streets of London, there were no Dementors to leech on his mind.

So - how to find an estate agent around here? Find a paper shop and ask inside. Buying another paper wouldn't break the bank.

Fifteen minutes later and a quarter of a mile away, he was standing on the pavement, looking through the window at the properties listed for sale. The prices made his toes curl. Maybe not a place to buy. But to rent? He went in. A flash young man was sitting behind a desk looking at Harry expectantly, and Harry could see by his face that he wasn't quite sure what to make of him.

“What can I do for you?”

Harry summoned up all his confidence, and slid into the chair opposite. “I'm thinking of renting a flat.”

“Oh?” rather coolly.

Harry could see that the man didn't see him as a serious prospect.

“Yes – a flat. You have them?”

“You on your own?”

The man behind the desk wasn't sure whether he was wasting his time or not. Only one thing for Harry to do - he reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out the envelope marked 'To Whom It May Concern'. Inside was his bank reference. He passed it over, and the man opened it curiously. He pulled out the letter and unfolded it, and Harry saw his eyes widen as he took in the bank's letterhead on the top of the paper.

The man looked from the letter to Harry then back again. Harry could see that the man – who couldn't have been much more than five or six years older than Harry himself – was impressed by what he'd just read. You had to have real money to be with that bank.

“You are H.J. Potter?”

Harry nodded. “That's what my birth certificate says.”

“Oh?”

Harry pulled that out too and slid it across the desk. The estate agent picked it up. “Seems in order,” he said. Harry waited. “Just a moment.”

The man gave him a quick smile, stood up, and went over to another desk. He rummaged under files and papers for a phone, picked it up, looked at the letter, then dialled a number. He was obviously calling the bank. Harry could see the expression on the man's face changing as he listened to what the bank had to say. Eventually he came back, gave Harry another look, then returned the papers. He looked hard at Harry, obviously still not quite sure, but his manner became a good deal more businesslike.

“Right, well. Yeah, we have plenty of flats to rent.” The letter from Heaton-Watson plus the phone call had obviously done the trick. “Depends what you want, of course. Let's see – it's just for you?”

“Just me,” Harry confirmed.

The man still couldn't work him out. “One bedroom or two?”

“One.”

That would be cheaper.

“Furnished?”

“Yes.”

No way was he going out buying beds and chairs.

“Area?”

“Anywhere round here.”

“Modern? Purpose built? Or a conversion?”

Harry hesitated. “Purpose built.”

Why he'd plumped for that, he had no idea.

“Long let or short?”

“Short.”

“Righto. Several new developments round here, and quite a few still empty. We shouldn't have a problem with that.”

He pulled several sheets of paper from a filing cabinet. “Take a look at these.”

Harry digested them. There was a lot of jargon to be deciphered. “PCM – what's that mean?”

“Per Calendar Month. That's the rent for one calendar month, if you see what I mean.”

Harry nodded. None of these came at less than a thousand a month. But for how long would he need it? He could afford it, he decided.

“How far in advance do you have to pay?”

“It depends, but usually something like three months in advance. One month's notice. A deposit against damages and the like.”

Harry looked at his watch. Nearly four o'clock. Too late to go looking? The man saw his hesitation, and also saw he had a potential customer.

“No problem if you want to go and view any of them now.”

“Well,” equivocated Harry, “I'm not quite sure what I want yet. Give me ten minutes to look through these.”

“Sure. There're some seats over there. Take your time.”

Harry looked through what he'd got. In a block he'd have to use one of the main entrances. The higher the better then. Two of the flats he discarded as too expensive. That left three possibles. He went back.

“It'd probably be easiest to go to the nearest first,” the man suggested.

“Makes sense,” said Harry.

The man picked up his jacket. “Just going to get the keys.”

Harry sat waiting, and wondered whether he was doing the right thing, then decided he was. The man came back with a colleague.

“Just showing Mr Potter here some flats. Can you look after the place until I'm back?” The other man nodded. “I'm Kevin, by the way,” he said to Harry. “Ready?”

Harry nodded, and followed Kevin out of the door.

The nearest of the flats was ten minutes away. Third floor, views across the river. Harry knew that that would make it more expensive, but it was within his budget. And near the tube station. He looked at the kitchen – cooking was no problem after the Dursleys. It was certainly well equipped, with a dishwasher, microwave, and all the rest of it. A washing machine. The bedroom was tiny, and the main room wasn't that big, but the view made up for it. For what he wanted, this would do. It wasn't as if he were going to be there for any length of time. At least, he hoped not.

He looked round at the furnishings. A dark green carpet, a greenish fleck covering the chairs, green curtains. Bright pastel walls made it brighter.

Kevin saw him taking in the décor.

“Don't show the stains, carpets this colour. Same with the chairs.”

“Ah,” said Harry, realising the choice of furnishings.

Kevin shrugged. “People don't look after things as well when they're not theirs, if you see what I mean.”

Harry nodded. He could live with this. He turned to the agent. “This one.”

The man looked surprised at how quickly Harry had made up his mind.

“Okay, then, if you're happy with this, then that's fine. When do you want to move in?”

“Tomorrow?”

The man blinked again. “To be honest, if you hadn't got a reference from Coutts – but they'll honour any cheques presented, so I don't see why not. There is the matter of the deposit,” he added rather delicately. He named a sum that made Harry gasp. “You're only eighteen, no family, all the rest of it. You're high risk to us if the place gets trashed.”

Hm, Harry thought. The place really would get trashed if either the Aurors or Voldemort caught up with him. But that wasn't something he could tell a Muggle estate agent.

“Come back to the office and we can do the paperwork.”

As they walked back, Harry amused himself by speculating how he came across to the estate agent. Rich kid? Wanting to live here? Unlikely. Student? Bit too upmarket for that. Dodgy deals of some sort? How dodgy did Harry look? Well, he knew Azkaban had left him looking rough enough.

Back in the office, he signed on the dotted line and wrote some cheques – his first ever.

“Normally we'd have to wait to let these clear – but with that bank ... well, let's say that shouldn't be a problem.”

“So I can collect the keys in the morning?”

“You can have them now, if you want.”

Harry blinked. “Okay.”

The man handed over three Yale keys. “If you come back in the morning, I'll show you round properly – where everything is, how things work, and so on. Most of it's fairly obvious.”

“Ten o'clock?”

“Fine.”

Well, that was certainly some day, thought Harry, as he sat in the carriage on the way back. Bank account and flat. It seemed too easy, somehow. He didn't really want to leave Sirius, but, on the other hand, Grimmauld Place was no place to stay with all the Order searching for him. No one would think of looking for him in a block of Muggle flats in the middle of Docklands. And that's how he wanted it.