Realizations

Chapter 5 - The Leaky Cauldron

Sunday, July 2, 1995

Sunlight poured through the windows of room 11, splashing cheerfully on the walls, making golden rectangles on the floor, and creeping slowly across the face of the sleeping figure on the bed.

Harry Potter groaned in protest, and burrowed deeper into the blankets. He didn't want to wake up. Not yet, anyway. For the first time in days, he had slept all night without being plagued by nightmares. The teen suspected this might be due to his level of exhaustion the night before, but was grateful for the reprieve none the less.

Without opening his eyes, Harry stretched hugely, wriggling his fingers and toes, and flinching slightly at the lingering soreness in his arms and shoulders.

I suppose I should get up, the boy thought sleepily, letting his limbs fall onto the bed with a soft plop. A shower might help with the stiffness. If he hurried he might be able to bathe before Aunt Petunia came to wake him, but he didn't want to move. He was extremely comfortable. Deliciously warm and refreshed. Happy even. If he didn't know better, he'd swear he was in his large four-poster bed back in Gryffindor Tower.

Hold on...

Since when had he been able to sprawl spread-eagled on his little bed at the Dursleys' without hitting the wall, or having an arm or leg slip off the edge of the mattress?

Wakefulness came in a rush. Harry sat up quickly, trying to disentangle himself from the bedcovers, get his bearings, and find his glasses. Things went much more smoothly once he stopped trying to accomplish all three tasks at once.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Harry slipped his glasses on his nose, and managed to identify his whereabouts as the Leaky Cauldron. He had just started to relax again, when a cheery voice chirped, "good morning!" making him leap to his feet, and glance warily around.

There was no one in the room but himself and Hedwig, and she certainly hadn't said anything. The snowy owl was still sleeping on a perch by the window, with her head tucked under her wing. Harry frowned in confusion, then it dawned on him who, or rather what, had just spoken. With a sheepish grin, he turned to face the mirror, and replied, "good morning."

"Well, I must say, you're certainly looking better than you did last night," the mirror continued pleasantly. "You were a right sorry sight, you were."

Last night.

Harry felt his contented mood evaporate like early morning mist.

Last night he had made his bleary way to the Leaky Cauldron.

Last night he had discovered his childhood home empty, and the Dursleys gone.

Last night, Tom, the innkeeper, had taken one look at him, and immediately hustled him off to bed.

Tired as he was, Harry had been aware of the older wizard's attitude, and had been heartened by it. Tom hadn't asked questions, or refused him service, or given him frightened, suspicious looks. He'd merely cast Locomotor on Harry's trunk and box while gently steering the shell-shocked Gryffindor up the stairs. When the boy had mumbled something about needing to check in, the old innkeeper had waved it off, assuring him that everything could be sorted out in the morning. He hadn't even had Harry sign the guest register.

The young wizard shook his head ruefully. He supposed he had looked pretty pathetic when he'd arrived. Harry hadn't bothered to close all the fastenings on his cloak, so when he raised his wand to signal the Knight Bus, it was caught by the wind and blown open. As luck would have it, when the Knight Bus responded to his summons, it materialized over a huge puddle, and dropped into it with a spectacular splash.

Caught by surprise, Harry was hit with the backlash, and had been completely drenched. His sturdy cloak had been of little help, held in place by the one closed fastener at his throat, and flapping uselessly behind him like a flag.

The only good thing about that entire fiasco, was the talkative conductor, Stan Shunpike, and the driver, Ernie Prang, had been so mortified, they hadn't recognized him. Not, Harry reflected wryly, that he'd been exactly recognizable at the time.

Thinking back, Harry doubted they would have noticed if he'd been green with purple polka dots. Stan and Ernie had been so shaken up by the incident they hadn't even been able to manage a simple drying charm. This was obviously a matter of professional pride. The Knight Bus simply did not soak its patrons. By the way they were acting, Harry imagined it was written as a cardinal rule in some great tome somewhere, entitled Rules and Regulations for Knight Bus Personnel. Probably in the chapter called Offenses That Will Get You Sacked.

The driver and conductor had both fussed and clucked around Harry, apologizing repeatedly for the mishap. Stan fetched a warm blanket for the shivering boy to wrap up in, while Ernie pressed a steaming cup of hot chocolate into his hands. Harry had accepted their apologies, and tried to reassure them as best he could. The anxious pair had been more than eager to let Harry ride for free, but the boy had protested. It was just a stupid accident after all, and they had done their best to make things right. In the end, Harry had been given a discounted fare, complimentary hot chocolate, and a shiny red toothbrush before the Knight Bus lurched forward with a flash and a BANG, headed directly for Diagon Alley.

Pulling his attention back to the present, Harry moved closer to the mirror, and studied his reflection with curious green eyes. At least Tom was able to manage a proper drying charm, the boy thought gratefully, plucking experimentally at his t-shirt, and running questioning fingers through his dark hair.

Harry had been so tired the night before, he'd only paused long enough to shed his cloak, and kick off his shoes before collapsing gratefully into bed. He had expected, upon waking, to find himself in desperate need of a shower--his hair, skin, and clothing dry from Tom's charm, but grimy and stiff. This wasn't the case, however. To his pleasant surprise, everything felt soft and fresh, as though he'd already changed and showered. Tom had apparently slipped in a cleaning charm or two while he was at it. There was no trace of his having been doused with dirty puddle-water the night before.

The mirror had fallen curiously silent, which Harry found odd. He hadn't run across an enchanted mirror yet that could refrain from commenting on his hair and clothing, but the awareness was definitely not there at the moment, so Harry shrugged, and moved over to the window.

Judging by the sun's position, he'd slept longer than he realized. It had to be well past lunchtime. Harry frowned pensively as he looked out over Diagon Alley, forcing himself to consider his circumstances.

Last night he'd been responding to an acute crisis. He'd been cognizant of his situation, of course, but finding shelter had been his one clear goal. That and keeping his cool. He hadn't really been in any fit state to make future plans.

Harry's frown deepened slightly. Staying calm and focused had been remarkably difficult last night. He didn't understand why, though. Every Defense class began with a common theme: Don't panic. The idea was so obvious, it almost didn't seem worth mentioning. Even Hermione, who almost never criticized a lesson, had complained about the Defense professors' fixation on something so simple. Harry and Ron had agreed with her, and they'd had many silly conversations debating whether the Defense professors thought they were all too stupid to remember, or if absent-mindedness was a requirement for the Defense Against the Dark Arts job.

After last night's practical application, however, Harry realized that there was more to it than he thought. Panic--fight or flight--was the body's natural reaction to stress. Staying reasonably calm under stress was difficult, but regaining control after you'd lost it was an act of will. He'd been scared before, even panicked, but not like last night. Never to the point where his brain had stopped functioning completely, and he'd been at the mercy of his autonomic nervous system. He wondered nervously how long it would have taken him to pull himself together if Hedwig hadn't been there.

Harry padded back over to the bed and sat on it, drawing his legs up to his chest, and propping his chin on his kneecaps. Truthfully, he felt a little shamed by his reaction. Things could have been much worse, after all. He could have arrived at his uncle's house and found the Dark Mark in the sky. He could have peered in the living room window, and discovered the Dursleys' tortured, murdered bodies. He could have been re-captured by Voldemort's Deatheaters while wandering around alone. And honestly, compared to facing basillisks, evil wizards, and (purported) crazed murderers, this was nothing. Why had finding the empty house unhinged him so?

Maybe it was because he'd been at a low point. Maybe it was because he'd been caught utterly off guard. Maybe it was both. He'd been shaky with exhaustion when he'd arrived at Privet Drive--traumatized and heartsick over Cedric's death and Voldemort's revival. Although not exactly a haven, Privet Drive had represented a constant in his life--something safely predictable. When he'd approached the house, he hadn't been expecting anything out of the ordinary.

Harry frowned lightly as he continued to analyze his reaction. Perhaps that was the key. His other adventures might seem more horrific, but those times he had known the danger going in. He had been aware of the magical traps surrounding the Sorcerer's Stone. He knew there was a basillisk in the Chamber of Secrets. And face it, with the media blitz that had followed, it would have been hard not to know about Sirius Black's escape from Azkaban. Even last week, when he had fallen so gracelessly into Voldemort's trap, he'd been keyed up and ready for action because of the TriWizard Tournament. Heck, he'd been alert and edgy all year.

Last night had been different, though. For the first time in recent memory he'd been completely blind sided--gormless, trusting prat that he was. Oh, he had been expecting the Dursleys to be horrible to him, and had been bracing for an absolutely dreadful holiday, but he had never once suspected that they would simply abandon him.

Harry snorted mirthlessly. After the way they carried on about politeness and manners, one would think they would have had the common courtesy to inform him of their plans.

Perhaps that was why keeping calm was emphasized so, Harry pondered abstractly. It wasn't so much for when danger was expected, but rather for when you were hit with life's little sucker punches.

Perhaps if you were drilled on something until it became second nature, your chances of recalling it under stress improved.

Interesting theory, Harry mused, a bit surprised at his own acuity. He'd have to ask Ron and Hermoine what they thought the next time he saw them.

Ron and Hermione. Harry tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. Reflexively, he thought of waking Hedwig, and sending a letter. But to whom? And to say what? Harry knew Sirius would come running if he called, as would the Weasleys. Dr. Granger had even given him permission to ring them up if he needed help, but nothing had changed. It still wasn't safe.

Besides, Harry reflected in a moment of brutal self-honesty, he wasn't ready to face his friends yet. His feelings were still too bruised and raw, and to make matters worse, he felt half eaten alive with bitter jealousy. He didn't want to have to observe loving family interaction at the moment. Maybe later, but not just yet. Right now he just wanted to lick his wounds, and nurse his injured pride in private.

Professor Dumbledore, was another problem. His headmaster had always insisted that Harry stay in muggle world with the Dursleys. Something about ancient protective magic, and blood relatives. If Harry admitted his predicament, what would happen? Students were not allowed to stay at Hogwarts over the summer holidays. Would he be turned over to muggle or wizard social services? Did wizards even have social services? Would a new guardian be appointed for him? Could one be? Between Rita Skeeter's slander and his dubious honor of being number one on Voldemort's hit list it was highly unlikely that he'd be overwhelmed with eager volunteers.

As he considered this, Harry was struck with a terrible thought. What if Dumbledore tracked down his muggle family and bullied them into taking him back! Harry shuddered reflexively, deciding that had to be prevented if at all possible. His relative's dismissal had cut deeply, but that didn't mean he was eager to return to their less-than-tender care.

No. His best bet was to simply keep his mouth shut until it was safe to visit his friends. All I have to do is keep my head down, and stay out of sight, Harry thought with an ironic smile. Just like back on Privet Drive. If he was lucky, maybe they wouldn't find out at all!

Harry brightened, and latched onto that thought at once. Generally, when Ron wrote extending an invitation for Harry to come stay at the Burrow, he did so in advance, and he always let Harry know when his family would be coming. All he had to do was write back straightaway, and insist on making his own way to the Burrow, or maybe arrange to meet the Weasleys here at the Leaky Cauldron instead of Privet Drive. He could say the Dursleys refused to allow the Weasleys to come by because of Fred and George's prank. This could work! It wasn't like anyone regularly popped 'round to check on him. He'd never be missed. All he had to do now was sort out a few practical, long-term problems.

The Dursleys hadn't gone out of their way for him, and had insisted that he do any number of chores to "earn his keep," but they had given him food, clothing, and shelter. He might not have lived in the lap of luxury, but he'd had life's necessities, and all it had cost him was a little sweat and a lot of aggravation.

It could be worse, really, the teen admitted to himself. Much worse. He might be abandoned and alone, but he wasn't completely without resources. Harry had never bothered to tell his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia about his inheritance. Hagrid had given him the key to what was now his Gringott's vault on his eleventh birthday. Inside, he discovered his parents had left him a sizable pile of wizarding money. Harry had been using it to pay for his school expenses ever since, because Uncle Vernon had refused to finance his magical education.

Everything had been going smoothly. Except for his impromptu "vacation" summer before third year, the boy had never had any opportunities for impulse purchases. Even then, he had been cautious, exercising a lot of self control, and learning the basics of money management.

Now, in addition to his usual school supplies, he was looking at the cost of lodging, clothing, food, new glasses, transportation, any necessary medical expenses, and heaven only knew what else, this summer, next summer, and for the rest of his life! With a start, Harry realized he didn't even know if he was in trouble or not. He had no idea how much those things cost, though if Vernon's carrying on was to be believed, it was a lot. He also had no idea how much money was in his vault. How did the wizard bank work? Did Gringott's charge fees and pay interest like muggle banks? Harry had no clue. Before now, it hadn't been an issue.

The cost of a year at Hogwarts barely seemed to make a dent in the piles of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts. Harry had reckoned he had enough to pay for school, support himself after graduation while he got himself established, and still have loads left over. He had whiled away many lonely hours at Privet Drive dreaming about what he would like to do when he finally left forever. If he didn't start working right away, it might be fun to take a little time off, or attend university, or travel. He'd once jokingly considered going to Brazil, and looking up his friend, the boa constrictor.

Not much chance of that now.

A knock at his door made Harry look up sharply. He watched uncertainly, as the door opened slightly, and Tom poked his head in. "Good day, Mr. Potter," he said pleasantly. "Sorry to disturb you, but I usually tidy up about now."

"Hello, Tom, and it's Harry, please."

Tom nodded, and looked the boy over. He seemed better than last night, rested, anyway, but he was practically vibrating with tension and worry, and he looked extremely skittish.

Harry watched idly as Tom inspected the room. There wasn't really anything to be done, except make the bed. Obligingly, he rose and stood off to the side, while Tom cast a bed-making charm and a few dust banishing charms. "Thank you," he said quietly, as the old wizard finished. "And thanks for taking care of me last night."

"That's part of my job, Harry," Tom grinned. "It's always a pleasure having you stay here."

The boy looked up at him, a kind of wounded disbelief in his expressive green eyes. "Really?" he asked, sounding ridiculously uncertain. "I mean, I thought with all the rubbish in the Daily Prophet...and things...I wasn't sure if I'd be welcome."

Tom went over to stand in front of the boy, and looked down at him, amazed. For the first time since he'd been brought back to the wizard community, Harry Potter had sounded like the child he was, and not the fabled "Boy-Who-Lived." Tom had suspected something was amiss the night before, but Harry had been dead on his feet, so he hadn't pressed for details. Now that he was certain his suspicions were correct, and hastened to reassure the boy. Perhaps it was something he could help with.

Guessing what was likely causing the youth the most distress, he didn't respond directly to Harry's stuttered confession, but mentioned casually instead, "You know, Hagrid stopped by to see me before he left on his errand for Dumbledore."

Harry didn't say anything, but he raised a questioning eyebrow. Tom, seeing he had the boy's attention, continued. "Hagrid told me about the TriWizard Tournament, and You-Know-Who," he said, almost grinning at Harry's dumbstruck expression. "He asked me to keep my eyes and ears open, and report anything interesting to your headmaster." This time the boy's reaction surprised him. Surely that wasn't fear he saw?

"Are you going to tell him I'm here?"

Tom was startled by the tremulous query. "Why don't you tell me what happened first," he suggested reasonably.

Harry didn't answer immediately, but instead met Tom's gaze for a moment, making the older wizard feel oddly exposed. Evidently the boy found what he was looking for, because after a moment he nodded, and relaxed a bit. Haltingly at first, then with more speed, the teen began to verbalize what had happened the night before, and some of the concerns he'd been thinking of since awakening. To Harry's dismay, he told a lot more than he intended, but once he got started, the story just came pouring out. Tom's experience as a bartender showed clearly as the boy's tale unfolded. He knew when to gently prompt, when to ask questions, and when to simply sit and listen.

He did take offense at Harry's worries about Dumbledore, though, and gently chided the boy. "Harry, you don't honestly believe that Albus Dumbledore would be daft enough to put you back with those horrid muggles after they abandoned you, do you?"

Harry had shrugged, and studied the carpet a minute before mumbling, "I don't know what to believe anymore. I don't know what to do."

Tom studied the boy intently for a moment, before relenting. "I'll make you a deal, Harry," he finally stated, making the younger wizard look up in surprise. "You've had a shock, and I understand that you probably want a little time to yourself, so I won't tell Dumbledore you're here--" He stopped and held up a cautioning hand when Harry broke into a relieved grin. "I won't tell him you're here, yet. I do expect you to contact Professor Dumbledore, and your friends, but you can get yourself sorted out first. Fair enough?"

Harry considered this for a minute, then nodded reluctantly.

"Excellent!" Tom said brightly, clapping Harry on the shoulder. He chuckled when the boy's stomach announced that it was empty. Harry flushed slightly, then shrugged with a sheepish grin. "Perhaps you'd care for a late lunch," Tom offered kindly, "or at least a snack before dinner?"

Harry's smile became more genuine. "Yes, please. Can I bring Hedwig, too?"

"Very well," Tom motioned for the teen to follow him. "Let's head down to the kitchen. After you've finished, we'll get you checked in, and logged in the register."

Harry nodded absently, pausing to step into his shoes, and wake his sleeping owl before following Tom downstairs. Hedwig hooted happily from her perch on his shoulder when the old wizard disappeared into the kitchen, and returned a few minutes later with a light meal for Harry and herself. When Tom placed the food on the table, she fluttered off of Harry's shoulder, and both attacked their meals with gusto.

Tom watched curiously as his old calico cat approached the table. Patches was a very loyal creature, but not noticeably friendly to strangers. He was therefore completely amazed when the feline casually jumped into the boy's lap, curled up, and began to purr. Harry smiled softly, his hand moving automatically the stroke her soft coat.

There was a brief "argument" when Hedwig took offense at the attention her master was paying the other animal, but Harry got it sorted out. Tom smiled gently. He hadn't been concerned, but if he'd had even the smallest doubt about Harry's mental state, it would have been gone now. Patches was an absolute authority on human character. If she was that content in the boy's company, he certainly had nothing to fear from Harry Potter.

When the Gryffindor finished eating he amiably followed Tom over to the guest register. He accepted Tom's handsome eagle quill, with a quiet 'thanks,' and dipped it into the inkwell. Tom waited expectantly, then frowned when Harry froze and blanched. "Harry?" he questioned uncertainly. "Harry, lad, what's wrong?"

Jerkily, the boy turned to face the innkeeper. "What am I thinking?! I can't stay here!" he exclaimed, looking extremely wild around the eyes. "This is the first place anyone would look." Harry indicated the guest log which was openly displayed for the world to see. "All they'd have to do is check the register!"

Tom held his hands in front of him, and made little pacifying gestures in an attempt to calm the boy down. "Harry, HARRY!" he barked, when Potter's green eyes began to glaze over, and it became obvious he was considering flight. "You can't just go running off like this! Where will you go? Where will you stay?"

"I...I don't know," the boy admitted, the wind knocked from his sails. He gathered himself with visible effort, then faced Tom anxiously. "Maybe I can find a place in muggle London. See if I can get a job. Do you reckon I could leave my trunk here while I go look? Do you know if there are rules against owls? And how much do I owe you for last night?" he asked in a rush.

Tom thought quickly. The boy was obviously still distraught. All things considered, it was amazing he was thinking as clearly as he was. However, Tom had no intention of leaving the boy hero of the wizarding world to his own devices, and letting him disappear into muggle London. He eyed the boy speculatively. He was a little thing, but he had more than his share of determination and spirit. "Come with me, Harry," he said finally, grasping the boy's shoulder and steering him toward the kitchen. "I want to show you something."

Harry followed unprotesting, as Tom guided him across the kitchen, through a door, and up a narrow stairway. When they finally stopped he was in a small room above the kitchen. Harry looked around curiously. The room obviously hadn't been used in years. A thick layer of dust covered everything. It wasn't as fancy as the room he'd slept in last night, but it was comfortably furnished, and had an attached half bath.

"This was my room when I first started the old place," Tom reminisced fondly. "I added on a suite of rooms when I married, and I stay there now." He gave the boy another appraising look. "There's always more to do around here than one body can manage. If you're willing, you could stay here, and help out around the old place. You won't be a guest, so you won't sign the register. You can earn the use of this room, and any meals you care to have. If you earn more than that in a day, I can pay you, or extend you credit." Tom paused a moment, then prodded, "You'd be doing me a huge favor. What do you say?"

Harry didn't answer immediately, but Tom saw the determined gleam in his eyes. "You're the one doing me the favor," he finally stated with a grateful smile. "What do you want me to do first?"