Realizations

Chapter 13 - Meanwhile, Back At Diagon Alley...

Saturday, July 15, 1995

Blissfully ignorant of the commotion he was about to cause, Harry Potter, in his guise of Jim Patterson, mild-mannered student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, read over what he had just written to his headmaster.

Mindful of Professor Dumbledore's request, Harry had carefully transcribed all the information he had written in his little notebook, and tried to honestly express his thoughts and impressions about what was happening with his scar.

It hadn't been easy. His first instinct, as always, was to jealously guard anything that could be perceived as weakness, and swallow his own problems, and fears. As a young child he'd never been able, or even allowed to open up to the Dursleys. They silenced him when he tried to ask questions, accused him of lying when he swore he didn't know why weird things happened, insisted he was "up to something" if he smiled or laughed, and made him the target of their scornful ridicule if he came to them seeking assistance, reassurance, or advice. As a result, Harry had become remarkably self-sufficient at a very young age. Even now he turned to the adults in his life only when absolutely necessary, preferring to either confide in his friends, or just handle things himself.

Dumbledore seemed genuinely worried, though, and as much as Harry might wish otherwise, the headmaster's concerns were justified. If the painful twinges he felt when Voldemort fired weak, warning curses were anything to go by, he was going to be in real trouble when the dark wizard finally brought his full power to bear. The repeating threats of an attack were another problem. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Voldemort was targeting him.

Harry twirled his quill absently between his thumb and index finger. He wasn't keen on announcing to Dumbledore that the Dursleys had moved away, but what choice did he have? The chances of the property being discovered empty were entirely too good. Voldemort obviously wanted him, erm, dealt with. In light of this new threat, Dumbledore might decide that the enchantments on the house needed to be strengthened, or added to. Even if he didn't, Mrs. Figg might drop by with a job or an errand for him. The Weasleys might decide to surprise him once the warding of their home was completed. Not to mention Hermione would certainly get suspicious if she tried to phone and reached a disconnected number.

Besides, Professor Snape had been at some of the Death Eater meetings he'd witnessed, and the Potions Master would probably not be inclined to hide what was going on. He might be a greasy git, and the scourge of Gryffindors in general, but the man had never failed to defend him when he had been in actual danger. Harry would accomplish nothing by withholding information, except maybe to cast doubt on himself and his connection's strength and reliability...and he didn't want that. The boy could still remember his helpless frustration the year before when Snape doubted his story about Barty Crouch Sr., and wouldn't allow him to see the headmaster.

Harry sighed, and raked his other hand through his hair, trying to decide what to write. He hadn't even bothered to find out where the Dursleys had gone. It hadn't seemed to matter since he had no intention of ever going back to them. Tom, bless him, hadn't pressed the issue, but Harry knew his behavior was baffling the old man. If this was a misunderstanding of some kind, as the innkeeper had hinted, a phone call would clear it up in minutes. Harry just hadn't taken the time. He didn't imagine they'd gone far, anyway--his aunt and uncle had never seemed to be adventurous types. They were probably still in Surrey...although they might have ventured as far away as London. Eurgh, practically next door! What a horrible thought!

In the end he'd scribbled a short, vague, reference to the property at 4 Privet Drive being vacant. It seemed kinder than letting someone stumble across the house unprepared. He looked at the little paragraph, feeling his conscience prod him. He didn't lie, exactly, but his wording implied that he was with his relatives, where ever they were. It wasn't, perhaps, the best decision, but he didn't imagine the truth would go over well. Harry rolled his eyes as he imagined that letter:

Dear Professor Dumbledore:

I'm working for my keep at the Leaky Cauldron, seeing as my family abandoned me and I can't risk getting shipped off to an orphanage or endangering my friends. On the upside, I finally got some clothes that fit. Hope you are well...

Shrugging, Harry added If Voldemort is planning to attack me there I'm afraid he'll be disappointed. There. That should be good enough. Now Dumbledore would know that the dark lord was wasting his time planning attacks on empty houses! Anyway, the letter proved he was all right, and should set the headmaster's mind at rest.

A glance at his little bedside clock made Harry wince. He hadn't intended to spend so much time on this letter, but there had been a lot of information to pass along. He'd also dithered quite a bit over what to say and how to say it once he finished copying from his notebook and started talking about his scar. Oh, well. It should do. At any rate, he needed to finish up if he was going to at least start another letter before he was expected downstairs.

Getting a proper grip on his quill again, Harry signed the last page, then firmly tapped the little phoenix on each of the four pieces of parchment. As he watched, his words sank into the paper and disappeared. It was cool, but Harry felt a shiver of deja vu when he saw the effect. It was a little too close to the way Tom Riddle's diary worked for his peace of mind.

The similarities ended there, though. Tom's diary had retained its magic. Dumbledore's sheets of parchment did not. Harry had been told what to expect, but he hadn't realized he would be able to observe the magic leaving. After the message was sent, the paper sparkled slightly, and the totems across the top disappeared, leaving four perfectly normal sheets of parchment behind.

Gathering the parchment into a stack, Harry chewed on his lower lip, and tapped the paper with his quill. Who should he write to first? What was safe to say? The letters he still needed to answer were stacked to his right, so Harry picked them up and glanced over them.

It looked like the letters he would be writing would be remarkably similar. He had slightly different questions to answer and remarks to address, but there were recurring themes, too: his relatives, his job, his health and well being...

Harry wrinkled his nose at the blank parchment before him and made an aggravated sound. It was difficult to know where to start. A lot had happened in the week since he'd sent out his original notes. Eventually he began jotting down answers to the questions he had been asked and making notes about things that had happened, figuring he could practice first, then write the proper letters later.

Dear Everyone, he began, then lined the letters up along the back of the desk so he could refer to them as he worked.

Ron and Sirius both asked outright how his relatives were treating him. Well, that was easy enough.

The Dursleys are being even bigger prats than usual.

Hmm. That sounded a little desperate. Better fix that.

Don't worry, I don't need rescuing or real food or anything, but I am grateful for my job. It's been a real lifesaver.

So now, how to describe the job... Harry tapped the feather end of his quill against his cheek as he considered this.

His store-hopping schedule was something of an experiment, devised by Tom and the other merchants. Since underage students was not commonly employed in the magical community, there were very few established precedents to go by. Tom, mindful of Harry's "over achieving" tendencies, had been particularly careful to set limits on the boy's schedule. In addition to his duties at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had an optional "short shift" of not more than two hours between breakfast and lunch, and a longer shift of not more than four hours in the afternoon between lunch and dinner.

Initially, Harry had worried about his inability to do magic away from school, but his fears had been proven groundless. The merchants of Diagon Alley had put him to work doing things that were generally done by hand anyway. This freed up the shopkeepers and their clerks, so they could attend to other matters, and they seemed to like it very much. In fact, Harry noted with amusement, his compensation was generally increased somewhat when he tackled jobs that the current store's staff especially hated.

Work is going fine. I'm doing a lot of small things, like general cleaning and maintenance, unpacking and logging new merchandise, taking inventory, and re-stocking shelves. The variety keeps things interesting, and I've really learned a lot.

Now there was an understatement. The last few days had been a real eye-opener for the Boy Who Lived. Because he had been raised in the muggle world, Harry had very little practical experience with every day magic in the magical community. From what he'd observed at the Leaky Cauldron and at the Burrow, he'd figured that tidying up was done exclusively with charms. He'd been certain that the clean-by-hand methods he had learned at the Dursleys would be considered useless in the magical world, except perhaps for serving detentions at Hogwarts.

And he'd been wrong.

There were applications magic was ideal for, of course. Spot removal, for instance. Repairing breaks. Mending tears. Most witches and wizards, even the weaker, less talented ones could manage these small chores because all the caster's magic was concentrated on one small thing.

Directing a cleaning charm--or any charm, actually--on a larger area was another matter. It was trickier...not as straightforward. Even talented spell casters had trouble sometimes. Factors like natural aptitude, skill, training, and raw magical strength became more of an issue. Harry knew the theory from Professor Flitwick's class, although he hadn't attempted any yet. Those types of charms were considered advanced topics for fifth year and above.

The moral of the story was, magic was more convenient, but every now and then a good muggle scrubbing was required to deep clean and get the missed corners. Harry hadn't seen a lot of "by-hand" scrubbing because even though they agreed it was necessary, and had superior products like Mrs. Skowers Magical Mess Remover, most witches and wizards absolutely detested cleaning by hand. Generally, they either disliked the inconvenience and mess, or had "pureblood" issues. Tom had speculated that this attitude might even have been how the custom of keeping house elves had originated, though no one knew for sure.

My boss is very nice, and seems pleased with my work. Harry continued. He spoke well of me to some of the other shopkeepers, and some of them have had me do little jobs for them as well.

Well, he might have downplayed that a little, but again, it was true enough. Earlier in the week, Harry had done tasks for Flourish & Blotts, the Apothecary, the Magical Menagerie, Florean Fortescue's, Gambol & Japes, and Eeylope's Owl Emporium. Today, he had spent his short shift at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and the afternoon at Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions.

The boy put down his quill, stretched his fingers, and let his mind wander back. Today had actually been quite eventful, but he couldn't really discuss it without giving himself away. God, but it was frustrating! Maybe if he couldn't go the Burrow, a day visit could be arranged. There were some things he was simply bursting to tell Ron and Hermione! Harry smiled mischievously. He would offer to meet them at the Leaky Cauldron.

It had started that morning with the breakfast crowd. Harry had discovered that even well-cast spells weren't perfect, and charmed objects couldn't necessarily "see" or "think." He'd just finished clearing some tables, and had put a plate with a spoonful of half-dried jam on its edge into the sink. Usually this wasn't a problem. Tom's charmed brush was usually very thorough, but today...

Today the washing brush had missed a spot. Harry still couldn't fathom how it had happened. It had been a fairly healthy dollop.

That was bad enough, but to complicate things, the drying towel hadn't missed. It wiped the glob of jam off the plate as it dried it, then proceeded to smear the sticky mess on the next three dishes in line before they noticed what had happened.

Harry chuckled a little. Tom had exploded into rather colorful language before remembering his presence and becoming highly embarrassed.

Things settled down after that. His stint at the Quidditch store had been largely unremarkable. Just handling a small order that the store owner had received. Lunch at the Leaky Cauldron had been pretty tame too, until Hedwig and Fawkes showed up, that is.

The real action, however, had occurred when he headed down the Alley for the second time.

Harry had been dead nervous as he approached the robe shop. Remembering his outing with Dr. Granger, he'd dearly hoped he wouldn't be required to help customers make their selections. It wasn't that he wanted to hide in the back all the time. Harry interacted a bit with the shoppers, usually when he was on the main sales floor stocking shelves, and liked it very much. He didn't mind answering questions, directing them to the appropriate department, or fetching items, but he really couldn't picture himself following someone around and doing the whole "oh that looks wonderful on you" or "do you need another size" routine.

He needn't have troubled himself. Madam Malkin had greeted him pleasantly, verified that he wanted to earn credit toward new school and dress robes, then led him to the back. She had just received a large shipment of material, trims, supplies, and accessories, and wanted him to sort it out.

As they walked, Harry took the opportunity to look around. He'd never bothered to go beyond the Hogwarts uniform area on previous visits, so the rest of the store was new to him.

Besides school and dress robes, there were several glittering accessory displays, and a small shoe department. Some of the robes were plainer than others, but none could be called "casual." When he asked about it, Madam Malkin told him she had a sort of 'gentleman's agreement' with Gladrags Wizardwear. She handled the fancy things, they carried everyday items. It was a practical, workable arrangement for merchants and customers alike.

The back room had managed to be orderly and chaotic at the same time. Robes in various stages of completion were draped over dressmaker's forms, bolts of material stood in shallow shelves along three walls, and the fourth held threads, trims, and other sewing needs. Three witches in gray work robes, whom Madam Malkin introduced as Colleen, Dara, and Maggie, were busily measuring, cutting, and sewing. By the looks of things, someone was planning a wedding with a very large bridal party.

After the introductions had been made, Madam Malkin took Harry over to the large stack of shipment boxes, gave him some quick instructions, and left him to it. The wizard had grinned when he pulled open the first box, and saw the bolts of familiar black cloth inside. Madam Malkin was obviously stocking up for the back to school rush.

The Malkin filing system was mercifully straightforward--the bolts of cloth were sorted by type and color--and Harry had little difficulty with it. He hadn't known much about different materials though, so Maggie, Colleen and Dara took it upon themselves to give him a crash course while he worked. The Gryffindor had been able to identify some basic types, like silk, velvet, and linen, but by the time he finished unloading and storing the shipment, Harry knew more than he ever wanted to about shantung, taffeta, tulle, chiffon, seersucker, chintz, and damask. After he'd finished storing the trims, threads, fasteners, and other sewing paraphernalia his head was literally spinning with new terminology. Who would have thought that clothing could be so complicated!

Harry picked up his quill again. I've met some very nice people, and run into some others I haven't seen in a while...

Life had gotten exciting when Harry finished in the back, and then wandered out with one of the boxes of accessories. Madam Malkin had been waiting on a family. She had a blond boy up on a footstool, and was pinning the set of shimmery pearl-gray robes he was wearing to the correct length. Harry hung back, intending to approach her for instructions when she was finished. He was just thinking that there was something disturbingly familiar about the family, when the blond boy turned, and he had felt his blood turn to ice.

Malfoy!

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, Harry had clutched the box close, and backed away. Thankfully the Malfoys didn't notice him. When his fitting was done, Draco hopped lightly off the stool, and left to go have a look in Quality Quidditch Supplies while his mother selected some robes for herself.

Harry had mentally crossed his fingers, hoping fervently Draco's father, Lucius Malfoy, would leave too. Narcissa Malfoy didn't know him that well, and probably wouldn't recognize him, but Lucius had seen him up close on the night of the Third Task!

Unfortunately, he hadn't gotten his wish. Lucius Malfoy was evidently expected to stay. Madam Malkin dragged her comfortable "waiting chair" over for him to sit in, then led Narcissa over to the fancier women’s robes. On the way she noticed Harry.

"Oh, Sparky! Please forgive me for overlooking you. I'm afraid you'll have to make a little noise around here. Right here, Mrs. Malfoy. I'll be with you in one quick second. Now dear, the accessories are sorted by brand, and stored on these racks..."

Harry had listened nervously as the squat, mauve-robed witch rattled on about hair ornaments shoe decorations, and costume jewelry, all the while horribly aware of Lucius Malfoy's presence. At that moment, Harry had wanted to run for it more than anything he'd ever wanted before, but he managed to resist the urge. The comforting weight of the phoenix pendant against his chest helped calm him as well. As long as his hands were free, he had an escape.

Working rapidly, he had begun to sort out the accessories. He kept a wary eye on Mr. Malfoy, but the man didn't deign to acknowledge Madam Malkin's "hired help." Indeed, the other wizard was the very picture of bored, disgruntled masculinity. If the situation hadn't been so serious it would have been funny. Harry began to wonder if Mr. Malfoy had lost a bet with his wife--or his son.

Narcissa had been a challenging customer, insisting that Madam Malkin remain with her at all times, and dropping the robes she rejected in a pile on the floor. Harry caught the robe maker throwing harassed looks at the doors to the back room, but she didn't call for reinforcements. Perhaps they were running a bit behind schedule with the wedding things.

When Narcissa stepped on the pile of robes, after discarding her eighth or tenth set, Madam Malkin finally remembered Harry. Catching his eye, she glanced at the robes on the floor, then nodded toward a bar secured to the wall beside the mirror. Harry nodded his understanding when she looked him in the eye again, trying to ignore his stomach's uncomfortable lurch.

As he neared the fitting area, he caught Lucius Malfoy's attention. Resisting the instinct to squirm under the man's calculating gaze, Harry quickly did as Madam Malkin bade, wanting to escape the man's scrutiny as soon as possible. He'd been nervous as hell, mouth dry, heart hammering, palms sweating...

At first Malfoy surveyed Harry with bored disinterest. He seemed to dismiss the boy out of hand, which was perfectly fine as far as Harry was concerned. He had just hung the last robe, and about to make good his escape, when Lucius looked up sharply, as though realizing something. "Boy," he had ordered, "Come here."

Harry had reluctantly approached the man, every nerve in his body buzzing with alarm. When Malfoy had reached out and grasped his wrist he'd experienced a thick, reeling moment, certain that he was caught. Portkey! Harry had thought desperately, starting to reach for it, then his eyes had fallen on his trapped wrist. If he touched the pendant, he'd drag Mr. Malfoy to Hogwarts with him. Was this a good plan? Was anyone at Hogwarts? Perhaps he should try to wrench free first...what?

Malfoy had pressed some coins into his hand. Harry blinked, then looked at him blankly, irritating the other wizard. "I told you to go fetch me a copy of the Daily Prophet, you dim-witted dolt!" Malfoy snapped. "Now move!" he commanded, making dismissive flipping motions with his hand.

"Right away, sir," Harry said dazedly, after glancing at Madam Malkin, and receiving her grateful nod of permission. At the time he'd been too relieved to be annoyed by Malfoy's customary I-am-perfect-and-you-are-scum attitude, and really, the situation was just too funny. He'd had to battle down a shout of rather hysterical laughter when he'd returned with Lucius' paper and change--especially when Lucius had rather pompously gifted him with the few Knuts that had been left over. Talk about surreal! His position of "general laborer" had put him beneath Malfoy's notice.

At length, Narcissa had finally settled on a set of midnight blue robes charmed to sparkle like a twilight sky. After they left, Madam Malkin muttered something uncomplimentary that made Harry laugh out loud. The disparaging comment didn't suit the little dressmaker at all. "You weren't supposed to hear that," Malkin said sheepishly, turning the same color as her robes.

Harry immediately stopped laughing and covered his mouth contritely with one hand. "Sorry," he mumbled.

Madam Malkin gave him a curious look. "Whatever for? I should be apologizing to you for allowing him speak to you so rudely. I'm afraid I was rather shocked by his presumption. Thank you for being good enough to get his paper, though."

"It was nothing, Madam Malkin."

I'm working on a little project I hope Ron and Hermione will be able to help me with later in the summer. Some details are still being worked out at the moment, so I'll have to write more after everything is finalized.

Yeah, Fawkes had nearly shocked him out of his wits, and the Malfoy encounter had almost been enough to send him to St. Mungo's, but as far as Harry was concerned, the most unbelievable event of the whole ruddy day had occurred just as he was leaving the robe shop.

Hedwig had met him in the Alley with several sheets of parchment as he'd said his goodbyes to Madam Malkin and her staff. The Gryffindor's eyes had widened, and he had thanked the owl profusely while giving himself a mental slap when he realized what she had.

Geoffrey Reed, the manager of Flourish & Blotts had given him an assignment of sorts. He'd finished the night before, and planned to drop it off at the bookstore on his way back from Madam Malkin's, but had gotten so wrapped up in the box from Mrs. Figg's house, he'd forgotten to grab it on his way out.

"Hello, Mr. Patterson," Geoffrey Reed had greeted him when he'd entered the bookstore a few minutes later. "What can I help you with?"

"I've finished my revisions, sir...you said you wanted to see them?" Harry said, beginning to feel a little unsure of himself.

Mr. Reed seemed pleased. "Finished already, eh? Well, let's go to my office, and see what you have, shall we?" he invited, ushering Harry in and offering him a seat.

Perched uncertainly on the edge of his chair, Harry passed the parchment to Geoffrey, and watched uneasily as the manager began to peruse his work. On his first day at Flourish and Blotts, he had run across a box of pamphlets while cleaning out the back room. They were informational reading for muggleborns--an attempt to ease their way into the magical world.

When Harry had asked Mr. Reed why the pamphlets weren't being used, the man had sighed, obviously frustrated, and admitted that they were a failed experiment. The brochures had been written, and edited by highly acclaimed and accredited witches and wizards, but in spite of this, Muggleborn first-years consistently found them more confusing than helpful.

That hadn't made sense to Harry until he had read one. When he finished, he understood completely.

It wasn't that the information in the brochures was deliberately wrong or misleading, it was just...incomplete. It was a case of a witch or wizard trying to explain things that they considered perfectly normal to muggleborns, who had never experienced such things before.

Harry recognized this primarily because he'd made the same kind of mistake summer before second year. In his first floundering attempts to explain "perfectly normal" muggle things to Mr. Weasley, he'd glossed over tiny intermediate steps and left out details that were common knowledge in the muggle world thinking Arthur was aware of them as well. Things went much better when Harry realized his mistake, and became more methodical and detailed with his explanations.

The authors of the pamphlet evidently hadn't cottoned on to this subtle point. After having been part of wizard society for the past few years, Harry had the knowledge to fill in the unspoken steps, and was able to read and understand the document. If he'd been given this same paper going into first year, however, he wouldn't have been able to make sense of it. Hermione might have been able to, since she'd done all that preparatory reading, but it was by no means a sure bet.

When Harry pointed out his observation to Mr. Reed, the man had given him a thoughtful look, then floored him completely by suggesting he have a go at updating it. "You seem to have a feel for what muggleborns go through," Geoffrey had pointed out, interrupting Harry's incoherent sputtering. "Are you one yourself? Or one of your parents, perhaps?"

Harry had nodded, not specifying which question he was answering. "I didn't know I was a wizard until I got my Hogwarts letter," Harry said with a shrug and a grin, hoping Mr. Reed would draw the conclusion that he himself was muggleborn. The diversion worked, and that had basically been the end of that conversation.

Nervously shifting in his seat, Harry had watched Mr. Reed, trying to get a sense of what he was thinking. The manager wasn't giving a lot away, though, frowning slightly as he scanned the new brochure--well actually, it was more of a booklet now. Swallowing nervously, Harry prepared himself for the worst. How could he have been so stupid? Why had he ever thought he could do this? He could almost hear Vernon and Petunia's mocking voices now: So the little freak fancies himself a writer! Oh, that's rich! Who would be daft enough to believe anything you had to say?

"Excellent!"

Harry snapped back to the present, and opened eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed. "Sorry?"

"Outstanding work, Mr. Patterson, I must congratulate you!" Geoffrey was all smiles now. "You've hit the proverbial nail on the head! If I send this to Hogwarts today, maybe the staff can approve it in time to send it out with this years' letters. Mr. Patterson? I say, are you all right?"

Harry nodded, dumbly, still in a state of shock. Strict, picky, Mr. Reed actually liked his ideas! Unreal. It was like getting accolades from Percy Weasley. "Yes sir," he finally managed to say. "Sorry, I was afraid you wouldn't like it."

"Well it's not as formal as the original," Mr. Reed said, speculatively, "but that isn't necessarily bad. I rather like your lighthearted approach. This is supposed to be for eleven-year-olds, after all. I think besides leaving out pertinent information, we forgot to consider this document's intended audience. You've taken care of both splendidly."

"Thank you, sir. Erm, there's one more thing if you don't mind," Harry said hesitantly, wishing it wasn't so blessed hard to talk to adults. His friends were much easier to deal with. He waited for Reed's nod, then shared an idea he'd been kicking around ever since he'd taken on the project.

"I had someone who helped me along the first time I came to Diagon Alley. He answered my questions and did his best to explain things," Harry said, thinking fondly of Hagrid. "The brochure is a good idea, but perhaps we could offer the new muggleborn students and their families the same kind of chance. They could come to Diagon Alley in groups...maybe on Sundays when things are less crowded. It's kind of short notice to get a prefect to act as the guide and answer questions, but I could do that this year. I'm going to be around, anyway, and if I'm lucky, I might even be able to get my friends to help," Harry realized he was babbling, and stopped, looking uncertainly up at the other wizard.

Geoffrey had stared at the boy in front of him in amazement for a few seconds, then shook his head bemusedly. "Sparky," he said finally, "you're a treasure."

Sighing, Harry pulled his attention back to the present, and summed up his frustration in one heartfelt line. There's so many things I want to tell you, but I really need to wait until I see you in person. He felt sort of guilty then, and was glad the "letter" he was writing was just being used to organize his thoughts. The Weasleys were working very hard to put protective magic on the Burrow, and Dumbledore and his order were doing everything in their power to check Voldemort's progress. They didn't need to listen to his whining.

Harry threw down his quill in disgust, and glanced at his clock. This was going nowhere fast. Perhaps he should take a small break. He wasn't expected in the kitchen just yet, but he would be soon. He should probably go on downstairs--finish his letters later.

Tom looked up, startled, then smiled cheerily when he noticed Harry was in the kitchen. It really was too bad that those silencing charms were necessary on the boy's room and the back stairs. "You're early, tonight," you know, he said, watching as Harry donned an apron.

"I know," he said with a shrug. "I just got to a stopping point and decided to come early instead of starting something else."

Tom nodded. "Well, it's been pretty quiet so far this evening," he said, then stopped when the door that opened into Muggle London opened and closed accompanied by the jingling of bells.

"You were saying?" Harry snickered saucily.

"That's enough out of you, laddie," the old wizard replied with mock seriousness. "Obviously the customers were waiting for you to put in an appearance before they did."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Please. No one comes here just to see me."

"Oh really." Tom imitated Harry's expression and began ticking points off on his fingers. "What about that cute little witch who helps her mum and dad run their stand in the farmer's market?"

"Chandra."

"Mmm-hmm. And the little blonde clerk from Flourish & Blotts?"

"Erin. So?"

"And of course we can't forget Mrs. Talridge."

"Tom!"

"I'm just having you on, lad, but people have started asking for you. That's quite a compliment, especially since you haven't been at it for long." Chuckling fondly, the innkeeper reached out and gave Harry a little shove toward the door. "Now, let's go see who's here."

"Right," Harry said, pushing the kitchen door open, and stepping into the main part of the pub. At first there didn't seem to be anyone there. Harry exchanged a confused look with Tom. Someone had entered. "Hello? Is anyone here?" he called.

At first there was no answer, then at length, a very small, uncertain voice said, "Yes." There was a pause, then another voice, much younger than the first cried, "Mama! Where Mama?" and burst into noisy tears.