Realizations

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Chapter 17 - It's All In The Details

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Sunday, July 16, 1995

Tom made a discontented noise, when he felt long, feline whiskers tickling his face. The whiskers were soon joined by an insistent paw tapping on his cheek, and a wet little nose investigating his ear. When he started showing signs of life, his ear immediately reverberated with a rumbling purr.

"Patches!" he groaned unhappily, opening one eye a crack, then closing it again. Judging by the faint light filtering through the windows, it was a good hour or so before he had to get up. "What do you mean, waking me up at this hour?", he groused, shooing the cat away with a clumsy wave of his hand. Unperturbed, Patches merely stepped down, and settled comfortably in his lap, kneading his leg and purring contentedly.

Tom's mouth lifted in a sleepy half smile as he absently stroked her coat. Dimly, his awakening brain began to process several details. He was holding his wand loosely in the hand that wasn't petting Patches, he was still fully dressed, all the way down to his shoes, and he sitting in what felt like his favorite overstuffed chair.

After deciding that he must have fallen asleep in the living room again, Tom yawned sleepily and shifted slightly in the chair. It was early yet. He could doze a little longer before getting up to face the day. He had very nearly dropped off again, when a small noise beside him made him jump in surprise.

Tom snapped his eyes open and reflexively grasped his wand. Still not quite awake, he looked warily around, wondering if there was an intruder. No one was supposed to be in his private rooms without an invitation, after all. When his eyes fell on the bed beside him, he relaxed almost immediately. Oh. Not to worry. It was just Harry, shifting in his sleep.

Tom put a hand over his heart and blew out a relieved breath as Harry mumbled something, then was quiet once more. That was close! the innkeeper thought gratefully, settling comfortably back into his chair with a yawn. He had very nearly shouted in alarm when he'd heard the boy stir. Oh, my, yes. That would have awakened him for sure, and that would never do. Poor lad needed his rest, especially after that nasty spell he'd had last night.

Wait... Harry?! Last night??! Suddenly wide awake, Tom realized he was in his old room above the kitchen as events came back in a rush. After everything had settled down, he'd decided to sit with Harry for a little while to make sure he was all right. He must have nodded off!

Remembering something else, Tom jumped to his feet, dislodging Patches in the process. Ignoring the cat's indignant yowl, he sought out the second tracking charm he'd cast last night. This one was displayed on the inside of Harry's door.

Sparky:

Location: Leaky Cauldron (loft suite)

Status: Normal

Normal. Good. Tom felt the knot of tension in his chest ease somewhat, then frowned suspiciously. "Temporis Spatium!*" he said softly, pointing his wand at the status line. He should have been awakened last night if anything was wrong, but it never hurt to make sure. He broke into a relieved grin when he viewed the results of the Duration Query. Harry's status hadn't changed again during the night.

Briefly, he wished he knew a more detailed spell. The person and location lines were fine, but the status...the status was a bit vague. After last night he found himself wanting input more helpful and informative than Normal, Warning, and Danger. Tracking charms weren't something he dealt with a lot, and they were generally temporary. He certainly hadn't thought the charm he'd cast would be a long-term thing, but now he was seriously considering keeping it active until Harry was safely back at Hogwarts.

Frustrated and unsure what to do, Tom settled for lighting the room just a bit and carefully studying the youth in front of him. Actually, he thought, reaching down, and searching Potter's forehead for signs of fever, Harry's looking a lot better now. The boy was warm, but not overly so, and was sleeping peacefully which pleased Tom a great deal. Satisfied, he straightened up, and stretched his stiff back.

Sighing, Tom rubbed his temples, worry and indecision prodding him. After running the Leaky Cauldron all these years, he had thought there wasn't a whole lot he hadn't seen or heard of. People tended to open up to bartenders, especially after they'd had a few. If he had any desire to do so, he could write the king of all scandal sheets.

He never would, of course. Even if he didn't find the idea repulsive, Tom knew he'd have to find another line of work if he ever abused his customers' trust in such a manner.

Still, as much as he hated to admit it, Harry had scared the hell out of him. He'd made a career out of watching and interacting with people. He prided himself on being able to handle any situation, but last night he'd been at a loss. He still was.

What happened? Tom wondered shakily, closing his eyes and thinking back. Except for those little muggleborn witches dropping by, the previous evening had been largely unremarkable. As a matter of fact, he hadn't even had a hint that something was amiss until after "Last Call."

After escorting the last few customers out, he had locked up, and begun tidying up for the night. There hadn't been a lot to do, really, just wipe down the bar, and take the last few mugs, glasses, and bottles into the kitchen. Ignoring the tub that Harry generally used for that purpose, Tom had used a Summoning Charm to gather the glassware together, then cast a Levitation Charm on the whole lot. As he directed them through the door and into the sink, he remembered thinking that he should cancel the tracking spell he'd cast on the Boy-Who-Lived, before he forgot. After setting the load of dishes in the sink, he'd raised his wand, intending to do just that, but a glance at the status line had made him freeze in his tracks.

Warning.

Taken completely by surprise, Tom had simply stared for a second. His first notion was that Harry must have gone again out without him noticing, but when he raised his eyes to the location line, it still read Leaky Cauldron (loft suite).

Frightened, Tom had turned, and hurried up the back steps. When Harry hadn't responded to his knocks and calls, he had became half convinced that the boy had been attacked. Steeling himself for the worst, Tom had readied himself, then entered Harry's room, wand drawn.

Initially, he hadn't been able to determine what was wrong. Harry wasn't directly facing him, but judging by his appearance, he was obviously in for the night. Potter had changed into the soft knit t-shirt and sweat pants that he'd taken to sleeping in, his headband was missing, and his glasses were perched on the top of his head. The boy was seated at the desk, and by all indications, he'd nodded off while working on a letter or an assignment.

Relieved, Tom had wondered if the tracking charm was faulty, or else more sensitive than he had first thought. The only thing Harry seemed to be in danger of, was waking up with a very stiff neck and back.

He had moved to the desk, and called to the boy, thinking he would at least get him to move to the bed, but Harry had not stirred.

Tom had found this very peculiar. He'd learned a few things about the Boy-Who-Lived since the beginning of summer, and one thing he'd become aware of early on, was Harry Potter was a rather light sleeper. Trying again, he had called louder, and reached out to shake the boy's shoulder.

He still hadn't gotten a response, but Tom had noticed Harry's shirt was damp with perspiration.

Frowning, Tom had stepped back a second, and turned his attention to the condition of the suite. Odd. The room was at a comfortable temperature, and Harry wasn't overdressed. He had wondered about this for a few seconds, then the obvious answer had occurred to him. Potter must be ill. That would go a long way toward explaining his unusually deep sleep.

It was too bad, really, Tom had thought while he removed the boy's glasses, and turned down the bed with a wave of his wand. "Wingardium Leviosa!" he commanded, pointing his wand at the unconscious teenager.

As he'd carefully guided Harry's unresponsive form from the desk to the bed, Tom had reflected that, although unfortunate, this wasn't all that surprising. When Harry had shown up that first night, wet, pale, flushed, and sneezing, Tom had been certain that the boy was coming down with a severe cold. He'd actually been rather shocked by Harry's condition when he went into his room the following afternoon.

Certain the boy would be needing them, he'd rummaged through the Leaky Cauldron's medicine cabinet before going up. Armed with a fever reducer and some Pepper-Up Potion, he'd headed for Room 11, assuming he would have a sick teen on his hands for a few days.

Astonishingly, that hadn't been the case.

Potter had still looked a bit peaky, and was very stressed and apprehensive, but the all the other signs of illness had been gone. He was more alert, he no longer appeared feverish, and he'd stopped sneezing.

That wasn't the only time, either, now that the thought about it. Something similar had happened when Harry had irritated his skin so, trying to finish all the items on the list Tom had given him. Appalled by what had happened, Tom had gone to his own rooms during a lull between lunch and dinner, and dug out his jar of soothing hand balm. It had been waiting in the kitchen when Harry reported for work, but it hadn't been necessary. In fact...

Tom raised his eyebrows speculatively, and gently brushed Harry's black hair back, exposing his forehead, and his lightning bolt scar. Last night the mark had been red and irritated, like Harry had only recently been injured. Tom had also felt a tingle of energy when he'd touched it, almost like static electricity. Now it was looking and behaving like it usually did. Strange.

Deciding it was probably safe to leave Harry alone, provided he kept an eye on the tracking charm in the kitchen, Tom started to cast a Shrinking Spell on his chair, meaning to pocket it, and take it back to his own rooms, then he noticed Harry's desk chair was missing. Oh, yes. He'd transfigured the desk chair into something a bit more comfortable.

I really do need my morning tea, Tom thought sheepishly, undoing his spell, and replacing the chair at the desk, before creeping softly toward the door. On his way out, he whispered Finite Incantatem, canceling the copy of Harry's status before gently shutting the door behind him. Seeming to sense where he was going, Patches let herself out through the cat flap, and was down the stairs in a flash.

As he busied himself in the kitchen, putting on the kettle, and setting out Patches' feeding dish, Tom returned to his musings. He'd gotten Harry into bed without much fuss. The boy was pale, and still sweating a little, so Tom had fetched a wet washcloth, intending to bathe his face and arms, and try to make him a bit more comfortable. It had been then when he'd become aware of the strange energy that seemed to emanate from Harry's scar, and the condition of the mark itself. When he'd touched the boy's skin with the cloth, the hair on his arm had literally stood on end.

That had been nothing compared to what happened next, however.

Without warning, Harry had let out a strangled cry and his hands had flown to his forehead. Shuddering convulsively, he had rolled onto his side, and curled up defensively. The tendons in his arms and neck had stuck out like taut wires, and his respiration had become quick and shallow.

"Harry!" Tom had shouted, alternating between shaking the boy, and trying to pry his hands away from his head. "Harry, wake up!" he pleaded, but the youth showed no signs of hearing him. His eyes and jaws were clamped tightly shut, but little sounds of distress came out with every breath.

It had seemed to go on forever, although realistically Tom reckoned it had probably only been two or three minutes. Then as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Harry slowly stopped shaking and relaxed, panting and sweating like he'd just run a race. He still didn't respond to Tom's calls, but at least he didn't seem to be hurting anymore. Tom took that as a good sign. He retrieved the washcloth he'd dropped earlier, and began to gently cool the boy's feverish skin, talking to him all the while.

Finally he got a response. Harry clenched his fists and gasped, then his green eyes flew open and he woke with a start. "Whoa, whoa, easy there," Tom admonished, when Harry sat bolt upright, then wobbled dizzily at the sudden movement. He put his hands on the boy's shoulders to steady him. "Take it slow."

"Can't," Harry had croaked, shaking his head stubbornly, and wiping at his watering eyes. "Dreamt about HIM. Have t'write it down--" he began, then broke off with a miserable-sounding groan, and put one hand over his mouth as though nauseated. "Steady lad," Tom had said, summoning Harry's milk glass and transfiguring it into a basin--just in case--as Harry closed his eyes, and concentrated on controlling his stomach.

Fortunately, the boy had prevailed, and Tom's precautions hadn't been necessary. After a minute or so, Harry had opened his eyes, removed his hand and nodded weakly. Tom broke into a relieved grin, and carefully pushed him back down on the bed when he tried to stand again. "Tell me what you want, and I'll fetch it," he instructed. "You just relax."

"Paper...pen," Harry said, slurring his words slightly as he gestured in the general direction of the desk.

Nodding, Tom had fetched Harry's muggle notebook and pen from the desk, then looked on in concern as Harry rolled over onto his stomach, flinching as he did so, and scribbled a few lines. Yawning hugely, the boy laid his head on his arm and mumbled. "Need t'write t'Dumbledore..."

"In the morning," Tom had replied firmly, taking the writing materials, and laying them on the night stand. "Or at least after you've rested a bit." Knowing Harry's stubborn nature, he'd expected if not an argument, then at least a token protest, but Harry had just nodded and closed his eyes. Tom had found his unprotesting acquiescence worrisome--moreso even than his strange seizure had been. He had almost marched downstairs right then and there to Floo for medical help, but on second thought, he had decided to wait until morning. Harry seemed to be in a deep restful sleep now, and he had responded with little murmurs when Tom cast drying and freshening charms, instead of being so terribly unresponsive.

After covering the boy, Tom had retrieved the desk chair, and transfigured it into something a bit more comfortable. Evidently he'd done too good of a job with that. He'd only intended to stay for a little while, just to make sure Harry was all right, and didn't wake again. Instead, he'd fallen asleep himself and stayed all bloody night!

Ah well, no one's perfect, Tom thought, grabbing a cup and moving toward the kettle when began to whistle.

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Out of bed, you sleepy-head! Out of bed, you sleepy-head!

Harry Potter groaned and buried his head in his pillow. Was that Aunt Petunia calling?

Out of bed, you sleepy-head! Out of bed, you sleepy-head!

"Coming," he mumbled, still half asleep. Absently he reached up for the pull string that hung down from the cupboard's ceiling light. When his hand encountered empty air, his eyebrows drew together in annoyance. Had Dudley flipped the cord onto the top shelf and out of reach again?

Out of bed, you sleepy-head! Out of bed, you sleepy-head!

Without opening his eyes, Harry murmured another sleepy affirmative, abandoning his search for the pull-string, and feeling around for his glasses instead. He started in surprise when he reached behind his head, and his questing fingers encountered a smooth oak headboard. Where was the shelf behind his cot? Where were his glasses?

Out of bed, you sleepy-head! Out of bed, you sleepy-head!

Oh, right. He'd been moved to Dudley's second room just before beginning school at Hogwarts. Stupid of him to have forgotten...old habits and all that.

Out of bed, you sleepy-head! Out of bed, you sleepy-head!

Aunt Petunia was certainly repeating herself an awful lot, Harry noted absently, wondering why she hadn't banged on his door yet. As he drifted towards full wakefulness, he realized it wasn't Aunt Petunia addressing him at all. The voice by his bed was far too cheerful and perky. It sounded nothing like her usual strident screech.

Harry opened his eyes, frowning in confusion, then squinted at the clock on his nightstand. Oh, right. He was in the room over the Leaky Cauldron's kitchen. Tom wanted him to come down early, so he'd set the alarm just to be safe. Up to now he hadn't bothered with it since Patches had taken it upon herself to wake him every day. Strange. He'd expected the alarm to be the little chimes that sounded when the clock was trying to get his attention, not this!

Out of bed, you sleepy-head! Out of bed, you sleepy-head!

Amazing. He hadn't thought an alarm existed that was more annoying than that buzzer thing Uncle Vernon had, but this was enough to make an otherwise sane person go 'round the twist.

Out of bed, you sleepy-head! Out of bed, you sleepy-head! Out of bed, you sleepy head!

"All right," he growled, snatching up the clock and battling down a mad urge to chuck the thing across the room when he couldn't immediately find the "Off" switch. "I'm up, I'm up! Shut up already, would you?"

Obediently, the clock silenced when he deactivated the alarm, and began to reset itself. After a few seconds, in addition to the time, the face displayed, "Too Early To Be Up."

Harry rolled his eyes at the timepiece, as he set it back on the nightstand, then sat up looking for his glasses. Strange. They should be right there beside the clock...and how did his notebook get there? Harry raised an eyebrow, puzzling over this. For that matter, how had he gotten here? He certainly didn't remember getting up and coming to bed. In fact, the last thing he remembered, was laying his head down on the desk when he'd been listening in on Voldemort and Wormtail.

Curious, Harry padded over to the desk. Sure enough, there were his glasses, folded neatly on top of his scattered letters and homework assignments. He automatically put them on, then sat down and reached for a piece of Dumbledore's charmed parchment.

He was about halfway through recounting his dream, when he realized he was recalling all the details without the use of his notebook. That was different.

Usually he had to write down dreams right away, because he lost details so quickly upon awakening. Sometimes even with the prompts in his notebook it was hard to remember everything, but for some reason, looking back on the dream he'd had last night was like thinking of something that happened yesterday. If he concentrated a bit, he could remember everything clearly and easily.

Harry felt a shiver go down his spine when he remembered the curious feeling of being awake at the remote cabin, and asleep at the Leaky Cauldron simultaneously. That was beyond bizarre. He wondered if this was worth mentioning to his headmaster. Perhaps he should wait to see if he could identify what was going on first. He just knew this was something he'd heard of before--he just couldn't recall from where!

Sighing, Harry put down his enchanted quill and checked the time again. Drat. He needed to get downstairs, but he really wanted to send this letter now, not later. Shrugging, as he remembered Dumbledore's request to forward all information, no matter how simple or unimportant, he scribbled a brief description of the rest of the dream and a small bit about his scar burning.

The part about his dream sounded a little nutters, he thought critically as looked it over a few minutes later, but the overall the tone was calm and informative. Deciding it would do, Harry activated the parchment, then gathered some clothes and started getting cleaned up.

---

Back in the kitchen, Tom was looking over the Leaky Cauldron's stash of healing and medicinal potions. People got sick, after all, and didn't always have their own with them, so he kept a supply of some of the mildest non-prescription potions on hand. He'd gotten the idea as a young man when one of his customers had woken in the night with a raging case of heartburn. It had been so severe, he had woken Tom to see if he had anything that would help. Unfortunately, Tom hadn't had a remedy available, since he didn't suffer from the affliction himself, and the matter hadn't seemed worth a trip to St. Mungo's, so the ailing wizard just had to wait until the little potions shop opened the next morning. Tom had offered to go, and had purchased a small array of common remedies while he was at it.

It had been a sound investment, Tom mused as he studied the bottles, noting the levels of the potions they contained. The goodwill it had earned him had been enormous, and since most witches and wizards added money toward replacement when the settled their accounts, the cost of providing the service was minimal. Hmm. He still had plenty of fever reducer, but he was almost out of Stomach Soothing Solution. Mrs. Nettleby had used quite a bit of it during her stay a couple of weeks ago. Poor dear. Ah well, there were a few doses left. He'd order more later.

Frowning, Tom sipped his tea, and began to organize. So far as he knew, Harry had been planning to stay at the Leaky Cauldron today and do laundry. He'd see how the boy was doing when he woke up, then they could send owls to the shops Sparky was supposed to be working at for the next couple of days. Actually, after what he had seen last night, a check-up at St. Mungo's might be in order. The old wizard was just considering making a list when a quiet voice spoke behind him.

"Good morning, Tom."

Startled out of his reverie, the wizard whirled around, then blinked a couple of times. "Harry?" he blurted incredulously. He'd figured Harry would be spending the next day or two sick in bed, but there he was, freshly dressed, hair still damp from the shower, and looking none the worse for wear.

He gaped until the boy frowned worriedly at him. "Are you all right, Tom?" Harry asked, studying his elder uncertainly. "Maybe you should sit down," he suggested. "Would you like another cup of tea?"

Still thunderstruck, Tom sat heavily at one of the worktables, and didn't object when Harry collected his cup, and went to refill it. When he glanced at the clock it read, "You're Early." Tom raised an eyebrow at Harry when his young companion returned, and placed two steaming mugs on the table. "What are you doing up at this hour?" he asked, as the boy perched on the chair beside him.

"Er, you said you wanted to talk to me," Potter stated, fiddling nervously with his own teacup.

Oh, yes... Tom thought, remembering as from another lifetime when he'd asked Harry to come down a little early. Merlin! Had it really only been last night?

"If that isn't true, I can go," Harry offered, seeming more than grateful for a chance to escape. He had just started to rise, but the other wizard stopped him.

"No, no, I remember now," he said with a small smile. "Sorry, I was off with the pixies. Breakfast?"

Harry shook his head. He wasn't hungry just yet. "Maybe a little later?"

"Very well." Tom folded his hands on the table and seemed to gather his thoughts. "When I originally asked you to come down, I had a few questions in mind, but after last night I find I have a few more."

Harry started, then paled a bit, as he realized what had happened. The last bit of information he hadn't been able to place upon awakening fell into place. That's right! Tom was there when I woke up from my nightmare! He fetched my notebook! he thought, feeling faintly scandalized. Had Tom gotten him from the desk to the bed as well?

He swallowed nervously and studied the tabletop, wondering if he'd done something strange and unforgivable last night while he'd been dreaming. Did Tom believe him to be a threat now? Where would he go if he couldn't stay at the Leaky Cauldron anymore?

He was so worried about his impending eviction, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Tom leaned forward, and laid a gentle hand on his forearm.

"Are you all right?" Tom asked, frowning worriedly now. "You looked like an owl in daylight for a second there." When Harry nodded, he went on. "You seem to be a lot better this morning, but you appeared to be terribly ill last night, Harry. It might not hurt for you to get checked over by your regular physician, or at least take a couple of days off and rest. You can send owls to the shopkeepers you're supposed to be assisting, they'll be disappointed, but they'll understand.

"Oh, and speaking of owls," Tom said, interrupting himself before Harry could say anything, "I received a letter from your headmaster yesterday. He asked if I'd mind allowing you to occasionally make use of the Leaky Cauldron owls since your own is so distinctive." Tom frowned a bit, and fished the letter out of one of his robe pockets, and squinted at it. "I don't know why he thought it would be an inconvenience, with you staying here and all, I suppose he didn't want to presume anything."

Harry blinked once or twice as he processed what Tom was saying. The other wizard was worried about owls? And his health? This wasn't what he had been expecting at all. Before he could stop it, a question escaped. "So I can still stay here, then?"

Brought up short, Tom frowned again, this time in confusion. "Why on earth would you think you couldn't?"

Harry shrugged dropped his gaze to the tabletop again. He found his attention momentarily distracted by Tom's hand which was still resting lightly on his forearm. It was an interesting sensation, not at all like when his aunt or uncle roughly grabbed him, or when one of his friends grasped his hand to direct him somewhere or hurry him along. No this was calm and undemanding. Comforting, one might say.

Before he'd started attending Hogwarts, Harry hadn't had a lot of experience with positive touch. He had observed it, of course. Dudley had always been showered with affection by both parents, but Harry had always been fascinated by the small, loving attentions that Aunt Petunia especially, seemed to do without conscious thought. It was the same at the Burrow. Molly Weasley was forever brushing back hair, straightening clothing, and bestowing quick loving touches much to his friend Ron's chagrin. Janet Wright had behaved in a similar fashion with Kitty and Becky just last night, come to think of it.

Since he'd started his magical training, he'd made a lot of progress. He'd become accustomed, for example, to the rough, brotherly jostling of his dorm-mates and the Quidditch team. He'd learned to accept Hermione and Hagrid's tackling, exuberant hugs with good grace, and, most of the time, he could deal with casual contact from his professors and peers. It was those fleeting moments of genuine tenderness that still took him by surprise. He found himself feeling lost and tongue-tied, and unsure what to do.

Finally, unable to bear the suspense, he looked up and met Tom's shrewd gaze. "You're still fretting about that rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote, aren't you," the other wizard said, his tone making it a statement, not a question. "I thought we sorted this out your first day here."

Harry didn't respond aloud, but his cheeks reddened slightly.

Tom tutted disapprovingly. "Child, I've lost count of how many witches and wizards have sat in my pub and cried out tales of woe that featured that woman. Unfortunately she always makes sure her articles have just enough truth in them. The Daily Prophet doesn't usually retract a story unless it's completely wrong. More importantly," he continued, giving Harry's arm a little squeeze before sitting back, and folding his hands on the table, "I've never believed you to be a danger to those around you. If I did, I wouldn't have recommended you to my friends in the Alley, and I certainly wouldn't have allowed you to escort that family home last night."

The effect of his words was electrifying. Smiling indulgently, Tom watched the emotions that flitted across Harry's face. The boy had looked amazed at first, then suspicious, as though unable to believe what he'd been told. Next, he had looked very hard at Tom, scrutinizing him closely as though searching for signs of falsehood, then finally... finally, Harry had believed him. His eyes had lost the look of ill-concealed dread, his posture had relaxed slightly, and the wholehearted smile that lit up his face was worth a million Galleons.

The talk had gone a bit more smoothly after that. Tom knew Harry hadn't told him everything, but they'd hit the high points on quite a few topics before it was time to get the dining room ready for breakfast. Harry had seemed to sense that Tom had been genuinely frightened by what he'd witnessed, so he shared a bit about his scar, and its apparent connection to Voldemort. He'd also admitted that he didn't get sick often, and even when he did, he seemed to shake it off overnight or within a day or so. Madam Pomphrey had also commented more than once how quickly he healed from physical injury.

Perhaps the most telling bit had been the small pieces of information Harry had shared about his muggle relatives. Or what he didn't say, rather. The boy had still been reluctant to speak on the subject, but Tom had gotten the point nonetheless. It was a shame and a disgrace, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out how it had gone on for so long unnoticed, but there is was, plain as day. The Boy-Who-Lived, the child who every witch and wizard in the magical world assumed had everything he wanted given to him in abundance, actually had very little. It was beyond Tom's comprehension how such a daft mistake could have been made.

Those horribly oversized clothes had been hand-me-downs from his cousin. The clothes Harry had bought for himself had been the first new ones he'd had since he was a toddler. Evidently, his relatives had done exactly what they'd had to, and nothing more. Harry had been given food to eat, clothes to wear, a place to sleep, and medical attention when there was no other choice, but he had clearly been denied many other intangible things that children need to thrive and grow. No wonder he'd seemed so amazed when Hagrid had brought him to the Leaky Cauldron for the first time.

The kitchen clock had finally chimed a warning, when it was time to set the tables. Harry had given Tom a half smile, and excused himself to "go fetch Jim." Tom watched until he vanished into the stairwell, marveling at the resilience and quiet strength the boy demonstrated. All things considered, it was a bloody miracle he'd turned out as well as he had.

Realizing he still had Dumbledore's letter in his hand, Tom tucked it back into his pocket with a sigh. It had been obvious from the headmaster's correspondence than he hadn't had the foggiest notion that Harry was at the Leaky Cauldron. He had intended to take the boy to task about it, but their conversation this morning had made him pause.

Harry had assured him that he was communicating with Dumbledore, and passing along any useful information about his scar and You-Know-Who, and further, he had shared that Albus had warned him against going to his friends' houses, which was why he'd wound up at the Leaky Cauldron in the first place.

As he wandered into the dining room, and started setting up, Tom pondered his dilemma. On one hand, he wasn't sure Harry was telling Dumbledore everything and it felt wrong to with hold something of this magnitude from the Hogwarts Headmaster. On the other hand, Potter was deeply afraid of something. He wasn't even sure the boy could articulate what was bothering him if asked. He wondered if he was nervous about being sent back to his muggle relatives. He wondered if Harry's fears were justified.

He let the vicious circle continue for a little while before deciding to let the matter ride, at least for now. Harry was safe enough, in his disguise. No one had recognized him. No one had even suspected. That was another benefit of him being famous. Harry Potter wasn't expected to willingly work. The thought never occurred to people.

That was all well and good, but they'd need to be cautious. Lucius Malfoy had been on the Alley yesterday, and soon the shops would be full of people who would likely recognize young Mr. Potter. Perhaps he should talk to Harry about telling a few of the other shopkeepers so they could keep an eye out for him--watch his back--sort of like they had a couple of summers ago.

---

Monday, July 17, 1995

Professor Minerva McGonagall distastefully brushed at the soot on her summer weight robes as she emerged from the fireplace in her office at Hogwarts. Aside from the obvious, one of the more irksome consequences of Voldemort's return was the restrictions that Dumbledore had put on travel. She enjoyed apparating to Hogsmeade, then walking to Hogwarts when the weather was pleasant, but no one had been available to accompany her, so she'd had to use the Floo System, or her Order portkey.

The Transfiguration professor paused to open her window, before settling at her desk. Letters to the students had to be sent out at the end of the month, she owed Flourish and Blotts a booklist, and a projected count of students and she hadn't even started to prepare.

Luckily most of the Hogwarts staff had already turned in their projected schedules and requested texts for the new term. The only problem was the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. There couldn't very well be a syllabus and supply list when there wasn't a professor available to compose it. Minerva supposed if worse came to worse, she could always put down the text by Quentin Trimble. Many of the returning students already had it, and it was better than forcing the students to buy all of Gilderoy Lockhart's books again.

The Deputy Headmistress had just finished sorting her colleagues' supply lists into seven piles, one for each group of students at Hogwarts, when an express owl flew in her open window, and dropped a thick parchment envelope on her desk, before wheeling around, and fluttering off again.

Curiously, Minerva picked up the envelope, only to cringe when she read the return address. Flourish and Blotts. Mr. Reed was probably wondering where the information she owed him was. Sighing, she broke the wax seal on the envelope, and pulled out a stack of parchment. Several sheets were bound together, making sleek printed booklet, and there was a letter on top:

Dear Professor McGonagall:

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and enjoying your summer holiday. I trust I will be receiving the book lists and student counts for the new term at Hogwarts very soon, so that I may have the requested materials in stock.

Now that I have taken care of that bit of business, I shall proceed to the real reason I am writing. Enclosed, you should find a booklet of sorts. It is the guide for muggleborn first years.

Minerva closed her eyes, and muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath. How many times were they going to have to go through this fruitless exercise? The muggleborn guide was an absolutely brilliant idea that had failed miserably once it was put into practice. Every now and then Mr. Reed felt the need to try again, and each time she and the other Heads of House had to deal with the hopeless confusion it caused in the new muggleborn first years.

I know what you're probably thinking, the letter continued, almost as if Geoffrey could read her mind. I had given up as well, but I think we finally have something that will work.

Instead of asking someone who has lived in the magical world all their lives to try and imagine what muggleborns go through, I went straight to the source. This update was done by a Hogwarts student--a muggleborn upperclassman. It was so amazingly simple, I don't know why we didn't consider it before. Additionally, the boy has written the information in a very casual and lighthearted manner. I think the children will respond more favorably since it isn't as stiff and formal as the original.

Please take a few minutes to look it over, and if you agree with me, perhaps it could be sent out with this years' letters. I think we finally have a document that will do what we intended from the start. I want to post this immediately, so I do not miss you sending out the letters.

McGonagall chucked softly. If he only knew! The oh-so-efficient deputy headmistress was definitely not present at this time.

I'm sure you'll notice there is no author credited on the booklet. For some reason, the boy seems very bashful, and uncertain of his own abilities. I told him that you'd want to know who produced this wonderful bit of work, but at this time, he wishes to remain anonymous. Perhaps we can change his mind for the second printing, although I'm certain you'll recognize his writing style--it's quite distinctive.

One last thing, he made another suggestion that I felt had merit. Along with the new muggle guide, perhaps we could invite the new muggleborns to come to Diagon Alley in groups, and be met and guided through their first magical shopping excursion. In the future, if this turns out well, you and the Headmaster will undoubtedly want to assign Prefects, or accept volunteers yourselves, but since it is rather late in the summer, the author has offered to perform the function.

You may be reluctant to accept the boy's offer "sight unseen" as it were, but he has been in my employ part-time this summer, and I am confident that he will be able to perform admirably. If you agree, then please divide the incoming first years into groups, and assign then a date. We will, of course be happy to try and accommodate anyone who cannot keep their assigned date.

Sincerely,

Geoffrey Reed
General Manager, Flourish & Blotts

Intrigued, now, in spite of herself, Minerva, laid the letter aside, and regarded the booklet. Sighing, she looked at the piles of parchment on her desk. She really shouldn't dally, if she was going to get the letters out on time. Still, if Geoffrey was right... This was something that had been needed for far too long, and the document didn't appear to be horribly lengthy.

Adjusting her square-framed glasses McGonagall flipped the booklet over and began to read. When she read the title, she smiled. Halfway through the first page, she was impressed. By the time she'd reached the end of it, she'd broken into fits of laughter two or three times. Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, the Deputy Headmistress laid the booklet aside, and shook her head. Reed was right. It was inspired. Exactly what they'd envisioned all those years ago. The author, whoever he was, was concise and clear, with a dry wit and a slightly irreverent sense of humor.

Frowning, McGonagall flipped through the document again. She didn't recognize the writing style immediately, but then again, she probably wouldn't. The homework assignments and essays she received from students usually had a much more formal tone. Smiling again, she picked up the booklet, and went off in search of Professor Dumbledore. Technically, she didn't really need the Headmaster's approval, registration was one of her duties after all, but she couldn't help thinking Albus could probably use a good laugh too.

* Temporis Spatium is Latin for "Duration"

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