"Here we are," Harry announced, stopping with his hands on his hips outside the dingy pub wedged into a London street.
He watched children's heads whip back toward him, only now noticing the building directly in front of them. Some of them frowned, catching how odd it was that they hadn't seen something so close. Others just looked upset.
"That's where we're doing our shopping?" asked one boy. "It looks like a bar!"
"It is," Harry said. "And an Inn. But mostly it's an entrance."
"An entrance to what?" asked a girl.
Harry smiled mysteriously. "Come along and find out."
They groaned behind him, and he had to hide a chuckle. First years were fun, he decided. They were so easy to tease.
It had been exactly one week since his lessons from the rest of the staff, and Harry was pleased to say that his life was back on track. It was still hard work, but he was finally actually working, rather than sitting like a fool and hoping everything would sort itself out on its own. He had the whole year planned for his third, fourth, and fifth years, leaving only the N.E.W.T. classes to sort out. It was such a load off that he could finally start thinking about his own plans, the ones that didn't have to do with teaching…
Or he would be able to, after this. At the moment he had a job.
It was an hour after the lunch rush ended, and patrons hadn't yet arrived for dinner, leaving the Leaky Cauldron's interior mostly empty. A couple of late eaters were munching meals at tables, Tom was wiping down the bar, and by the far wall stood a fair-haired boy dressed in casual robes, preoccupied staring down at a shiny badge pinned to his chest.
Harry had to wave to get the blond's attention. As soon as he did, the boy snapped to attention as if he was a fresh Auror caught slacking by his superior.
"Hello sir!" he greeted. "I'm Anthony! I'm here to help you today!"
His voice was slightly too loud, enough that a few patrons and even Tom, the balding bartender and owner, looked over. Tom quickly smiled and looked away again, shaking his head.
"Just call me Professor Potter, Anthony," Harry said. He looked back at the group of roughly fifteen eleven-year-olds that had followed him into the pub, some of whom were whispering while others looked frantically around, waiting for magical creatures to burst out of the fireplace. "Dumbledore told me you'd meet us here. He explained what we're here for today, I'm sure?"
"School shopping," Anthony reported, still with the demeanor of an over-eager Auror. "For first years. All the Muggle Born ones, I mean. We'll be helping them get it done."
"That's right," Harry said. "So what do you say we get right to it?"
Anthony nodded quickly, leading the way while Harry trailed behind him, heading to the back door.
They left the Leaky Cauldron and entered the classic cobblestone back alley that led to Diagon proper. As the first years crowded behind him, a few looked around at the dinghy stone surroundings with trepidation.
One girl raised her hand.
"You there," Harry said, pointing to her.
"You aren't going to kill us here, are you?" she asked suspiciously.
"No," he promised. "Unless you go swallowing strange things off the shelves of the apothecary, none of you will get hurt in any way."
That was the entire reason he was here. Most years, Muggle-borns came to Diagon Alley on their own schedule, often with their parents. Some came with a professor as a guide. But things were different now.
Despite what the Ministry insisted, Voldemort was back. He would never openly attack Diagon Alley at the moment, considering it would only expose his existence to the ignorant public, but that didn't mean he was inactive. Crimes against Muggleborns and Half-bloods had been on the rise for the last few months. Each attack alone could have been an isolated incident, but not on this scale. The Dark Lord's followers were making examples out of people, slowly, one small move at a time, and what better target than fresh-faced Muggle-borns just entering their society?
Precautions had been taken. Incoming first years were being taken in large groups, each chaperoned by a professor and a prefect. The dates of each visit were known to no one but the staff themselves. The odds of anything going wrong were miniscule, and that was exactly how Harry and the rest of them wanted it.
"Do you want to do the honors?" Harry asked.
Anthony eagerly pulled out his wand. He stepped up to the brick wall and tapped a pattern. As the wall opened, Harry heard the students behind him gasp.
"What's inside?" one asked.
"Wait and see!" complained another. "Stop pushing!"
"I bet it's dragons!" said a third.
"No dragons," Harry said, stepping through the entrance. "Not until your fourth year."
Tentatively, the first years followed him.
"You're kidding, right?" asked a girl.
"Sure," Harry said. "Let's say that."
His teasing was forgotten the moment they got a good look at Diagon Alley. Harry tried putting himself in their shoes, recalling that day so long ago when he first walked where they did, jolly Hagrid at his side. He found himself smiling.
The first years pointed and spun and gasped. Some looked at a short and fat wizard coming down the path, who had a wide-brimmed hat that was hollow at the top, allowing room for a live rabbit. Grass grew along the brim in front of their eyes, and every time the blades got too tall, the rabbit would chomp down and cut them to size.
Fourth year students came in the other direction. A boy's Kneazle stalked around his ankles, eyeing the owl cage his friend carried. One of the first year girls howled with laughter when the Kneazle suddenly propelled itself upward and gave the cage a swipe. Though the bars proved too strong, the owl was woken from a deep sleep, feathers flying as it flapped its wings in a panic.
"Get a leash on that thing!" snapped the owl's owner.
Harry caught Micheal's foot tapping the cobblestones as they waited, glancing back at the students every few seconds.
"Are you bored?" Harry asked.
Anthony jumped. "No, Sir!"
"It's fine. You can tell the truth."
He hesitated. "It's just… we're only at Diagon Alley, Sir. What are they so interested in?"
The first years weren't even listening to their conversation. They kept staring at every passing witch or wizard, spotting something about each one worthy of making their jaws drop. They drank up the names of shops in the background, the moving pictures used to advertise wares, and even peculiar distant noises, like an overly loud pop and a strange screeching from inside The Magical Menagerie.
"Are you a Pureblood, Anthony?"
"Half-blood, Sir."
"But you were raised in this world, right?" Harry flashed the boy a reassuring smile when he caught him looking nervous. "I don't mean anything by it. There's nothing to be ashamed of about any background. I'm just curious. When was the first time you visited Diagon Alley?"
Anthony thought about it.
"I don't know. When I was five? I think it was somewhere around then."
"And your parents did magic around the house?"
"My Dad always did. Except for when Mom's family was over. They knew what he was, but he didn't want to startle 'em, you know?"
"Well, picture how your family would feel, if you brought them here one afternoon. If you've never seen magic, even the most ordinary spell is a miracle."
Anthony frowned thoughtfully. He looked at the first years again, and for as long as they marveled at the surroundings, he didn't tap his foot a single time.
Finally, deeming they had finally waited long enough, Harry clapped his hands. The first years formed a line behind him like a band of ducklings. Harry wasn't worried about any running off. They were sticking as close as could be to him and each other, their awe at the fantastical surroundings mixing with a bit of apprehension.
The first stop of the day was Madam Malkin's. The business was just as Harry remembered it, from its plum-colored exterior to the fragrant scent of flowers inside. The business was nearly empty when they entered, which was good. Every single first year needed their measurements taken, causing quite the backup as each of them waited their turn. Harry stood close to the door, watching enchanted tape measures fly about while Madam Malkin and her assistants directed them, working fervently.
A charm caused the sound of a bell to sound as the door opened.
"We'll be with you in a moment!" called a harried Madame Malkin.
Three people had entered, far too similar in appearance not to be related.
Two had blond hair that was nearly golden in color, while the third had dark brown hair. The one Harry took to be the mother looked a bit past thirty, and despite how far removed he was from fashion — let alone wizarding fashion — even he couldn't miss how nice the robes she wore were. The blond daughter (who looked like a miniature version of her mother) was in Slytherin robes, while the younger daughter wore simple brown ones.
"Oh dear," said the mother. "It seems you'll have to wait, Astoria."
The brown-haired daughter pursed her lips. It wasn't until he heard the name that he placed her face. Astoria Greengrass had been younger than him, a Slytherin he only took notice of when she married his longtime and somewhat-reformed rival, Draco Malfoy. He glanced at her older sister. Daphne was in his year. They'd seen each other from time to time at school, but he never heard what became of her after graduation. Probably married to some surviving pureblood family or another— it wasn't like he'd had any reason to pay attention.
It was another stark reminder of his time travel. At times, it was easy to forget all that had happened, but then he found himself looking at someone who had been in his year at school, now half his age.
"Let's come back later," Daphne said. "There's no reason to waste time."
"We've been here a while already," Harry said. "They'll be done soon."
All three Greengrasses looked at him, their eyes squinting slightly in the exact same way. Harry coughed to cover his laugh; blood certainly was thicker than water.
"I take it you're their guardian?" asked Lady Greengrass.
"Chaperone, more like," Harry said. "They're first years due to start at Hogwarts."
"I don't remember you from the staff," Astoria said.
Harry smiled. "That's because I'm new. Professor Potter, at your service."
Lady Greengrass had turned away from him. A young girl shrieked and toppled back as the enchanted measuring tape wrapped around her neck. She fell back, and Harry narrowed his eyes. At the last second, her fall slowed down slightly, so that she hit with a small impact instead of truly banging her head.
Two boys beside her began to laugh. She surged up, huffing, and said something. Anthony stepped forward to play peacemaker, but it was difficult, because two other students were trying their best to loudly ask questions at the same time.
"So uncouth," said Lady Greengrass.
"I think 'free-spirited' fits them better," said Harry.
"One might think they were wild animals."
"One might," he said, "but I don't think you do."
Lady Greengrass raised a single blond eyebrow. "And why would that be, Professor Potter?"
"Because you don't strike me as a complete fool."
He delivered the line nonchalantly, still smiling. As the Greengrasses stared at him, he inclined his head. "Oh, look. A station just opened up."
With one last look at him, Daphne led Astoria to the empty stool. Harry watched them go, then switched to the first years, judging if he would need to help Anthony manage them. Fortunately, they were beginning to settle down.
"How old are your daughters?" Harry asked.
"Daphne is going into her fifth year," said Lady Greengrass. "Astoria is two years below her."
"O.W.L. year. That's a tough one."
"Daphne will do admirably." Lady Greengrass paused. "What do you teach, Professor Potter?"
"Muggle Studies," Harry reported cheerfully.
"I see."
"It explains the coat, doesn't it?" He gave his collar a tug, causing its old leather to fan out slightly, and gave the witch a beaming smile. "I do sign autographs, but I haven't got a quill with me, so you'll have to procure one if you want the goods."
Lady Greengrass stared at him, her beautiful face not so much as twitching.
"That was a joke. I'm well aware what people think of—"
Lady Greengrass drew her hands out of the pocket of her robes. In one she held a quill, and in the other was a strip of paper.
"If you please," she said without a hint of emotion.
For a moment, Harry was too floored to respond. "Did you just conjure those for the sake of this joke?"
For a brief second, her lips flickered up into a smile before she smoothed them out.
"You don't believe I am in the habit of carrying such things?" she asked. "How else can I be prepared, in the event I encounter a teacher of Muggle Studies?"
Harry laughed. Before she could lower her hands, he plucked the items out of them, flattening the paper on his hand and positioning the quill tip above it.
"Who should I make it out to?" he asked.
"Anastasia," she replied.
Harry scratched out his signature, including a quick 'to Anastasia' at the base.
Not quite sure what to do now that the joke had played out this much further than he planned, Harry hesitated. Anastasia reached out, pulling the paper from his hand and sliding it into her own pocket.
"A pleasure doing business with you," she said.
Unable to help himself, Harry laughed again.
The charm on the door tinkled again. This time, it was a wizard who entered, arriving alone.
He had a severe face, with a chip out of one of his front teeth when he opened his mouth. His skin was rough, but he was exceptionally well groomed. He had the sharpest goatee Harry had ever seen, while his hair was gelled back in orderly lines. Harry noticed it was the exact same color as Astoria's.
"Here you are," he said, sparing the first years a quick glare as they finished their shopping as noisily as they began it. "What is taking so long, Anastasia?"
"There was a line," Anastacia said.
"It can't be helped then," said the man in a tone of voice that seemed to imply it could've been helped, if it had been handled differently. He glared again at the first years, correctly identifying them as the cause of the holdup, before facing Harry. "And who is this?"
Harry smiled, holding out his hand. "Professor Potter at your service."
"Aquinas Greengrass." His palm felt as scratchy as his face looked. "Head of House Greengrass. Potter, eh? Are you part of the main family?"
"A cousin, I think," Harry said. "Distant."
The man released his hand. "And professor? You teach at Hogwarts?"
"He is new," Anastasia said. "It's his first year."
"The subject?"
Daphne and Astoria were returning, fresh robes draped over Astoria's forearm, when Harry said, "Muggle Studies."
The change was immediate, Aquinas Greengrass's face darkening like a cloud had crossed it.
"We're going," he told his family.
The daughters walked directly past Harry without looking. As Aquinas pushed the door and held it open, they stepped outside, Anastasia following them a moment later.
"Allow me to give you a word of advice," Aquinas said. "Do not refer to yourself as a professor ever again."
He gave Harry his best glare. Maybe it was a good one, but Harry had seen too much of the world to balk at a middle-aged Pureblood.
"I'll see you in class!" Harry cheerfully called out, waving to the daughters.
"They better not." Aquinas shut the door.
Only when they were gone did Harry allow himself to frown. He hadn't given that man the satisfaction of seeing his mood drop, but he couldn't help it now.
By the end of their little autograph performance, Anastasia had been smiling. She looked lovely that way, which was perhaps why Harry noticed it so clearly.
From the moment Aquinas walked in to when the door closed, he hadn't spotted a speck of emotion from her.
"All done," Anthony reported, looking rather haggard as he marshalled the first years back to Harry. "What's the next stop?"
Harry forced himself to smile again as he faced the students-to-be.
"I'm thinking Flourish and Blotts…"
O-O-O
Store by store, they crossed off everything on the children's lists, even finding time to poke their heads into Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. As they sat around two tables, children lapping at all variety of flavors, Harry stood up.
"Can you watch them for a minute?" Harry asked.
Anthony looked a bit nervous, but his chest swelled. "I've got it, Sir."
"You're a lifesaver," Harry informed him. "It'll only take a moment."
He walked quickly, licking his own ice cream until it was finished— strawberry-and-peanut butter, his favorite flavor. By the time the cone was gone he had stopped in front of a large, square building with a gold plaque above the entrance. Just one word was engraved on the golden surface: Truth.
Harry walked through the doors, entering a waiting room with a receptionist behind a large desk.
"Welcome to the Daily Prophet," they intoned without looking up. "If you're here for an interview, take the door on the left. If you've got an idea for a story, take the one on the right. And if you'd like to express a complaint, try the door directly behind you."
Harry looked back, just to check that it was only the front door behind him, and sure enough it was. He shook his head, clearing his throat.
"It's none of those," he said. "I'd actually like to meet with a reporter."
The receptionist looked up, peering suspiciously at him from under large glasses. "Ms. Skeeter chooses who and when she meets with fans very particularly. I'm afraid there's no way to set up an appointment—"
"I don't care about Rita," Harry said.
That caused the receptionist to pause. "Who would you like to meet, then, Sir?"
"Penelope Clearwater," he said.
"We don't have any reporters by that name."
"Can you check?" Harry said impatiently. "I read a piece by her just last week."
The witch frowned. But she summoned a roll of parchment, her eyes traveling down it. When they got to the very bottom, they widened slightly. She looked up.
"It seems we do," she said, sounding surprised by that fact herself. "What could you possibly want with her?"
"A meeting," Harry repeated. "Ah, not right now, though. Just pass this on to her, would you?"
He pulled out a card with his name, address, and a brief note on it, passing it to the receptionist.
"Anything else?" asked the witch, accepting the card.
"That's it," he said. "Just make sure she gets that, would you?"
With one terse nod, the receptionist set it at the corner of her desk, returning to her own work. Harry waited a moment for verbal confirmation, but when it didn't seem to be coming, he left. It seemed like it would most likely work out.
When he returned to Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, everything was still fine. He and Anthony brought the children home soon after. All in all, Harry thought that had gone about as smoothly as possible. After seeing the last little boy back to his home, Harry turned to Anthony.
"I'll Apparate you home," he offered. "It's only right after how much help you've been."
Anthony tried to wave him off, but Harry wouldn't hear it. Moments later they were in front of a tall-ish house in the countryside, Anthony clutching his stomach to recover from the feeling of Apparition. Harry didn't feel much better himself, but he had plenty of practice hiding his discomfort.
"Good work today," he told Anthony once the boy looked recovered enough to hear him.
"Thank you, Sir," Anthony managed.
He started toward his house, only to hesitate.
"I heard from Michael about what you did for him in the Three Broomsticks," he said. "Michael said you were incredible. I'm going to give your class a try, Sir, just from that."
"I'm glad to hear it," Harry said.
"Is it true that you dueled so well even Dumbledore was impressed?"
"I did what I could," Harry said. "But I think it was my words that impressed him, not my wand work."
Anthony didn't look convinced. But he nodded all the same.
"Goodnight, Sir."
"Goodnight to you too, Anthony."
He watched the blond pick his way to the front door. Seeing him slip inside, Harry turned away. He paused for a moment to look at the scenery— a quaint scene of the British countryside with green hills, a good number of trees, and a dusky horizon.
"I appreciate the sentiment," he said to himself, "but my night isn't over quite yet."
He Apparated away, on course to one last stop.
O-O-O
Where Harry appeared it was no later than outside Anthony's home, but it was certainly darker. Gnarled branches were knit together, blocking out the sun. Some kind of bird sang a deep song from a nearby thicket. Tree frogs croaked in every direction. An ancient path led forward from where Harry was standing, overgrown now but not quite so overgrown as the rest of the lawn. At the path's end lay a decrepit shack which leaned to the left, as if the entire thing were seconds from tipping over. The windows were opaque with dust, while spider webs coated the corners of the narrow porch.
Harry rolled up his sleeves, drawing his wand.
"Finished with one job, and straight back to work."
He walked up the overgrown path, approaching the Gaunt Shack at its end.