For some reason, this was just a really hard chapter to write. Took me forever. Also, life caught up with me in the form of lengthy English papers and siblings. In summary, I'm really sorry for the lateness and the shortness.
Disclaimer: Can this thing just count for my entire book? Because I don't own HP now, and if JK ever decides to sell, it'll be all over the news and everyone will know about it.
The tongue of the wise dispenses knowledge,
But the mouths of fools pour out folly.
Proverbs 15:2
"You're sure you want to do this, Harry?" asked Remus.
The boy nodded. "I have to," he explained. "If I can disrupt whatever this person is planning today, Mark will be safe again."
Remus shook his head sadly. "You're amazingly loyal, Harry," he murmured.
Harry pretended not to hear. "The Aurors are letting me use their Floo system," he mumbled. "I wish you could come."
"You know that I can't."
"Yeah, I know. But I don't have to like it."
"I don't either. Good luck, Harry."
The young Parselmouth walked off calmly. For once, he didn't try to fight Voldemort's memories. The Dark Lord knew Diagon Alley far better than he did. A few other images floated in, thoughts of Knockturn Alley and its less than reputable shops, but Harry ignored them. Dobby had warned him to go to Diagon Alley, not its darker counterpart. He found that bizarre, shouldn't some obviously evil plot unfold in the shadows?
"Diagon Alley," he murmured, tossing the Floo Powder into the merrily dancing fireplace. The Auror guards didn't even look at him. Security wasn't very good around here.
The wizarding marketplace was just as Harry remembered it (with his own memories, this time). It was packed to the bursting with elegantly robed witches, bustling wizards, and overexcited children. The stores' windows advertised sales on dragon liver (Harry shuddered at the thought of Norberta's reaction to that), plain black robes, and silver cauldrons. One shop, Flourish and Blotts, was having a huge sale; something to do with one Gilderoy Lockhart. Harry shuddered at the huge crowd of witches all crammed into it. At least the Lockhart books would be easy to find; he had seven of the man's books on his school list.
They had better be good.
Harry continued past the overcrowded bookstore towards Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor. He knew perfectly well that one boy couldn't monitor the entire alley, so he'd called in reinforcements.
Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom chatted companionably at a large table. Two people dressed in Muggle clothes and a fierce-looking old witch listened to the young ones' conversation, occasionally chuckling at one of Blaise's jokes. Then Hermione looked up. "Harry!" she shrieked, running towards him.
Every set of eyes turned to him. Harry blushed crimson. "Lo Hermione."
She smiled at him. "Hello, Harry. Mum, Dad, this is Harry Potter. Harry, these are my parents, Jean and David Granger."
"Nice to meet you."
"It's nice to meet you, too, Harry. Our daughter's told us so much about you."
"Should I be worried?" he quipped, and was pleased to see them laugh. He and the Grangers would get along just fine.
"This is my gran, Harry," Neville mumbled shyly. He didn't like to interrupt. "Augusta Longbottom." Harry took the old woman's hand with a smile.
Blaise shrugged. "My mum's busy with wedding things."
Harry nodded, one less adult to worry about. He felt stupid for not anticipating the presence of the Grangers and Augusta.
"C'mon. I'll get you some ice cream. My treat," he said. Hermione's parents were dentists, and Augusta did not look like an ice cream person. Much to his relief, all three adults declined his offer.
"I need your help," he muttered, slipping into the small line. In quick, quiet sentences, he explained Dobby's warning to the three others.
"Harry, you have to tell Dumbledore," hissed Hermione, her face white. Her expression contrasted sharply with the ice cream cone in her right hand. "I know you don't like him, but-"
"Wouldn't that hurt Dobby?" asked Blaise. His face was angry. "Think about it: If this plot is real and Dumbledore runs around trying to stop it, Dobby's masters will know he snitched. What d'you think the beasts would do to him then?"
Hermione blanched. Blaise had raised a good point.
"So it's up to us?" asked Neville. He nodded slightly, ignoring the dripping of his ice cream. "I'll keep an eye out Harry, but I don't know if I'll be much use." He sighed. "It would be better if we knew who to look for."
Blaise sighed. "It's probably a Slytherin family," he admitted grudgingly. "Ex-Death Eaters, maybe."
"I'll cover the bookstore," Hermione murmured. "Mum and Dad won't think that strange at all. I'll stay there as long as I can, Harry."
Blaise shrugged. "I've got free reign of the Alley, but I can't stay until past three. Mum and I have a tea date with her fiancé."
"Gran wanted some new robes," Neville muttered. "I can look at Madam Malkin's and the stores where we get our school supplies."
Harry nodded. He had to get dress robes for Blaise's mother's wedding; if Neville covered Madam Malkin's, he could visit the other robe shop. "Thanks, guys."
Three hours and five stores later, Harry was ready to scream. He hadn't seen anything suspicious, anything unusual, any clue to the plot.
He had decided to do his school shopping later, after the others had left. Blaise could leave the longest, but even he would have to leave at half-past two. That was in just two hours.
Harry had ranged all through the alley. He'd entered a secondhand robe store, the Apothecary, both pet shops, and Gringotts. Unfortunately, he couldn't linger very long in any of those places, especially not the bank. Harry did not want to be interrogated by a group of goblin guards. After a quick lunch in one of the cafes- nothing suspicious there, either- Harry wandered over to Twilfit and Tattings.
The sales-witch was very efficient and attentive, possibly because Harry was her only customer. He paid only half a mind to her, focusing mainly on his plans. He definitely should have come at another time, when there were more people. Anyone who entered now wouldn't be able to do anything suspicious; he'd be snatched up by the assistant sales-witch in a heartbeat. He left half an hour later with a set of deep green dress robes, annoyed. That had taken way too much time.
Flourish and Blotts ("No, I don't want Gilderoy Lockhart to sign these! I don't even want to buy them!"), Madam Malkin's ("Just looking, ma'am, I haven't grown that much."), Gringotts again ("No loitering, kid!"), Magical Menagerie ("Three bags of Owl Treats, please."). Nothing happened. Nothing. It was enough to drive him mad!
The hours dragged on as Harry wandered uselessly through the Alley. He knew that he was probably too late, but the young Parselmouth couldn't bring himself to leave. There was a tiny possibility that he still had time.
The shadows lengthened. Shops began to close; the cafes filled with bustling life. Harry bought himself a pair of sausage rolls and continued walking. His feet ached in pain and his shoulders slumped under the weight of his school supplies.
Nothing. Nothing at all!
Mark Potter treasured this time of day.
Albus Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled merrily at him from over the table. "How was your day, Mark?" he asked curiously.
"Great!" the Boy-Who-Lived gushed. "Ron and I hung out at Quality Quidditch Supplies for over an hour, and we would've spent more time there if his brother Percy hadn't dragged us away to some boring bookstore."
Dumbledore smiled. "Which one? Flourish and Blotts?"
"No, we went there later." Mark glared accusingly. "Why didn't you tell me that Gilderoy Lockhart was gonna be our new DADA teacher?"
Those eyes just kept twinkling. "Did you not like the surprise?"
"Well, yeah," Mark mumbled, "the surprise was great, but you still could've told me."
The headmaster chuckled. "I take it that you and Professor Lockhart got along well?"
Mark smiled, happy once again. "Yeah. He's done all sorts of cool thing- not as cool as offing a Dark Lord, of course, but still neat. There's all kinds of stuff he can teach me. He says that once you've done something to get attention, people just want more and more. If you don't give them what they want, they'll abandon you in a heartbeat."
"Sad but true," Dumbledore agreed gravely. "The public is a fickle thing. You should only trust those you know personally."
Mark nodded, soaking it up like a sponge. "But I really like Lockhart. I think I can trust him."
Dumbledore decided to change the subject. "Did anything else happen?" He knew the answer already, of course. He'd seen it in Mark's mind.
The boy nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah. Ron's dad and Malfoy's dad almost got into a fight, but then Lockhart's cameraman broke it up. Then Lockhart distracted everybody so Mr. Weasley didn't get in trouble. I helped." He prattled on about how he'd spent almost an hour signing autographs with Lockhart until his hand began to cramp, what brooms were on display at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and other inanities.
Dumbledore, who had long ago mastered the art of only half-listening, almost ignored the boy, paid just enough attention to know when to smile, nod, and make some insignificant comment. He had no doubt that Lucius had slipped one of the Weasleys- probably young Ginevra; only she had had contact with him- Tom Riddle's diary.
He'd known over ten years that Lucius possessed the first Horcrux. The headmaster had considered destroying it, but he knew from long experience that what existed could be used. It was rather more difficult to manipulate something that wasn't real- not impossible, but much more difficult.
Once Mark Potter had overthrown the so-called Dark Lord, a plan had shaped in Dumbledore's agile mind. The boy was perhaps the most valuable tool he'd ever seen, and he had lived for many years. It was essential for Dumbledore to control him; therefore, the boy had to be as anti-Slytherin as possible. What better way than to expose him to Slytherin's Heir?
Remus stared uneasily back towards his house, wondering if Harry were back yet. Naturally, staring told him nothing except that Harry had forgotten to shut his window again- probably for Hedwig. He doted on that owl.
"Remus, get back to work," ordered another werewolf, a middle-aged Muggle named Cynthia. The Aurors weren't looking at them, but they could change that at any minute.
He sighed, monotonously hefting huge crates of potion ingredients onto a cart. His muscles already ached, and the day was long yet. Trying to take his mind off the weariness and worry, he turned to the werewolf on his other side.
Tyr Ulfhednar was tough, grizzled, and hairy- every inch the Hollywood werewolf. He was also Remus' closest friend, and had been since James' and Lily's deaths. "Something wrong, Remus?"
"Just Harry. He's visiting Diagon Alley today."
Cynthia, overhearing, groaned softly. "Just when I'd gotten used to the kid," she muttered.
Remus frowned at her. "It's not Harry's fault that he has an… effect… on us," he pointed out, keeping his voice low. The Aurors were still far away, but there were spells for eavesdropping… Now he was just being paranoid.
Cynthia appeared startled. "How'd you hear that?" she asked. "I could barely hear myself."
Remus blinked at her, almost dropped his load. "What do you mean? You were talking in a stage whisper."
Tyr and Cynthia continued to stare at him. Remus colored. "She was."
"Get back to work, dogs!" barked an Auror. Apparently their conversation hadn't gone unnoticed after all.
The three werewolves remained silent for a few minutes, dutifully stacking crates and sacks onto carts. Every once in a while a fourth worker would take the filled cart over to a train. The Concentration Camp (as residents had angrily dubbed it) served not just as a place to keep werewolves, but also as a major port for Wizarding Britain.
That it was powered by slave labor made no difference in the mind of the British public.
"She has a point, you know," Tyr commented softly. Apparently the Aurors were far enough away. "Many of us are still in danger of losing control around him. If he's near us for a long time, it's easier to stay… normal."
"It's one day," Remus pointed out. "And don't you think that Harry's effect on us is a good thing?" Cynthia looked at them both as though they were lunatics. Most werewolves did not think that Harry's bizarre ability to awaken the wolf was "good."
Tyr, though, did. He claimed that the wolf Harry brought out was different than the wolf he became every full moon. He even believed that a prolonged exposure to Harry was "as good as a dose of Wolfsbane." Perhaps a very long exposure could help them control the wolf altogether!
He was the only one who believed that. Everyone else thought he'd gone mad.
"I know it's good," Tyr reasserted. "The wolf he brings out is benign. I think… I think that that's the real wolf. Something went wrong, though, and the real wolf was suppressed. But now, somehow, Harry is bringing it back."
"Yeah," sneered Cynthia. "That's very likely, Tyr. Next you'll tell me that Harry's the real Boy-Who-Lived."
Remus rolled his eyes. Everyone knew that Mark had defeated Voldemort. Tyr, though, looked thoughtful.
"Break it up, doggies," growled an Auror, stalking up behind them. "You-" he pointed to Tyr "go over there. You-" a perfunctory nod towards Cynthia- "go help that group."
Without conversation, the rest of the afternoon passed in slow, painful increments. Remus kept glancing at his home's dilapidated walls, wondering if Harry was home yet.
Finally, the stubborn sun kissed the western horizon. Remus could have wept with relief. The instant his shift was done, he ran home.
Harry was sitting at the kitchen table, blankly watching something boil on the stove. The boy didn't even look up.
"I failed. Whatever Dobby warned us about… it's going to happen."
