Chapter Two: Freedom

Harry shifted the muscles in his shoulders, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from him. He could breathe easier, clearer, and the air had never seemed as fresh. Certainly, after several months of adjustment he was more tense and edgy than he had ever been before, but with the last of the deeply embedded tracking spells that the New Ministry had placed on him finally removed, he could almost smell freedom like a fragrance on the breeze.

Strolling leisurely along the Muggle street, he contemplated just how well the New Ministry had done their job. The organisation, from what he had discovered and the little he had seen first hand, was completely airtight. They left no gaps in their systems, and mistakes were fixed and skills honed at every possible opportunity. He was under no delusions that were he to be caught once more there would be no second chance at escape. They would have introduced far more stringent precautions before members of separate departments were allowed to disable the Shiftkey wards, and upped security to incomprehensible levels when doing so.

The tags he had been fitted with on arrival been well crafted, innovative and unique to him. With Voldemort's second rise spellwork had evolved at a furious rate to keep up with each opposing side's inventions, and the New Ministry tags were a stroke of pure genius in that respect. Each used a generic yet amorphous spell web that adjusted to its own particular form as it settled on the individual, attuning closely to their magic, personality and physical shape until they were knit so closely as to be almost indistinguishable from the target. The real skill though, was their parasitic qualities. Each time the caster fired a spell they were activated and siphoned off a certain quantity of that magic, returning a pinpoint signal to the New Ministry.

Harry had been lucky enough to fall under the category of High Security prisoner, and had been affixed with not one, but seven tags, each layered over the other, boosted by the powerful number and working at different levels. There had been three low level tags that emitted very general signals running off the faint air of magic that existed around him naturally, one middle level tag that responded to minor spells, and three deeply embedded tags that reacted to powerful magical boosts and returned his precise location to the Hunters at the New Ministry.

Tags were difficult to remove to begin with, although since their discovery by the general public business in their removal had budded and flourished, but to be rid of the higher levels one required a certain degree of persuasiveness and charisma, well greased with impressive funds.

This was one of the reasons why Harry had spent several months high and dry without magic; existing as well he could and committing to memory the scraps of information he received from the Wizarding world. He stayed out of the way as best he knew how – by hiding in the Muggle world.

The Shiftkey had dropped him somewhere on the outskirts of a far larger London than he remembered near one of the smaller motorways before disintegrating in his hand. He'd clenched his palm around the fragments, sweat mixing with ash, and spent the better part of an hour panicking about what he should do. Still torn up by the shock of his new circumstances and his friends' deaths, he hadn't been a position to do much constructive thinking.

But I've changed now, he mused. I'm stronger, better. Harry let out a short bark of laughter that was stifled in the empty street. In his mind, he was neither stronger nor better than when he woke up in that featureless room bound to the wall in the New Ministry. The key was that he had acclimatised to his situation and had used subtlety for something other than pranks and sneaking for the first time in years. That wasn't to say that he hadn't made mistakes, and he smiled grimly at the memories, but he'd survived everything the world had thrown at him so far.

Harry had always been good at taking risks.

Pushing himself up from the scrubs and grasses that had managed to withstand the pollution beside the motorway, he had walked hesitantly towards the edge of the road and spent the next five hours trying to hitch a ride. The thing about hitchhiking, he realised, was that the movies always depicted friendly American drivers who were more than happy to help an unknown and inconvenienced individual. The real British public didn't seem to share the same carefree and trusting attitude. When a car had finally pulled over, he'd almost wept with relief. He hadn't been looking forward to the prospect of walking along the side of the road all the way to central London. An hour and forty minutes later he had been dropped off in Richmond with a gruff goodbye and a suspicious look.

Even now, after all this time, Harry was still unsure as to why he had chosen to stay in London. On the one hand, it was the heart of everything that was currently happening in Britain, but on the other hand, there were more risks, danger and fears than he could possibly count. Voldemort was still at large. The Death Eaters had to be worse than ever. The political climate in Muggle Britain was in turmoil, and from what he had managed to scrape up here and there, the Wizarding world no longer even had a managing body, although the New Ministry posed a significant force.

Not wishing to end up any closer to the New Ministry than was absolutely necessary, Harry had set about finding somewhere he could sleep that was away from the central hub of the city, and a way to earn enough money to eat. He had been sensible enough not to give into the temptation to go crawling back to the Dursleys, no matter how much he had wished at that moment for a warm bed and his relatives' familiar disgusted expressions. Too much would have changed. Instead, he had found a photo booth and curled up to sleep.

Harry shivered a little, unsettled by the memory of that first miserable night in this new world.

Apparently finding a job wasn't as easy as it had been when he was at school and Dudley was searching for summer work. You needed qualifications and there were applications to fill out; difficult for someone without even a place of residence or a phone number. After a day of trawling around London in search of anything that might earn a little cash, he was on the point of folding and making a break for Gringotts.

But what if Gringotts no longer existed?

With all his funds tied up in the Wizarding world, and with even the Muggle news so fraught with terrorism, convicts and freak accidents, Harry had relented to spending another night without a bed, leaning against the cold glass of a telephone booth and reciting the date to himself – June 19th, 2010. Fourteen years of absence, longer than Sirius' imprisonment, longer than Voldemort's half-life. Only two years less than his own lifetime. The future had seemed so desperately immense and hopeless.

A month later, he had a job in a grotty little pub in Croydon that paid in cash, and a bare room to sleep in for £35 a month. He'd bought himself a cheap sleeping bag, could afford to eat until he was full, and had a tentative relationship building with a timid girl who worked alongside him by the name of Nicola. For his birthday, she took him to Brick Lane market to buy a cheap mobile phone, by which time Harry learnt enough about the alien objects to not jump each time the loud polyphonic ring-tones blared through the pub.

He'd told her and his employers he was an amnesiac by way of explanation of his strange behaviour, which in a sense was quite true.

Daily readings of the newspapers, browsing through past archives, careful observation of the television, and Nicola's retelling of the past decade allowed him to piece together a sketchy and fragile recounting of what had occurred in his absence.

It wasn't pleasant.

He estimated that the War had begun in earnest about six months after his disappearance, and Voldemort had set into action plans that had taken thirteen years to map out and a year to lay the foundations for. A past issue of a newspaper showed dark, strangely still pictures of hollowed, haunted faces. Below were written the names Bellatrix Lestrange, Antonin Dolohov, Jugson, Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, Augustus Rookwood, Lucius Malfoy…The second break-out of Azkaban had freed those caught in the Department of Mysteries and the Muggle papers had declared them and the others part of a dangerous terrorist group. Harry knew better. There followed fires and accidents, bridges breaking, a thick fog spreading through the countryside, people turning up vacant eyed and insane. The Dementors had joined Voldemort.

A photograph printed onto a newspaper and shown on every television around the country, now almost an urban legend among Britain's public, showed the Dark Mark, jaws gaping, snake writhing and glowing with an unearthly black light above the ruins of the Houses of Parliament. From then on, chaos reigned, masses of people fled the country, and control was split between the elected government and the army. Mysteriously, other Muggle political leaders remained neutral and unhelpful, and England remained war-torn and fraught. Harry had suspicions on their lack of action, but no solid evidence to prove that they had been influenced by magic.

And yet, despite the chaos, people had remained, living out their lives, going to their pubs and drinking a pint, watching football matches and going to work. Harry saw them each evening, displaying remarkable optimism for a nation under such unknown threat.

Harry had not forgotten Croaker's warnings about the Ministry tags, but he had been biding his time before his first foray into the unknown, displaying a sense of self-preservation he hadn't previously been aware of. The first thing he'd done upon receiving his pay was to head to the nearest store that sold cosmetics and spend several hours bleaching and re-dying his hair. That done, he applied a layer of skin-coloured paste he'd snatched from the shelves to his scar, and allowed his now mousy brown mop of hair to fall back over his forehead. It had taken Nicola's surprised laughter at the decidedly noticeable smudge of dark tan on his head for him to take the time to accompany her back to the store and spend a little more time picking out his disguise. Nicola had been fobbed off with an only half fake fit of paranoia, presumably an after-effect of his amnesia.

Harry remembered his first foray into the Wizarding world fondly. It had been both terrifying and exhilarating. He'd taken a weekend to camp out a café opposite the Leaky Cauldron, watching people who were dressed conspicuously as witches and wizards coming and going, noting down in a grubby notebook the numbers who seemed harmless and the numbers that seemed dangerous, all the while trying to ignore the running commentary through his brain that told him he was becoming more paranoid than Mad-eye Moody. When he'd tallied it up at the end of the weekend, there had been more than enough proof for him that he could visit in relative safety.

Of course, he tried very hard not to think that Dark wizards would probably be sneakier and less prone to entering through the Leaky Cauldron. Not for the first time he wished he'd paid a little more attention to his surroundings when he had the chance to do so safely and tried to find out if there were other ways to enter the Alley.

He'd stalled, pocketed his notepad, considered coming back the following weekend and then bravely crossed the road, pushing open the door.

He realised belatedly that for all his caution he hadn't even thought so much of clothing himself in something resembling a robe, and from the sudden silence and myriad of stares, he understood that that was quite a mistake to make.

Cowed by the barely veiled hostility on many faces, he unconsciously hunched up and scuttled awkwardly to the bar where a hard-faced stranger was working. Harry didn't ask what had happened to Tom.

"Mudblood, are yeh?" the man grunted.

Harry's eyes widened and then narrowed. He took a moment to bite back the insults that came to mind and bit out a brief reply.

"Blending in."

The man laughed and set the glass he was cleaning on the rough wooden surface. "Oh yeah? Well you sure as hell ain't blending in here, are yeh?"

Harry scowled and turned away, heading towards the door that led to the back yard and Diagon Alley.

"Oi!" the barman shouted indignantly, moving round the counter to intercept him. "What do you think you're doing?"

"I-" Harry began, before realising how hopelessly out of his depth he was. "I wanted to get to Diagon Alley."

The barman looked at him as if he were mad. "Crazy," he muttered, heading back towards his previous position. "You stay away from there boy," he spat venomously, " and don't you dare mention that name again."

"I shouldn't worry about him Henry," a velvety voice said from one of the tables, and Harry span to search the crowds for the source. "He's got amnesia."

He was momentarily distracted from his search by the comment, and then redoubled his efforts to fix a face to the voice. He was saved the effort when a graceful figure stood from the crowds and made its way towards the bar where they stood.

"That right, eh?" Henry guffawed, although he still looked a little sour. "And what'll it be for you sir?"

Harry could see immediately that the person was male, and perfectly at home in his surroundings. He oozed power and self-assurance in every way possible, from his stance to his walk to the way he dressed, and Harry battled both fear and intrigue when he looked at him. The man obviously had power and was displaying an interest in him, but that could spell both good and bad.

"The Dragon's Tongue and…a Butterbeer." He spared a glance at Harry and then beckoned him over to a table, ignoring the poorly hidden interest of the other customers. Harry had followed reluctantly, only too aware of his ignorance concerning what could be a potential enemy.

His dubious rescuer's face was pale and elegant, black hair reaching his shoulders. His clothes bespoke quiet wealth, far removed from the opulence that the younger Malfoy indulged in, and underneath his cloak he wore a simple, if outdated waistcoat and shirt. Harry didn't absorb much of this at the time, but over the following months he had replayed the situation in his mind so many times that these details seemed to stand out in stark contrast to the surroundings.

What he did notice at the time were two things. The first, was that on his right hand, middle finger, he wore a silver ring shaped like a skull. The second was that his eyes were a pale slate-grey that seemed both dull and alive with movement at the same time. The picture he made as he raised his drink to his mouth, purple flames licking the surface and reflecting off his eyeballs in a way that made them glisten was not at all trustworthy.

Harry's Butterbeer remained untouched.

"I was lucky to catch you here." The man spoke conversationally, with a softness to his voice that made Harry wonder if he had ever had to raise it in his life. It carried the same power to draw attention as Snape and or Dumbledore's.

"You were, were you?"

"Yes." The answer was succinct: Harry narrowed his mouth to a pinched line. "It may interest you to know that Henry's seventeen year old daughter was killed in the battle of Diagon Alley."

Ignoring Harry's sharp inhalation, he took another sip of his drink.

"The world has changed a lot in the past decade." The man placed his drink back down on the stained wood of the table and withdrew a small leather book from the inside pocket of his cloak. Opening it, he flicked through several pages before finding the one he was looking for and tearing it out in one smooth motion. Folding it in half, he pushed it across the table.

Harry made no move to touch it until those oddly pale hands withdrew to the opposite side of the table again. Even then, he didn't open it, but fixed the stranger with a distinctly mistrustful look.

"I made a visit to the New Ministry recently." The man threaded his fingers together, but didn't break eye contact with him, direct and challenging. "I spoke to a man named Martin Croaker, who told me some very interesting things."

Less than a minute later, Harry braced himself against a brick wall several blocks away, wiping the nervous sweat from his forehead and trying to catch his breath. He could have been anyone, but in Harry's eyes the mere mention of Martin Croaker said that he was part of the New Ministry. He didn't want to end up back there. A glance around the corner showed no sign of pursuit but he hailed the nearest taxi as soon as was possible, despite the price he would have to pay out of his meagre funds. Calmed by the enclosed space and gentle hum of the engine, Harry released his clenched palm from around the paper and unravelled the crumpled contents. Inside were written four words:

'Spitalfields, The Tricky Spell'

From then on life had been easy, comparatively. Someone else had solved one of the most stressful problem for him. The initial threat of fumbling his way around to access the Wizarding world had caused many sleepless nights, and with that problem gone, he had found himself able to relax a little.

Of course, the big answer only gave rise to many smaller questions. Such as the problem that he didn't have a wand, or a clue of whether the wizarding world kept old records of newspapers, or whether the Daily Prophet was even running anymore.

Spitalfields had been delightfully similar to his memories of it as a child. Stores had been colonised and converted from the unique little shops they had been, and the many stalls in the market had become more generalised, but hidden in between the gaps were the many peculiar odds and ends he had loved on that first outing with the Dursleys in autumn, when they'd stumbled on the market quite by accident and lost Dudley for one glorious half hour. Harry had breathed in the scents and reminisced before setting out on his search. Sure enough, hidden among the other shops lining the market was a rather tacky looking store named 'The Tricky Spell'.

Pushing aside the plastic bead curtain in the door, Harry had entered a tiny cramped room crammed to the brim with various trinkets, gems, and incense so strong that he was reminded powerfully of Trelawney's 'mystic' classroom. Various uncomfortable looking witches and wizards were standing single file in the limited floor space, trying very hard not to knock anything off the shelves whilst pressed up against their neighbours like sardines in a tin. An enthusiastic looking witch stood behind the counter, gently charring the tips of her hair with her wand. Every now and again she would lick a finger, press it to the desk and lift a little plastic jewel to the burnt strands where it would stick for a second before falling back to the surface with a dull clatter.

"-why we put up with this service!"

"Because we need newts eyes dear," a weary voice replied from the front, the tail end of the sentence drowned out by a metallic clang that made Harry and the lady in front of him jump in surprise. He barely managed to keep from being knocked backward by her, and grimaced as the trunk snapped off a miniature ceramic elephant and fell with a loud clatter into a standing vase below. A nervous glance at the witch at the counter showed that she hadn't so much as blinked.

The vase proved to be quite bottomless as he fumbled around inside it as discreetly as he could, whilst keeping an eye out for the sales witch, but when another metal rattle made him smack his head into the shelf above, he abandoned his efforts and instead stood on tiptoe to see what was making the noise.

A small squeaky voice shouted "Ground floor!" and there were a resounding number of groans as a stream of people poured from what Harry now realised was a lift, edging awkwardly by those waiting. When the last had finally bustled past him, the customers began to enter in single file. The voice shouted "Going up!" just as Harry squeezed through the closing doors into a far more spacious lift than first impressions would imply. He was just trying to surreptitiously peer past a red-faced, portly wizard for the source of the voice when the doors opened once more and he found himself forcefully expelled from the lift by the crowds of wizarding shoppers.

Turning, he saw perhaps the most welcoming sight since his arrival in the New Ministry. Ahead of him stretched a steep winding path, light falling from above and catching in the mist above the crooked, colourful houses. It was no Diagon Alley, but to Harry it was like the first spell cast after a summer without magic. Witches and wizards darted here and there, their quick furtive movements and haunted eyes quite lost on him as he drank in his surroundings. When he was finally snapped out of his daze by the elbow of a particularly hurried individual, he felt a large, goofy smile spread across his face before he could get his facial muscles under control.

Recalling that, Harry winced at what a fool he must have looked. Like a Muggleborn seeing magic performed for the first time.

He'd wandered along the streets in a dream, trying to keep to the sidelines but unable to contain his wide-eyed stares. Things were as if they'd never changed. Indeed, there were even more shops and items on sale in this street than there had been in Diagon Alley! And then, to top it all off, a glance upwards as the street branched into two showed a heavily weathered copper plaque that read:

'Alchemic Alley'

He'd broken his gaze with a small smile and turned down the right hand fork, head turning as fast as he could to take everything in whilst keeping an eye out for Gringotts bank. If this was where the new wizarding centre in London was, then they were sure to have relocated here. As it was, he was assaulted from all sides by colourful robes with strange embroidery, shops selling clocks, measuring equipment, potions supplies, all manner of owls, venomous snakes, ritual materials, varieties of animal blood, sweets and candy, tricks and pranks, music.

Harry was jarred out of his daydream by the tune that floated over the heads of the crowds, so thick as to be almost visible, yes, if he looked upwards he could almost see shapes forming in the air…but that wasn't possible. A man yelled, and several women screamed, and the tune took on a sinister overtone as people pushed against him to flee in the other direction. Many pressed into shops or tighter into the crowds until Harry was standing almost alone in the centre of the cobbled street.

"Come here you stupid boy!" A hand grasped the back of his jumped and tugged him into a shop specialising in umbrellas. He glanced at a tiny wrinkled lady who mouthed angrily at him to stay quiet before returning his attention to the street.

His first sight of the Vindicators had not been a reassuring one. The marching band tune carried over them still, lulling and swelling like thick bubbles breaking under pressure and then receding again. Harry remembered the imposing figures with an unpleasant nausea in his gut; the rows of heavily robed red men and women, hoods pulled down and faces hard. Their robes were a different style to those that he was used to, more like cloaks, open at the front to display pressed clothes and a mind-boggling range of weapons and tools. The woman beside Harry shrank back with a small whimper as they passed.

When they were finally gone, Harry and several others around him let out a quiet sigh of relief. The atmosphere among the crowd told him just how much menace those soldiers posed.

"Who were they?" he asked in a hushed whisper to the woman who'd pulled him back. She looked for a moment as if she were going to answer him before her expression sharpened.

"You ought to be more careful young man!" She huffed and pushed her way further into the shop, leaving him to peer after the robed officers.

No one seemed willing to leave the perceived safety of the stores, but eventually shoppers trickled back onto the streets, business continuing in a subdued and hasty fashion. Everyone seemed anxious to leave the area as quickly as possible, and Harry passed a Floo and Apparition portal jammed full with queues of people pressing forwards.

He had continued walking for some time, more wary than he had been before. Something about the red-robed figures had shaken him – perhaps the panic they had caused, or some indistinct feature in their expressions – but whether it was that or the atmosphere they had left in their wake, he had been consumed with a need to conduct his business as quickly as possible and make his way back. He would be able to explore more thoroughly another time.

Gringotts bank stood tall and proud at the end of the street, where it curved off left, winding up the hill. Harry hadn't paused to question the presence of so much space or the sudden incline, because after all, what was magic for if not this? The white building was smaller than he remembered, although the same inscription read from the inside wall, and people were darting in and out of the columns that lined the entrance. It took little time to exchange Muggle currency for galleons, and Harry had felt comforted by the weight of the familiar coins in his pockets.

From then on, Harry had played the game of subtlety as best he could. He had been almost positive that removing New Ministry tags was illegal, but enough searching eventually brought him his answer, and like most of the good things that happened to him, it happened by chance. Overhearing a conversation, just like in Kings Cross when he had been searching for Platform 9 ¾, had led him to one person, and then another, and gradually he had cleansed himself of the tags month after month with his carefully saved funds.

And, on the recommendation of the first seller he met, he didn't so much as touch a wand for that time.

The street Harry walked along was narrow and deserted, faint light beginning to swell over the horizon as he made his way home from his shift at the pub. He was more than aware that he should probably be paid more for his work, but it gave him enough to live on, and he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if it wasn't so much of a gift as he would have hoped. He worked from Monday to Saturday, from eight in the evening to four in the morning, and sometimes hung around longer if the owner was feeling kind enough to let him have a packet of crisps or a sandwich for free.

Harry had very quickly learnt to accept what he got without complaint.

Tonight though, he would only be heading home for a catnap before heading out again. He'd begged off an hour early from work and met with his 'friend' who removed the New Ministry tags for a hefty price, and when daylight started piercing through the bare panes of glass in his tiny room to tell him that it was a more respectable time of day, he would be up and out again, making his way to Spitalfields and Alchemic Alley. Harry had never had trouble waking up early, a product of being woken at that time for the better part of his life to cook breakfast for his relatives and get a start on his chores, and the transition had been easy. He slept lightly and fitfully at best.

He quietly let himself into the house and padded past his landlord, who was asleep on the sofa in front of the glazed surface of the television, blaring out an advert for cereal. His room was a small one at the top of the house, three floors above the bathroom. Dave had inherited the house through his grandfather, and done what any sensible layabout would do with a hopelessly run-down building: rent it out at attractively low prices and have his income arrive in a wad of notes each month. He neither invaded Harry's life nor searched his room to find where he stashed his money, he merely waved him over once a month and demanded his pay.

Harry's worldly possessions currently included a sleeping bag, two pairs of trousers, a pair of pyjama bottoms, two T-shirts, a few pairs of underwear, a beaten jacket, a penknife, a tiny handheld mirror, a pair of worn and muddy trainers, a notepad and biro, and a mobile phone. In his room he kept a toothbrush and paste, after someone had left his last mangled on the bathroom floor after Merlin knew what. He'd prised up a floorboard with a borrowed screwdriver and kept his money under it. A worn and water stained mattress had been in the room when he'd arrived, and he made sure one corner of it was always hiding the floorboard at all times. It was the best he would be able to do until he had a wand.

A wand. That thought sent a thrill through him.

The loss of his wand to the past still haunted him, and although it was quite likely that it had been salvaged from the Department of Mysteries, he had no way of getting it as yet. Even as he sat slumped on the edge of his bed, pulling his shoes off and carelessly tossing them to the floor, he could see Hermione's distorted face behind the glass bubble, his wand lying just outside, just out of reach. If only he could find her now, tell her that he was back, he was the real Harry Potter. He hadn't dared speak too much to any one person, but he'd had enough conversations to know that numerous fakes of him had appeared and disappeared just as quickly. Rumour had it that the New Ministry kept a level just for copies of him, which had made him laugh.

Since his first horrific night in this future world, Harry had felt the loss of his friends, both alive and dead, as keenly as a knife through his chest. Time had dulled it, just as Martin had told him it would, but even if it was less sharp it didn't make it less painful. Necessity had simply forced him to focus on other things. As he lay on the battered mattress, staring up at the ceiling and its familiar water marks, he rolled over the same thoughts that he had been thinking for the past four months.

Ginny and Neville were dead.

It sang though his mind with a brand of irrevocable emptiness and grief that he welcomed. His greatest fear was that he would stop feeling this, stop remembering them, to forget. And yet, at the same moment nothing could be worse than their absence. He had come to terms with the unchangeable nature of it.

Ron and Hermione thought him dead.

That was changeable, though it made his stomach muscles clench up with nerves each time he thought about how he might face them. It would come eventually; he had resigned himself to that. He would deal with it when it came.

Other than Luna, he couldn't be certain that anyone else he knew and loved was alive. He wished, not for the first time, that he had asked Croaker more, had had the guts to bring up Sirius without fear of putting him in danger.

As soon as he could do so without fear of drawing attention to himself, he would read back through whatever news archives he could find and discover the names of those that had died. Though he cringed at the thought that yet more of the people he knew could be among the listed deceased, he couldn't live with himself if he had the opportunity to know and had turned it away. Nothing could be outrun forever, and eventually he would learn what he tried so very hard not to. He could then actively seek what remained of his companions out and attempt to cope with whatever loses presented themselves. There were other things in the news archives too, he knew. He'd finally be able to get a proper handle on the political climate in the wizarding world.

Voldemort was still at large.

But to what extent, he did not know. He would discover and develop a plan of action when he had successfully discovered the situation. Again, he would face it as it came.

He needed to learn.

He had no support this time; no one to lean on when the going got tough or the battles became too hard. All he had was himself, and he could admit that a boy with only fifth year spells had nothing to his credit except a track record of remarkably good luck and dubious fame. He had no 'adult' experience to draw from – he'd never had to wheedle things from people or bribe them, he'd never had to appear confident enough to win someone's respect, or beat them into the ground in a battle. He'd only escaped Voldemort because the man was playing with him; he'd only escaped his Death Eaters because they wanted the Prophecy. In short, he either needed to drastically improve his life experience and knowledge of magic, or he would have to find someone whom he trusted to teach him, and since he wasn't going to win any awards for charisma at the moment, the former seemed his only option. When he got his wand, he'd be able to begin.

He was on a quest for revenge.

Various images of bloody torture and the Cruciatus curse flashed through his mind with a pleasurable tingle. He wanted revenge almost as much as he felt the pain of his friends' deaths in his chest each time he saw a girl with red hair or a boy with that same air of anxiety. It made the pain bearable to him, mixed with it so thoroughly that he couldn't think of Ginny or Neville without thinking of how sweet their killers' screams would be to his ears. The pain he imagined them receiving would be a balm on his wounds, more than enough payment for his loss. Would it be Lucius Malfoy, or Bellatrix Lestrange? He thought that she would be the type to return to finish the job, and his blood boiled whenever he thought of her mocking baby voice back in the Department of Mysteries. Yes, he would have no trouble at all in killing her. But…perhaps it was someone else? Not Voldemort himself – he would send his minions rather than engage in a personal battle, but Harry would not let himself forget that the man was responsible…

He drifted into a half dream, only to be woken by a noise, before falling back into a soft stream of incomprehensible images and shapes, colours and sounds.

Alchemic Alley was fresh and undisturbed as a beach after high tide in the early morning light. The world was Harry's oyster. He was free, disguised now that he had reluctantly replaced his glasses with contacts and covered up that distinguishing scar. His glasses had been confiscated by the New Ministry along with various other possessions, and he'd finally acknowledged that he wouldn't be able to get another pair. Along with the dark hair and the scar they were the third part of the symbol that had been Harry Potter; they had been iconic even in his time. Not for the first time, he wished that he were old enough to grow a beard or some sort of facial hair that might further disguise him, but alas, his chin remained pale and hairless as a new-born bird.

He had explored the Alley enough over the past months to understand that its layout comprised of a road that ran in a slanted triangle, with shops lining the centre and the edge. The hill came to a peak at its furthest corner, away from the Spitalfields entrance, and the two roads sloped down from it to a flat – the road he had taken during his first visit and unpleasant encounter with the Vindicators. Gringotts stood at the end of that route, on the far corner, acting as the odd one out of a store hierarchy. The wealthier the store, and thusly the higher the prices, the further it was up the hill, with the 'slums' below. The shops along the flat road tended to be cramped and small, in great numbers. As far as he had been able to discover, every six months there was a detailed survey of the stores all along Alchemic Alley, and the three at the bottom of the rung were derailed and replaced with others, whilst there occurred a multitude of shifts within the community, some moving houses, others assimilating smaller stores nearby.

All this served to give a frenzied attitude to the sales, and even at the relatively early hour at which he was visiting he was bombarded with cries and beckoned over to try some of the products, to look at them, to buy them. Gradually, Harry had become used to this, and now he passed by with little notice. Besides, he had other reasons for being here than casual browsing.

From the deeply depressed shop owner he'd spoken to during his last visit, Harry had learnt a great deal, and yet still understood very little of the mechanics of Alchemic Alley. The man had just been shunted off of his land to make way for another prospective business, and he and his family had been made homeless.

"That's…" he had paused and hiccuped in a way that was half sob, "that's the risk you take, you see. You could make it big, or you and your family…your family – homeless." He'd banged his palm onto the table. "Just like that."

He'd slurred out a very confusing explanation of the way the competition worked within the different sections, or classes.

"Each shop is classed under a big…like…family." He'd paused, staring dazedly off into the distance. "Potions ingredients go under potions…rituals under…um, rituals. Every class has it's own hi-hier…um…race, for who's the highest, and every level has its own classes. Only," he'd hiccuped, "the top levels only have one shop in each class."

The conversation had made some things clear to Harry, and others even more indistinct, but his eyes had been opened to the competition within Alchemic Alley itself. He noticed as he progressed up the hill how the shops evened out in number and size, and how each type narrowed down to just one, exactly as the man had told him they did. The shops turned into stores, and the stores increased in size and quality, up until a certain point. The highest level, as he judged it, sold things that were one of a kind, and without competition they retained their place uncontested.

Such as shops that sold wands.