Harry Potter and the Golden Sovereign
As told to Ian Postre
Disclaimer: This story is fanfiction. No financial benefit will be gained from the sharing or reproduction of this story. All characters and worlds described are the property of J.K Rowling. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author.
The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter 7
The Leaky Cauldron was the almost the same inside as it was in his own time. Or always would be, Harry thought. Harry wondered if the famous tavern had ever really changed. It was when he looked more deeply that he began to notice the differences. The lamps that hung from the ceiling cast a dimmer, yellow light and were clearly powered by gas. True, the lights on or beside the drinking tables and cubby holes were animated by magic, for patrons preferred magic light to Muggle light. However, the charms required to light an entire establishment such as the Leaky Cauldron required too much effort and concentration, especially in the centre of a large, Muggle city. As the great yet unfortunately alcoholic wizard philosopher Alan the Bored had said: "there's no such thing as a free butterbeer". Butterbeer was, of course, on tap in this 1868 version, though it was served in large pewter tankards and there were few glasses to be seen. However, the usual crowd of wizard folk were to be seen huddled around tables though more than a few witches were dressed in large purple bustles and several tall wizard hats sported a peacock or an ostrich feather. Apart from the few differences, the pub was essentially the same as it would be over a hundred years later. In a way Harry felt relieved that much remained the same, it gave him a sense of security about this world. Whatever else might have changed, you could always rely on the Leaky Cauldron.
As Harry sat there, he drank a butterbeer that was altogether richer and less sweet than its 20th Century version. But otherwise it tasted much the same and was still delicious. And the few silver sickles and bronze knuts in his left pocket were good for spending here, as long as no one checked the date.
As Harry supped on his drink, his thoughts wandered to his friends back at Hogwarts and he became impatient, wishing for some idea of what he should do next. Again his hand wandered to his pocket and he took out the golden sovereign and looked at it. As he sat there Harry found himself passing the time doing something that Hermione would have scolded him for and had only recently taken Ron to task for doing. Harry carved his name with his wand in the oak of the table, simply to pass the time, hardly even realising he was doing it. It was something Fred and George would do, something he had never done before. But perhaps he also did it also to stamp his identity onto something real, given that his own identity seemed in some inexplicable way to be in question as he sat, marooned in a different century from his friends and schoolmates. Using his wand, Harry scratched out the following: Harry Potter, 1868. That was all, but it was enough to make Harry feel better, somehow more real in this Victorian world of shadows and uncertainties. It made him feel more 'there'.