It had been five days since Harry first arrived; and it appeared as though regulars at the Leaky Cauldron had already been warming up to him. No longer did they stare at him suspiciously, and some had even begun conversing with him.
"A right political junkie, this one," said an older-looking man as Harry grabbed the latest copy of the Prophet. "I reckon you'll be mad by the month's end, son."
"There's little else in the form of entertainment these days," Harry said idly. "I'd prefer an alternative."
"I guess there isn't," the man said gruffly. "Though Ogden's Oldest should do ya just fine" he continued, taking an overexaggerated swig of the Firewhiskey. Harry raised an eyebrow.
A man sitting next to him swatted his older counterpart on the arm. "Course not, course not, you're underage…."
The boy snorted.
"Sorry about that," said a younger man, looking sheepish. "Old man Orson's been drinking since his 3rd year at Hogwarts."
"Damn right," the old man – Orson, muttered., turning his head to look at Harry once more. "You know, boy, there used to be a girl who frequented here, 'bout a year back. Did just what you're doing. Walk in, grab a paper, read, and walk out. Ended up settin' the bloody stack on fire and gave us quite the show."
"I'm sure it was riveting," Harry said dryly.
Grindelwald settles in for a siege… Durmstrang's Headmaster laments "besmirching" of school's reputation… Cygnus Black calls into question Minister Nicholas Allencourt's leadership…
"Say," Harry spoke, a little louder, drawing attention once more. "None of you fine gentlemen would happen to know anything about an upcoming Wizengamot vote, one that happens to do with the Trace?" It wasn't subtle, but Harry didn't mean for it to be.
"My daughter won't shut up about it," said the younger man from before. "It's all I've heard for days from her, but I don't know anything more than what that is telling you," he pointed to the paper in Harry's hand.
It was worth a shot.
Two days. Two days was all that was left.
Just as the Prophet had nothing new for him, Harry found nothing of use or great importance in Transfiguration Today. A few eye-catching papers, and some profound-sounding quote from a Transfiguration master Harry had never heard of seemed to make up the entire edition.
Harry did recognize their importance; if anything, the constant news briefings had aided him in beginning to understand the world he was dealing with, though he was not arrogant enough to believe he had grasped it in any sense, just yet.
He pulled his newly acquired wand out of his pocket – Harry winced at the reminder he still had to find a way to repay Ollivander's dues – and practically felt the magic tingle.
It was different to his Holly wand; it was less personal. The Aspen guaranteed him more power, that was for sure, but it was felt more… detached. Detached, yet overwhelming. Power that his Holly wand didn't have.
A spell played on his lips, the wand movements for this particular spell a reflex at this point. He pointed his wand forward…
No. He had to wait. Why was this so tempting all of a sudden?
Harry stared at the Aspen wand with something more akin to reverence. As strong as his desire was to cast even the simplest of spells this moment, he had the sense not to even consider it. Something happened.
He felt a pull from the Aspen concoction in his hand, calling to him, tugging at him…
Come to me.
The wand was tempting him. But why?
A question for Ollivander, when he gets his dues. The urge subsided right as Harry pocketed his wand. Even when he could cast, that could be a problem. Such an urge would end up being nothing but a distraction.
Harry was snapped out of his focus when he felt two hands clap on his shoulders. He jumped, ready to draw his wand.
"Good stance, kid," complemented Orson in quiet, gruff tone, before looking at him straight in the eye and sticking his hand out. "Pleasure meeting ya, boy." He made the proclamation as though it were to the entire pub, with Harry raising a confused eyebrow.
His green eyes widened momentarily before realising what the old man was doing. "Pleasure," said Harry hastily, accepting the handshake. This must've been important.
Sure enough, Harry felt a slip of paper in his hand.
Most people had returned to their drinking and conversing, but Harry felt more than a few eyes on him as he took steps towards the exit to the Muggle world. He dare not read the slip then and there.
Harry hanged around for a few moments before leaving the pub/inn, taking care to notice that the elusive Mr Orson had taken a seat back to where he was, eyes fixated completely on Harry.
Relief rushed through the young man with the first step he made out of the Leaky Cauldron, and he was thankful to have savored the newspaper copies he'd grabbed. He did not want to go back, not now.
He didn't open the slip just yet; there was no possible Harry could trust the old man. But whatever it was, it meant that Harry had already caught the interest of something. Or in this case, someone.
That was not ideal.
Harry continued to wander aimlessly as he had been for the past few days, making sure to make every step he took increased the distance between him and the Leaky Cauldron.
I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mr Orson.
Clearly, not all regulars at the Leaky Cauldron were depressed drunkards who wouldn't have a care in the world what Harry was up to.
Blast it.
Harry took the note out of his pocket, comfortable with the distance he'd created between himself and the Leaky Cauldron, and unfolded it carefully; he couldn't help but reminded of the long slip he'd been handed on the beginning of his fifth year.
The paper bore a far greater liking to that slip than he'd ever imagined.
It felt as though something clicked in his brain when he read it, as though a piece of information he didn't remember just came to light. It was almost as if he was gifted a piece of knowledge. And in a way, he was. That didn't stop Harry's head spinning. He read the note once more, blinking to make sure he had read correctly.
He most certainly had. Harry wished he hadn't.
Emily Riddle's residence can be found at Wool's Orphanage, 9 Ironmonger Lane, London.
The temporary lift on the Trace had passed, 46-44.
Harry's conscience had felt no lighter as he had hoped it to. That day, he'd walked in, grabbed his papers as quickly as possible, and walked out. He did not check for Mr Orson, nor the younger man who had always sat next to him.
He took the Aspen wand out of his pocket, feeling the tug almost instantly. Harry ignored it. Three flicks up and down, two swishes upwards, focus on the environment… Gray, brick walls, sparse, cool weather…
"Coreno Celare," Harry whispered, pointing his wand at himself. He looked at the nearest window.
Harry's disillusionment was a success.
He continued on his path to the outskirts of Muggle London. Simple locking and unlocking charms, coupled with his disillusionment should be enough to sleep in a Muggle hotel room.
He pulled the note out of his pocket. It had become somewhat of a nervous tick for Harry two days – constantly puling out and rereading over and over the now dreaded slip of information that had left Harry with far too many questions.
Did Tom Riddle have a sister now? Was Emily Riddle even Riddle as he knew? Was Emily Riddle just this world's version of Tom?
Another, unanswered question sent an equally fearful chill down his spine. What else had changed?
"Ollivander, perhaps," Harry muttered traitorously to himself. The man was younger and paranoid, sure, but it still seemed odd for the wandmaker.
But Harry didn't know Ollivander. He'd had two, maybe three encounters with the man in his lifetime. It was an unfair judgment to make on his part.
Harry Potter – Harry Evans, was seeing ghosts. That was how Ron always put it. That in Chess, players would sometimes forget the position of a piece and carry on playing as though it were on a different square of the board. "Seeing ghosts," players called it.
But Harry was not a Chess player.
He pressed on, crumpling the paper with his grip, though he didn't care. He had to await a response now – one from Hogwarts about his transfer. He found that the front desk lady at the Cauldron was kind enough to let Harry know that Horace Slughorn frequented the pub & inn, and that she would pass the message on to him the next time he arrived.
Harry hoped it would be soon. And he hoped he would be able to speak with Albus Dumbledore.
He continued his disillusioned trek, not entirely sure of where to head next. The charm would wear off soon, but Harry would only reapply once he found a place to sleep. The streets of London were more barren Harry would expect them to be; but some were still rebuilding from the aftermath of the Bltiz.
"You're going to go mad," he muttered to himself.
But the revelation that there was a Riddle around, at least, had left something else on Harry's mind, something he'd refused to think about the moment he woke up in that… room.
The Department of Mysteries. The Time Turners – that prophecy.
It couldn't be active. Not anymore. The person who relayed the prophecy – Trelaweny, Harry scoffed at the name – was either only a babe or not even alive in this time period. There was no way. At least, Harry convinced himself.
But there was only one way to know for sure…
Harry would not go back there. Not now. He hadn't even a way. He had more pressing matters to handle than that of a foolish prophecy which nearly got him killed.
His disillusionment was fading now. Not gone, but fading. Harry felt the tug from his wand as it did so, as though it were begging him to cast the spell again – or better yet, cast something that packed even more of a punch than a disillusionment charm.
Harry refused.
He heaved a sigh of something akin to relief as a Muggle hotel finally made its way into view. Harry stuffed the crumpled letter into his pocket.
It didn't feel like it, but Harry had finally completed item number one on his list.
He'd secured a place to stay.
A/N: That second scene was strangely challenging to write, for some reason. Reviews, thoughts, and all are appreciated. I find that they do wonders for my dopamine levels.
Thanks for reading!