The sun beat down on the cobblestones of Diagon Alley like a hammer on
an anvil, but inside the dingy shop situated between Eyelop's and
Ollivander's, it was as cool as it had been in the vaults beneath
Gringotts. The shop sold everything from books to potion supplies to
clothing, and I was thumbing through their robe-section. Having
unpacked a bit, (i.e: pulled out the things I would need the most and
scattered them all over the floor) I had realised that I didn't have
nearly enough clothing to make it through the summer, unless I wanted
to wear a hole in my only two Hogwarts' uniforms.
Which was the reason for my clothing hunt in the tiny store. It was so tiny that it didn't even have a name, and was staffed by a man so old he could have been Dumbledore's grandfather. Since Madam Malkin's charged ridiculous rates for anything that wasn't strictly part of the Hogwarts' uniform, and in any case had a hideously long deliverance time, I had been forced to look elsewhere for already finished clothing or cheaper cloth. By the end of the alley, I had been reduced to fervently wishing for needle and thread, as well as the skill to make my own clothing. It seemed Madam Malkin's had some sort of monopoly on Diagon Alley, and I didn't dare venture down Knockturn. I wasn't that stupid, or that desperate.
The clothing sold at the tiny store was very different from what was offered in Madam Malkin's, or in Gladrags for that matter. It seemed to have been made with another purpose than mere elegance in mind: where the Hogwarts' uniform and everything else offered in Madam Malkin's strived to achieve beauty, there was a functionality and endurance in the cut of these robes that wasn't so common any more. I found a dark green robe, cut to fall just beneath the knees, at least on me, and the old man assured me that it changed size to fit a potential buyer, so I suppose that it was the original intention as well.
With some various shirts and some trousers, I picked out the green robe and a similar black one, and put them on the counter for purchase. They cost a shockingly fifteen Sickles altogether, and I inquired as to why they were to cheap. The old man grinned at me, snatching the money and putting them under the counter before answering.
"Because they belonged to a dead man," he said.
Well, that was reasonable. Most people wouldn't want to wear the clothing of a dead man. My only criteria for wearing it was that the dead man wouldn't be allowed in them with me. I put the clothes in a bag and walked out of the shop and into the sunshine. It was an interesting contrast, all things considered. I might have to go back to that shop some day: it had had a rather interesting collection of maps on one of the walls.
My rented room was a complete mess. Most of the time I was somewhat neat, but this time my unpacking process had consisted mainly of opening my trunk as wide as possible and turning it upside down over the floor. Most of it hadn't been unpacked since the previous summer, so I found things in there I thought I'd lost. Like a pair of boots I thought I'd lost in the fire, which still fit, and had probably been packed in there for two years, of not more. After a moment of thought, I pulled them on. The shoes I'd been wearing since I turned fifteen had taken a bad turn in the Forbidden Forest, and were next to shredded. My uniform wasn't much better, so I exchanged it for one of the shirts I'd bought and a pair of trousers, and, as to not stick out too horribly in the crowd, put on one of the robes I'd bought as well.
As an afterthought, I strapped on my wrist-sheath and put my wand in it. I might be able to do most things without it, but Lucas had specifically asked me to use it as much as possible, and the green fire in the forest had scared the wits out of me. Better not attempt it again and draw attention to myself. Or to the scorched buildings I was apt to leave behind.
"With my luck, I'll be a pair of smoking boots on the cobblestones by the end of the week," I told myself as I surveyed my image in the mirror. Pleased that I wasn't looking too much like an Azkaban-runaway, I turned and walked out the door.
In my dead man's clothing and my forgotten boots, I drew a few startled glances. The clothing was out of date, and stuck out somewhat among the stylish, modern robes, but it was mainly the fact that I looked like I'd been sleeping on the street that made them look twice. Hair that is always in dire need of a haircut, looking somewhat like the love-child of a crow's nest and a Puffskein tends to do that. Time and time again I'd attempted to smooth it down, but it hadn't worked, so I more or less gave up. Unfortunately, the messy hair that I was forced to suffer made me resemble Potter to some extent. The only difference really were our heights, (where I was much taller) our eye-colour, (where mine was freakish, while his was if an odd colour then at least the same on both eyes) and our facial features (My nose was larger, my face was more triangular and of course, the lack of scar tissue on my forehead). While my notice of these differences, especially in the matter of facial features, might make me seem like an obsessive stalker, it was simply things one noticed after six years of school together.
One little boy though, who resembled Longbottom but ten years younger, clung to his mother's hand and stared at me in awe. I raised my eyebrow, but didn't go out of my way to appear threatening. I could leave the scaring of little children to the likes of Voldemort.
"A-are you H-harry Potter?" The boy whispered.
"Do I look like Harry Potter?" I asked acidly.
"Yes." The little boy replied promptly.
"No, I don't," I denied. This was the first time I'd ever gotten compared to Potter, but in so small a child, it could be forgiven. "Potter is shorter than I am, and he has green eyes. I only have one green eye. Look, the other one's blue." I pointed. "And if you've ever seen Potter, or even a photograph of him, you'd know I don't look a thing like him."
"Yes you do." The boy contradicted me. "I seen him."
"But I'm not Potter." I snapped, fighting to keep my crumbling calm. "Potter isn't a Slytherin."
The boy shrank away as if I'd spoken Voldemort's name out loud. With a slightly bitter smile, I straightened up again and walked across the street to Flourish & Blott's, to see if they had any interesting books. A memory slammed into my mind with the force of a well-placed Stunning Charm: Hermione still had the book Millicent had gotten me for Christmas. I still had my own, battered and worn copy somewhere, probably in my trunk, but she had the new copy of it. A smile that was nothing short of evil appeared on my lips. I'd like to see her explain that one to Potter and Weasley.
Without paying too much attention to where I was going, I had wandered into the Muggle Literature section of Flourish & Blott's. Books of various sizes and colours lined the bookcases. Finnegan's Wake, Neverwhere, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Scarlet Letter, the names were all unfamiliar. I picked the closest one that seemed interesting: The Picture of Dorian Gray. A few pages into the book I put it down, wondering to myself if the author was homosexual. The implications made in the book certainly suggested that that was the case. Wandering out of the section again, I headed for the back of the shop, which was where they kept more advanced books, such as guides to Defence Against the Dark Arts. Le Feuvre's Compendium of Curses was the most dangerous book they kept in Flourish & Blott's.
If one wanted darker books, or simply books on the Dark Arts, Knockturn Alley was the place to go. But since I wanted to defend myself, and perhaps find a way to tone down the wandless magic somewhat, Flourish & Blott's was good enough for me. Some minutes were spent perusing the shelves, and I came back with just Le Feuvre's Compendium of Curses, as well as one ancient book on mind-magic. One quick venture into the Muggle section brought out a volume on psychology and mind-control. The cashier gave me a curious look, but let me pay for my purchases without uncomfortable questions.
Resolved to keep my magic in check, I made the brief walk to Fortesque's to buy a cone of ice-cream, and then headed back to the Leaky Cauldron. If I started studying the Muggle psychology, it might give me some basis to experiment. If I went insane, well, so much better for the world not to suffer my absolute incompetence at life. St. Mungo's would have to make space for another vegetable in their insanity ward, but I wouldn't take up too much room. And if I didn't go insane, I might well earn a better hold on magic. Merlin knew it would be a relief from the constant headaches and weariness of the last year.
I reached the Leaky Cauldron, the ice-cream cone consumed, and climbed the stairs to my room. I settled down on the messy bed and pulled out the Muggle book I'd bought. It was time to study. Strangely enough, we hadn't gotten much in the way of summer homework, neither from McGonagall, Vector or Flitwick. When asked about summer essays, Lucas had only stared blankly before asking when the next meal was. Obviously the reply had been designed to annoy keen students, since Lucas ate about as much as a dead Flobberworm, and had no interest in when the next meal was.
"´The human mind is, as has been stated at various times, a complex thing.´" I muttered aloud as I read the first page. "Sounds promising. I don't think I've ever seen a mind as complex as mine."
I read for a long time. It was a heavy book, but by the time the rumbling of my stomach called me back to reality, I was a third of the way through it. It was immensely interesting, and though I wasn't nearly finished with it, I had learned many interesting things. The author mentioned often that he or she had studied Buddhism, which seemed to be a Muggle religion, which leaned heavily on meditation and focusing of thoughts and such. Since the author also claimed that the discipline was very effective, I decided to get myself books on meditation as soon as the book stores opened again.
Insanity was probably the only reason for my sudden interesting Muggle literature and religion. The threat of obtaining insanity, that was. If the thing stopping me from going insane would be moving to China and eat nothing but rice for the rest of my life, I would do so. The only thing I drew the line at was turning into a Death Eater, with or without the Mark. Raping, torturing and killing people was jumping off the edge with a smile on your face.
"Have you eaten at all today, boy?" The barkeep asked me when I came downstairs.
"I had some ice-cream around lunch-time. Does that count?" I smiled.
"It most certainly does not!" He snapped. "Edith! Bring out some of that soup! We've got a fellow here who really needs it."
I was forced to take a seat at the bar, a bowl of soup in front of me, and the barkeep's wife fussing over me as if I'd hurt myself. A few disapproving glances were sent my way by the barkeep, but as I finished the soup, he was looking a lot more cheerful. That might have been because he sneaked sips of whiskey from the bottles when his wife wasn't watching, though. After an hour or so, I was warmed up, (my room was somewhat cold at night, as I'd discovered) well fed and a lot more cheerful. Over the hour, I had learned that the barkeep's name was Tom, and that he and his wife Edith had two grown sons living in Sussex, and a daughter aged fifteen, who was being home schooled. Home schooling was a rare thing in the magical world, since Hogwarts was considered both the safest place in Britain, and a good start in life. The daughter herself made a brief appearance, was introduced as Alexandra, blushed at me and disappeared. A feeling of dread settled in my stomach.
"Oh dear." Tom sighed. "Don't look now lad, but I think you've got yourself an admirer."
"Oh hell no!" I exclaimed before I could stop myself. "Anything but that! ....Er, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."
"It's quite alright," Edith smiled. "I'm sure it's nothing serious anyway. But I suppose a boy like you must already have a girlfriend."
"Er, no." I admitted, trying to push down the feeling that I should be blushing. "I don't. But that's not the point. It's just that right now is not a good time for admirers, girls or girlfriends at all, for that matter."
"Busy man are you?" Tom inquired.
"Living on my own does take up some of the time," I admitted, glad for the excuse he provided. "And since I'm going back to Hogwarts come September and probably not coming again, things might get a little hairy."
"Perfectly understandable." Edith nodded. "I fancied a boy when I was fifteen, and he went away to seas after two months. He was smart enough not to start anything with me, or I'd have been heartbroken when he left."
"Right," I muttered, trying to avoid going in too deep on the subject. When it was first brought up, the things that had flashed through my mind were, by chronological order, the green fire in the woods, the interior of a St. Mungo's ward, and Hermione. "Well, I'm rather tired, and I have quite a lot of work to do, so I'll be heading off to sleep now. Thank you so much for the soup. How much do I owe you?"
"Oh, don't be silly," Edith laughed. "You don't owe us anything! It was only a bowl of soup, and you would have fallen over without it. It's on the house."
"Thanks again." I said before heading back upstairs to my book and my bed.
I stripped out of my clothing tiredly, suddenly struck with the fatigue I'd been saving up from Christmas. It was hard to move in the limited space of my tiny room, but I managed. Most of the floor was taken up by the bed and the dresser, and there was only a small, square spot to stand on and move around in before bumping into the full-body mirror that someone had dumped in there. Before collapsing head-long on my bed, I took a look at myself in the mirror.
It was a depressing sight. Stripped down to my boxers, I could clearly see that I was much too thin. I could easily count my ribs, and my underwear hung onto my hips only by accident. I was all sharp angles, pale skin and seemed to consist mostly of legs and arms. The thatch-like nest of curls that was my poor excuse for hair was nestled on top of what looked to be a bean-pole, and that was the most accurate description I could think of for my body. Scars ran down my arms, looking like a spider-web's trickery, and a hundred tiny cuts had produced an image of a worn boy, despite the fact that I wasn't even eighteen. A large, nasty-looking scar crossed my ribcage, from my left shoulder down to my right hip, a constant reminder of what a silly and stupid child I had been at the age of five. I'd been looking for the partridge in the pear-tree in our orchard, and fallen down clumsily. It seemed so long ago now.
With a weak smile, I turned away from the mirror and stopped counting my scars. Keeping count had lost its point: perhaps when I had been through gruelling horrors, and the scars meant something, I'd start counting them again. For now, I'd simply view them as cuts that had grown old. I was out like a light before I hit the pillow, and didn't even register the fact that I was still wearing my socks.
''''''''''''''
A week went by in much the same fashion. I'd wake up, read some more, go out for a combined breakfast/lunch – mostly consisting of ice-cream – before retiring to my room again and reading until a late dinner. I didn't see much of Alexandra, thankfully, but then I didn't see much of anyone. Every time I ventured outside the Leaky Cauldron, or indeed outside my room, people gave me strange looks. Perhaps it was the vaguely fanatical look in my eye, or just the fact that despite the Washing Charms performed on my clothing they were still wrinkled, but whatever the reason, it made me feel out of place.
I'd extended my personal library from the initial three books to include volumes on mediation, as well as a more comprehensive guide to mind- blockage, a discipline not much different from Occlumency, (I'd looked it up) and sounding a lot more simple. The mind-blockage sounded as if it might help keeping the wandless magic checked: while it was mainly to prevent outside interference, it did have two chapters devoted to the control of the magical channels in oneself. As an afterthought, I had also added a thin book detailing some of the earliest endeavours of Merlin, thinking it might help to know what others had dealt with to deal with my own problems.
I was nose-deep in my latest purchase, reading about Merlin and his travels through Scotland as a boy, and didn't notice I had taken a wrong turn until too late. When the tip of my boot hit a rise in the pavement that shouldn't have been there, I finally tore myself from the book and looked around. An Apothecary sign with a broken arm on it told me I was no longer in Diagon Alley. The witch with teeth like tombstones gave me further hints that I should be running as fast as I could in the opposite direction. Stuffing the book in my pocket, I attempted to look as calm as possible, and turned around.
Just as I had assumed, I had wandered into Knockturn Alley. On the other end of a twisting, narrow alley, filled to capacity with suspicious looking people, was the opening into the familiar, sun-washed street. The best, and probably only, thing I could do was to walk back there looking as confident as possible. The slightest indication of fear would have these wolves chewing on my bones. It was rather like the finely-tuned political games we'd played in the Snake Pit before the second war began. Confidence was everything, and fear would mean excommunication for weeks.
As I put one foot in front of the other, starting my too long walk back, some of the stories related to children about Knockturn Alley returned to me. There were potion-stores in there that could provide the most elaborate poisons if requested, and the buyers wouldn't bat an eyelash before using them. There were men who would sell their fellow men just to get another kick, another high. The rag-and-bone shops were just that: they sold rags and the bones of people who got lost in the wrong street.
Amazingly, my walk back to more familiar and safe streets went well. Some strange individuals, which was the best word to describe them, tried to get me to buy things: eyeballs, nails, teeth and the heads of dead cats mostly, but I managed to decline their offerings politely enough for them to accept it quietly. One woman, a blonde with altogether too little fabric in her clothing, tried to interest me into buying her for an hour, but I did my best to pretend I hadn't heard her. I had better things to spend my galleons on. The trick was to keep walking: never to stop, even when some old crone stepped out into the alley right in front of me.
Draco had told me of his visits to Knockturn Alley with his father. He had been twelve at the time, and now I seriously doubted the tales he had brought back: a twelve year old would have been petrified in here without someone like Lucius Malfoy accompanying them. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone detached themselves from the shadows and started following me. The cold lump of fear that sometimes visited me seemed to take up permanent residence in the pit of my stomach: despite Tom and Edith's insistence, I hadn't been taking meals regularly, and having spent a lot of my time being trampled, broken down or attacked by random classmates, my condition wasn't very good. Today's outing had only been supposed to be a short one, so that I could go back to my room, eat something, and recover somewhat before studying.
Hastening my steps without thinking about it, I attempted to turn the last corner and enter Diagon Alley again without fuss, but my notoriously bad luck had decided not to leave me quite yet. Just as I took the last step out into the sunlight, a hand clamped down on my shoulder and dragged me back in. A filthy hand wrapped over my mouth to keep me from screaming, through I struggled to do so.
For the first time in a week, it felt as if insanity had just come around the corner.
''''''''''''''
Ending Notes: Bit of a cliffhanger, I know, and a short chapter, but hopefully the next one will be longer. I can't promise anything, but if I didn't cut off this chapter, this scene there, it would have run on for twenty pages, and I wouldn't be getting any sleep.
Which was the reason for my clothing hunt in the tiny store. It was so tiny that it didn't even have a name, and was staffed by a man so old he could have been Dumbledore's grandfather. Since Madam Malkin's charged ridiculous rates for anything that wasn't strictly part of the Hogwarts' uniform, and in any case had a hideously long deliverance time, I had been forced to look elsewhere for already finished clothing or cheaper cloth. By the end of the alley, I had been reduced to fervently wishing for needle and thread, as well as the skill to make my own clothing. It seemed Madam Malkin's had some sort of monopoly on Diagon Alley, and I didn't dare venture down Knockturn. I wasn't that stupid, or that desperate.
The clothing sold at the tiny store was very different from what was offered in Madam Malkin's, or in Gladrags for that matter. It seemed to have been made with another purpose than mere elegance in mind: where the Hogwarts' uniform and everything else offered in Madam Malkin's strived to achieve beauty, there was a functionality and endurance in the cut of these robes that wasn't so common any more. I found a dark green robe, cut to fall just beneath the knees, at least on me, and the old man assured me that it changed size to fit a potential buyer, so I suppose that it was the original intention as well.
With some various shirts and some trousers, I picked out the green robe and a similar black one, and put them on the counter for purchase. They cost a shockingly fifteen Sickles altogether, and I inquired as to why they were to cheap. The old man grinned at me, snatching the money and putting them under the counter before answering.
"Because they belonged to a dead man," he said.
Well, that was reasonable. Most people wouldn't want to wear the clothing of a dead man. My only criteria for wearing it was that the dead man wouldn't be allowed in them with me. I put the clothes in a bag and walked out of the shop and into the sunshine. It was an interesting contrast, all things considered. I might have to go back to that shop some day: it had had a rather interesting collection of maps on one of the walls.
My rented room was a complete mess. Most of the time I was somewhat neat, but this time my unpacking process had consisted mainly of opening my trunk as wide as possible and turning it upside down over the floor. Most of it hadn't been unpacked since the previous summer, so I found things in there I thought I'd lost. Like a pair of boots I thought I'd lost in the fire, which still fit, and had probably been packed in there for two years, of not more. After a moment of thought, I pulled them on. The shoes I'd been wearing since I turned fifteen had taken a bad turn in the Forbidden Forest, and were next to shredded. My uniform wasn't much better, so I exchanged it for one of the shirts I'd bought and a pair of trousers, and, as to not stick out too horribly in the crowd, put on one of the robes I'd bought as well.
As an afterthought, I strapped on my wrist-sheath and put my wand in it. I might be able to do most things without it, but Lucas had specifically asked me to use it as much as possible, and the green fire in the forest had scared the wits out of me. Better not attempt it again and draw attention to myself. Or to the scorched buildings I was apt to leave behind.
"With my luck, I'll be a pair of smoking boots on the cobblestones by the end of the week," I told myself as I surveyed my image in the mirror. Pleased that I wasn't looking too much like an Azkaban-runaway, I turned and walked out the door.
In my dead man's clothing and my forgotten boots, I drew a few startled glances. The clothing was out of date, and stuck out somewhat among the stylish, modern robes, but it was mainly the fact that I looked like I'd been sleeping on the street that made them look twice. Hair that is always in dire need of a haircut, looking somewhat like the love-child of a crow's nest and a Puffskein tends to do that. Time and time again I'd attempted to smooth it down, but it hadn't worked, so I more or less gave up. Unfortunately, the messy hair that I was forced to suffer made me resemble Potter to some extent. The only difference really were our heights, (where I was much taller) our eye-colour, (where mine was freakish, while his was if an odd colour then at least the same on both eyes) and our facial features (My nose was larger, my face was more triangular and of course, the lack of scar tissue on my forehead). While my notice of these differences, especially in the matter of facial features, might make me seem like an obsessive stalker, it was simply things one noticed after six years of school together.
One little boy though, who resembled Longbottom but ten years younger, clung to his mother's hand and stared at me in awe. I raised my eyebrow, but didn't go out of my way to appear threatening. I could leave the scaring of little children to the likes of Voldemort.
"A-are you H-harry Potter?" The boy whispered.
"Do I look like Harry Potter?" I asked acidly.
"Yes." The little boy replied promptly.
"No, I don't," I denied. This was the first time I'd ever gotten compared to Potter, but in so small a child, it could be forgiven. "Potter is shorter than I am, and he has green eyes. I only have one green eye. Look, the other one's blue." I pointed. "And if you've ever seen Potter, or even a photograph of him, you'd know I don't look a thing like him."
"Yes you do." The boy contradicted me. "I seen him."
"But I'm not Potter." I snapped, fighting to keep my crumbling calm. "Potter isn't a Slytherin."
The boy shrank away as if I'd spoken Voldemort's name out loud. With a slightly bitter smile, I straightened up again and walked across the street to Flourish & Blott's, to see if they had any interesting books. A memory slammed into my mind with the force of a well-placed Stunning Charm: Hermione still had the book Millicent had gotten me for Christmas. I still had my own, battered and worn copy somewhere, probably in my trunk, but she had the new copy of it. A smile that was nothing short of evil appeared on my lips. I'd like to see her explain that one to Potter and Weasley.
Without paying too much attention to where I was going, I had wandered into the Muggle Literature section of Flourish & Blott's. Books of various sizes and colours lined the bookcases. Finnegan's Wake, Neverwhere, To Kill A Mockingbird, The Scarlet Letter, the names were all unfamiliar. I picked the closest one that seemed interesting: The Picture of Dorian Gray. A few pages into the book I put it down, wondering to myself if the author was homosexual. The implications made in the book certainly suggested that that was the case. Wandering out of the section again, I headed for the back of the shop, which was where they kept more advanced books, such as guides to Defence Against the Dark Arts. Le Feuvre's Compendium of Curses was the most dangerous book they kept in Flourish & Blott's.
If one wanted darker books, or simply books on the Dark Arts, Knockturn Alley was the place to go. But since I wanted to defend myself, and perhaps find a way to tone down the wandless magic somewhat, Flourish & Blott's was good enough for me. Some minutes were spent perusing the shelves, and I came back with just Le Feuvre's Compendium of Curses, as well as one ancient book on mind-magic. One quick venture into the Muggle section brought out a volume on psychology and mind-control. The cashier gave me a curious look, but let me pay for my purchases without uncomfortable questions.
Resolved to keep my magic in check, I made the brief walk to Fortesque's to buy a cone of ice-cream, and then headed back to the Leaky Cauldron. If I started studying the Muggle psychology, it might give me some basis to experiment. If I went insane, well, so much better for the world not to suffer my absolute incompetence at life. St. Mungo's would have to make space for another vegetable in their insanity ward, but I wouldn't take up too much room. And if I didn't go insane, I might well earn a better hold on magic. Merlin knew it would be a relief from the constant headaches and weariness of the last year.
I reached the Leaky Cauldron, the ice-cream cone consumed, and climbed the stairs to my room. I settled down on the messy bed and pulled out the Muggle book I'd bought. It was time to study. Strangely enough, we hadn't gotten much in the way of summer homework, neither from McGonagall, Vector or Flitwick. When asked about summer essays, Lucas had only stared blankly before asking when the next meal was. Obviously the reply had been designed to annoy keen students, since Lucas ate about as much as a dead Flobberworm, and had no interest in when the next meal was.
"´The human mind is, as has been stated at various times, a complex thing.´" I muttered aloud as I read the first page. "Sounds promising. I don't think I've ever seen a mind as complex as mine."
I read for a long time. It was a heavy book, but by the time the rumbling of my stomach called me back to reality, I was a third of the way through it. It was immensely interesting, and though I wasn't nearly finished with it, I had learned many interesting things. The author mentioned often that he or she had studied Buddhism, which seemed to be a Muggle religion, which leaned heavily on meditation and focusing of thoughts and such. Since the author also claimed that the discipline was very effective, I decided to get myself books on meditation as soon as the book stores opened again.
Insanity was probably the only reason for my sudden interesting Muggle literature and religion. The threat of obtaining insanity, that was. If the thing stopping me from going insane would be moving to China and eat nothing but rice for the rest of my life, I would do so. The only thing I drew the line at was turning into a Death Eater, with or without the Mark. Raping, torturing and killing people was jumping off the edge with a smile on your face.
"Have you eaten at all today, boy?" The barkeep asked me when I came downstairs.
"I had some ice-cream around lunch-time. Does that count?" I smiled.
"It most certainly does not!" He snapped. "Edith! Bring out some of that soup! We've got a fellow here who really needs it."
I was forced to take a seat at the bar, a bowl of soup in front of me, and the barkeep's wife fussing over me as if I'd hurt myself. A few disapproving glances were sent my way by the barkeep, but as I finished the soup, he was looking a lot more cheerful. That might have been because he sneaked sips of whiskey from the bottles when his wife wasn't watching, though. After an hour or so, I was warmed up, (my room was somewhat cold at night, as I'd discovered) well fed and a lot more cheerful. Over the hour, I had learned that the barkeep's name was Tom, and that he and his wife Edith had two grown sons living in Sussex, and a daughter aged fifteen, who was being home schooled. Home schooling was a rare thing in the magical world, since Hogwarts was considered both the safest place in Britain, and a good start in life. The daughter herself made a brief appearance, was introduced as Alexandra, blushed at me and disappeared. A feeling of dread settled in my stomach.
"Oh dear." Tom sighed. "Don't look now lad, but I think you've got yourself an admirer."
"Oh hell no!" I exclaimed before I could stop myself. "Anything but that! ....Er, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that."
"It's quite alright," Edith smiled. "I'm sure it's nothing serious anyway. But I suppose a boy like you must already have a girlfriend."
"Er, no." I admitted, trying to push down the feeling that I should be blushing. "I don't. But that's not the point. It's just that right now is not a good time for admirers, girls or girlfriends at all, for that matter."
"Busy man are you?" Tom inquired.
"Living on my own does take up some of the time," I admitted, glad for the excuse he provided. "And since I'm going back to Hogwarts come September and probably not coming again, things might get a little hairy."
"Perfectly understandable." Edith nodded. "I fancied a boy when I was fifteen, and he went away to seas after two months. He was smart enough not to start anything with me, or I'd have been heartbroken when he left."
"Right," I muttered, trying to avoid going in too deep on the subject. When it was first brought up, the things that had flashed through my mind were, by chronological order, the green fire in the woods, the interior of a St. Mungo's ward, and Hermione. "Well, I'm rather tired, and I have quite a lot of work to do, so I'll be heading off to sleep now. Thank you so much for the soup. How much do I owe you?"
"Oh, don't be silly," Edith laughed. "You don't owe us anything! It was only a bowl of soup, and you would have fallen over without it. It's on the house."
"Thanks again." I said before heading back upstairs to my book and my bed.
I stripped out of my clothing tiredly, suddenly struck with the fatigue I'd been saving up from Christmas. It was hard to move in the limited space of my tiny room, but I managed. Most of the floor was taken up by the bed and the dresser, and there was only a small, square spot to stand on and move around in before bumping into the full-body mirror that someone had dumped in there. Before collapsing head-long on my bed, I took a look at myself in the mirror.
It was a depressing sight. Stripped down to my boxers, I could clearly see that I was much too thin. I could easily count my ribs, and my underwear hung onto my hips only by accident. I was all sharp angles, pale skin and seemed to consist mostly of legs and arms. The thatch-like nest of curls that was my poor excuse for hair was nestled on top of what looked to be a bean-pole, and that was the most accurate description I could think of for my body. Scars ran down my arms, looking like a spider-web's trickery, and a hundred tiny cuts had produced an image of a worn boy, despite the fact that I wasn't even eighteen. A large, nasty-looking scar crossed my ribcage, from my left shoulder down to my right hip, a constant reminder of what a silly and stupid child I had been at the age of five. I'd been looking for the partridge in the pear-tree in our orchard, and fallen down clumsily. It seemed so long ago now.
With a weak smile, I turned away from the mirror and stopped counting my scars. Keeping count had lost its point: perhaps when I had been through gruelling horrors, and the scars meant something, I'd start counting them again. For now, I'd simply view them as cuts that had grown old. I was out like a light before I hit the pillow, and didn't even register the fact that I was still wearing my socks.
''''''''''''''
A week went by in much the same fashion. I'd wake up, read some more, go out for a combined breakfast/lunch – mostly consisting of ice-cream – before retiring to my room again and reading until a late dinner. I didn't see much of Alexandra, thankfully, but then I didn't see much of anyone. Every time I ventured outside the Leaky Cauldron, or indeed outside my room, people gave me strange looks. Perhaps it was the vaguely fanatical look in my eye, or just the fact that despite the Washing Charms performed on my clothing they were still wrinkled, but whatever the reason, it made me feel out of place.
I'd extended my personal library from the initial three books to include volumes on mediation, as well as a more comprehensive guide to mind- blockage, a discipline not much different from Occlumency, (I'd looked it up) and sounding a lot more simple. The mind-blockage sounded as if it might help keeping the wandless magic checked: while it was mainly to prevent outside interference, it did have two chapters devoted to the control of the magical channels in oneself. As an afterthought, I had also added a thin book detailing some of the earliest endeavours of Merlin, thinking it might help to know what others had dealt with to deal with my own problems.
I was nose-deep in my latest purchase, reading about Merlin and his travels through Scotland as a boy, and didn't notice I had taken a wrong turn until too late. When the tip of my boot hit a rise in the pavement that shouldn't have been there, I finally tore myself from the book and looked around. An Apothecary sign with a broken arm on it told me I was no longer in Diagon Alley. The witch with teeth like tombstones gave me further hints that I should be running as fast as I could in the opposite direction. Stuffing the book in my pocket, I attempted to look as calm as possible, and turned around.
Just as I had assumed, I had wandered into Knockturn Alley. On the other end of a twisting, narrow alley, filled to capacity with suspicious looking people, was the opening into the familiar, sun-washed street. The best, and probably only, thing I could do was to walk back there looking as confident as possible. The slightest indication of fear would have these wolves chewing on my bones. It was rather like the finely-tuned political games we'd played in the Snake Pit before the second war began. Confidence was everything, and fear would mean excommunication for weeks.
As I put one foot in front of the other, starting my too long walk back, some of the stories related to children about Knockturn Alley returned to me. There were potion-stores in there that could provide the most elaborate poisons if requested, and the buyers wouldn't bat an eyelash before using them. There were men who would sell their fellow men just to get another kick, another high. The rag-and-bone shops were just that: they sold rags and the bones of people who got lost in the wrong street.
Amazingly, my walk back to more familiar and safe streets went well. Some strange individuals, which was the best word to describe them, tried to get me to buy things: eyeballs, nails, teeth and the heads of dead cats mostly, but I managed to decline their offerings politely enough for them to accept it quietly. One woman, a blonde with altogether too little fabric in her clothing, tried to interest me into buying her for an hour, but I did my best to pretend I hadn't heard her. I had better things to spend my galleons on. The trick was to keep walking: never to stop, even when some old crone stepped out into the alley right in front of me.
Draco had told me of his visits to Knockturn Alley with his father. He had been twelve at the time, and now I seriously doubted the tales he had brought back: a twelve year old would have been petrified in here without someone like Lucius Malfoy accompanying them. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed someone detached themselves from the shadows and started following me. The cold lump of fear that sometimes visited me seemed to take up permanent residence in the pit of my stomach: despite Tom and Edith's insistence, I hadn't been taking meals regularly, and having spent a lot of my time being trampled, broken down or attacked by random classmates, my condition wasn't very good. Today's outing had only been supposed to be a short one, so that I could go back to my room, eat something, and recover somewhat before studying.
Hastening my steps without thinking about it, I attempted to turn the last corner and enter Diagon Alley again without fuss, but my notoriously bad luck had decided not to leave me quite yet. Just as I took the last step out into the sunlight, a hand clamped down on my shoulder and dragged me back in. A filthy hand wrapped over my mouth to keep me from screaming, through I struggled to do so.
For the first time in a week, it felt as if insanity had just come around the corner.
''''''''''''''
Ending Notes: Bit of a cliffhanger, I know, and a short chapter, but hopefully the next one will be longer. I can't promise anything, but if I didn't cut off this chapter, this scene there, it would have run on for twenty pages, and I wouldn't be getting any sleep.