Disclaimer: I only own the plot, the concept, any places and original characters you don't recognize, the aliases, and any articles/pieces of writing that the characters 'authored' in the course of this story.
Celestial Requiem

Chapter Two: Venusian Galliard

Venus has always intrigued the mind of mankind, ever since they had turned their eyes to the endless heavens above. The morning and the evening star, they called it Earth's celestial sister. They thought it to be beautiful with its yellow and gray clouds, imagining an idyllic paradise hanging in the sky. And so they named it after the goddess of beauty and love. But Venus is a hellhole, burning temperatures and pressure allowing for absolutely no life to take root or water to nourish. Venus, the Greek Aphrodite, the goddess of love, she gave joy. And yet she was also the cause of endless conflict and pain. But if there is anything that Venus has thoroughly taught me well, it is that the right appearance could hide something infinitely dangerous…

(…in the London Times…)
Sordid Society: Prejudice

Celebrated and famous psychologist Sigmund Freud once said that the greatest motivator of humankind and human behavior is fear.

And it never ceases to amaze me how society embraces this concept, albeit somewhat unconsciously.

Everyday, we pass judgment on someone, even if we don't even know whom he or she is actually like. You know the feeling. You may not even have to be actually seeing the person. Possibly you heard a story from a friend or a rumor that is spreading widely. Maybe even when you see what they have written.

Now, of course, many people will say here that they aren't prejudiced at all. And that is a load of crap. We are naturally born to judge what we like and don't like. It is something that we gain through the experiences in our lives and what we are exposed to. We cannot help it, since it is ingrained in us somewhat instinctively to discriminate. One such case is the classic fire example. When you were a small child, and your guardian told you not to touch the fire, whether it is the flame on the stove or somewhere else, what was the first thing you did? You touched it. And you got burned. What happened?

You learned not to touch fire again. Why? You'd get hurt. And you don't want to get hurt. So? Don't touch the fire.

These experiences – experiences that are essentially traced back to the concept of fear – shape us. No doubt we all have had similar experiences other than the example I used to make this point. I myself happen to be prejudiced against grapefruit. Greatly against grapefruit. And maybe that is because of that silly diet my cousin tried a few years ago that I was also, forcibly, enforced to follow. What have I learned? Eating grapefruit everyday with a bit of cottage cheese and celery isn't a very nourishing meal every single day. Fear of starvation (yes, starvation, for I was young and my portions small) influenced my dislike. Also, that diet didn't work. I have the sneaking suspicion that my cousin was sneaking in food in at the time (like he normally does). I can't speak any ill of that, since I had done the same. And I won't deny that I would have died without those cookies my friend's mother sent me.

But I think we can all agree that those prejudices are otherwise harmless, even essential to the basic knowledge of an individual. If not, then we would probably be wondering why putting our hands in the fire burns all the time and continue to it all the time.

However, it is when prejudice is used to purposely hurt or damage when it is harmful. It has been done over the centuries and millennia of human consciousness. Let's imagine a small child falls down in the typical mind-numbingly normal park and begins to cry, but their mother isn't paying attention. A teenager goes to help the child up, possibly stop its bawling, having only good intentions in mind. But this teenager has a bad reputation in the neighborhood, isn't very well-known outside rumor, whose clothing isn't in very good shape and is seen as more than a little odd. What happens? The child's mother immediately comes into the situation and starts on the teenager, as if they were the cause. Thus, the teenager is left being falsely blamed for something he didn't do. All because he was immediately judged on stories about him and his appearance.

Happened to me on at least three occasions. I never figured out how I was always seen as the troublemaker, when my cousin is off toeing the line of the law. The irony of it all.

It isn't just on a local level either, but it is particularly glaring in the larger perspective of the world, especially in recent times. Prejudice was one of the major elements of the rise of Adolf Hitler of Nazi Germany and his discriminating views killed millions of innocent people, including Jews, gypsies, Slavs, homosexuals, and other groups. Segregation was a large part of the United States culture until it was outlawed in the mid-sixties, those of African descent separated from the whites in education, public transportation, facilities, and more. Apartheid in South Africa supported the whites of that country, 20% of that nation's people. And close to our own British history deals with India, where the untouchables were the lowest of the low and barely allowed into towns. And through out the times, women had been looked down upon as subordinate to men. It took inspirational leaders such as Martin Luther King, Jr., Nelson Mandela, Mahatmas Gandhi, and others to alert us to the way we were inhumanly treating these groups of people. But just because these people and more have alerted us to the problem, doesn't mean that it isn't there. We see it all the time, whether we tolerate it, disapprove of it, are part of it, are victimized from it.

But what motivates this behavior though? Is it some fear of feeling inferior and lowly? Why do we do this? Certainly, we don't want to hurt other people purposely. There must be some element of fear to keep others in a position that we have power over, so we feel more secure. Fear for our safety, does that motivate us to discriminate against others?

I wouldn't know. As you can probably judge, I'm not a psychologist and certainly not Freud.

I hope you walk away with something from this. Also, I apologize in advance to those who revere grapefruit and all grapefruity things as well the grapefruit industry. I have no intention of offending you, but see it from my position if you will. I would think that eating grapefruit for breakfast, lunch, and (yes, and) dinner continuously for little over a month gives me some kind of entitlement. Now, I implore you to make your judgment on this intrepid, aspiring, grapefruit-hating writer.

Do your worst.

---Harrison Evans

"So, Vernon, what do you think about that new writer for the Times? Harrison Evans, I believe?"

The large man, his face purpling slightly over the newspaper, glared at the sight of the wiry teenager so calmly and innocently sitting as his table (but Vernon knew better to think that his nephew was innocent, didn't he?) at the table with small, beady eyes, his mustache twitching in annoyance. However, he could not find anything incriminating about him, something Harry had taken great pains to assure. Petunia looked at him in her usual manner, her face contorted into a sour expression of distaste as she sipped her tea, reminding him greatly of Narcissa Malfoy when he had seen her at the Quidditch World Cup…was it really two years ago?

It was quite hard to believe that so much time had passed since the days he could go to a quidditch match with his friend's family and not have to worry about the world and attempts on his life so much.

Dudley had left, presumably to go and get high, Harry hypothesized. One would think that such doting parents as Vernon and Petunia Dursley would notice that their "oh-so-perfect Diddydums" was out killing himself by doing drugs, partying, getting drunk, vandalizing the neighborhood, etc. He found the fact that ole Dudley (or Big D) was vomiting and was particularly testy one morning was a sure sign that he was suffering from hangover, particularly by coming home at five in the morning the few hours prior from a party. 'Rave' was the official term, but to Petunia, he was staying over with friends. How quaint. It was amazing, really. The neighbors (whose opinion was so highly valued in the Dursley household) must believe that the Dursleys were the worst parents in the world. After all, look at their gluttonous pig of a son. And let's not forget their incurably criminal, delinquent nephew!

The dark-haired teenager sipped the orange juice from his glass coolly, fixing his uncle with a composed, almost mocking green gaze. "Well? What did you think? Everyone is, after all, talking about it?" Of which he was personally pleased about. Then again, Vernon Dursley didn't know that Harry Potter and Harrison Evans were the same person. But the muggle's ignorance was valid, of course. No one else knew that fact, in the Muggle or Wizarding world, and he had every intention of keeping it that way.

Ruffled, the older man grunted before turning the pages of the paper. "I don't know where the Times gets these people! Honestly! Who is this person to criticize the way we think here!" his uncle rambled, but then his voice quieted, noting that his nephew was unperturbed by the outburst. "He makes some good points, I suppose. And that cousin of his, whoever he is, sounds like a complete lowlife." Harry snickered into his orange juice, though his uncle and aunt weren't paying attention to him. "But he isn't as fantastic as they're all playing him out to be." A scowl, combined with the comically twitching mustache, completed Harry's amusement. "All that psycho-mumbo jumbo! But he's far to arrogant to judge us," The teenager was on the receiving end of a pointed gaze, "and our livelihood! We have good reason to discriminate! Especially against those…" The word 'freaks' was left unsaid.

Harry Potter smirked as he continued to eat his breakfast, consisting of scrambled eggs and some dry toast. Vernon Dursley disliked Harrison Evans then, did he?

Good.

Well, it was surprisingly easy.

They called themselves protectors and guardians! Though, of course, he was happy that the person overseeing him at the moment was so incompetent. They thought he was home, doing something, not out here in muggle London. All that was required was to put on his invisibility cloak, wait for the person on guard to apparate out (noting the distinctive 'pop'), and leave before the other could arrive. Having Aunt Petunia cover for him was an added bonus. Granted, he now needed to weed the garden, do all of his and Dudley's chores, clean the house, and cook dinner for all this week. But a bargain was a bargain. And chores weren't that bad. It all depended on the weather, really. However, he needed to get this done and get this done now. Hogwarts began next week.

It took a few subway trips to get to the area where the Leaky Cauldron was situated, but the cost wasn't too high. And Merlin knew he could pay for it. The checks for both of his articles arrived at his home the day before (of course, he needed to intercept Vernon to get the payment from the Muggle newspapers), leaving him with quite a pretty penny. Add that to the money he was paid before for his previous articles and he was doing pretty well for himself. And, judging from their practically pleading letters for him to keep writing, it seemed as if they were eager to keep him on their teams. He had already began writing to other papers, as well as on some Internet sites when he managed to sneak off to the public library (for no freak could ever breathe on Dudley's computer!). He had even received some offers himself. Apparently, everyone wanted to hear what Harrison Evans had to say. Thus, he was in demand. Harry did have to admit that it was fun watching the news programs and the late show hosts talk about what he wrote. Interesting…and satisfying. Thinking back on it all, he never really considered supplementing his account at Gringotts. Spending it, definitely, and a few times he had remembered to save. But adding to what was left to him? Nope. Which was, now that he had thought of it, rather juvenile. He couldn't live on that inheritance forever. It wasn't as if he had a Sorcerer's Stone to give him gold whenever he wanted. It was about time that he started to think like an adult, not some magic-struck child or bemused teen. He had responsibilities that he had been avoiding (or others had been keeping from him) and he needed to take charge of them.

Diagon Alley, thankfully, was more or less empty, the stores just starting to open and the few people scurrying about more concerned with their duties than with the boy walking down the street. He was taking a risk and he knew that, quite well actually. But some risks had to be taken. Harry had business to take care of and he'd like to see someone stop him.

As he walked into the snowy marble building that was Gringotts, Harry went up to the most important looking goblin in the building – at least what looked like the most important looking goblin. The creatures were already setting up their booths and calibrating their scales, papers filing magically behind them. The goblin gazed up at him, a keen intelligence surveying him from that swarthy brown face, sizing him up. He for a moment felt cowed, but shook himself. The best way to get what you want in this case was to be confident, collected, cool, and courteous. The four "C" alliteration. Especially since he was in, essentially, goblin territory. An unruffled expression on his face, he asked smoothly, "I would like set up an account, please, as well as find a suitable accountant."

Smirking almost conspiratorially, he nodded for Harry to follow him, leading him towards a set of various doors to the right. Inside was a rather lavish room, largely in earth tones of brown and green, the walls covered in tens of hundreds of leather bound books. Regaining his composure, he seated himself in the green leather chair before the mahogany desk, as directed. With a snap of its fingers, the desk was cleaned of the papers littering its surface, making a neat pile on the ground that had to be as tall as Harry himself. The young wizard raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment as the goblin left the room snickering. It took a moment before a middle-aged man, his hair iron gray and beginning to thin, walked in wearing official looking black robes. The man, short with an air of cleverness about him, blinked for a moment before seating himself behind the desk, in the process placing a monocle over a shrewd brown eye. "I certainly did not expect to see you at my establishment, Mr. Potter," he remarked. "Particularly unaccompanied by that endless swarm of protection that seems to swallow you whole."

Harry shrugged. "One tends to want to be alone at times. And considering my cursed celebrity, particularly myself," he returned. "I will assure you though, that I can protect myself and enjoying the freedom that I have right now."

"Understandable and eloquently put," the man replied. "But it isn't everyday that a person of your statue happens to approach me of all people for your…request. Or rather, my goblin associates. They rarely ever send anyone to me. Usually an appointment set up at least a week in advance is the typical instance when dealing with myself."

"Then I hope my impromptu arrival will suffice," Harry said back. "Either that or you could direct me to another who is free at the moment. I am under the impression that you, much like myself, doesn't want to waste time."

"There is no need, Mr. Potter," he waved off, looking more amused than ever. "It just happens to be the one moment of free time that I can spare. Who knew that this would happen? I happen to be Polonius Keyes, head accountant of the London branch of Gringotts International Bank."

"And, as we have already established, I'm Harry Potter."

"No titles?" Keyes joked.

Harry smiled back. "Of course not. I'm just a regular person after all," Harry said, sarcasm dripping with every word.

Keyes chuckled in appreciation. "Well, I see it will be interesting dealing with you of all people, Mr. Potter. Most of my clientele are stuck-up snobs with no appreciation for some good banter." The older man eased back in his large chair, looking much like a satisfied Cheshire cat. "If Freightsmog is to be relied on – which he isn't, but don't tell him I told you that – you wish to set up a new account as well as hire an accountant. Is this correct?" Harry could tell from the way Keyes now held himself that the accountant was all business now.

"Well, I guess there is a time for everything," Harry said easily. "Yes, that is what I came here for."

"Why, may I ask? I was under the impression that everything is in order with your vault and that you still have quite a substantial sum left. And Albus Dumbledore has handled most of your affairs rather well, I believe."

"I am well aware of that." It was Harry's turn to lose the candor now. "But I think that now that I'm sixteen I can take my own responsibilities. It does belong to me after all. And I don't want people taking what they want from it whenever they feel like it." This was one of the main things that made him angry over the summer. The letter had said that money had been taken out for his books and other school necessities. While though it was nice of them, he disliked that they were intruding on what was, in actuality, his property and funds. "As for the new account, I have…made a business venture. Since I will be at school for most of the year, I'd like someone to keep an eye on the accounts for me."

Keyes nodded seriously, though Harry could sense a feeling of incredulity coming from the man. "Before we make any kind of deal or arrangement, I would like to know what this 'business venture' of yours is. Care to elaborate?"

Sighing, Harry thought through his options quickly. Would Keyes tell the Order why he had closed off the Potter account to them, as well as tell them that he had opened a new one? Would he let out that he was the writer going under the alias of 'Harrison Evans'? No. Keyes didn't seem like the type. And if Keyes was as high up as he claimed, then being indiscreet was a definite impossibility. It would make the entire arrangement a lot easier now that he considered it. However, he would still require something to make sure that his secret stayed safe. Bill Weasley worked here at Gringotts, so it would be wise to tread cautiously. "Do I have your word," Harry began, "that this is completely confidential and discreet?"

"Of course." The middle-aged accountant seemed even more interested than ever. "It won't leave this office. If I approve of this, I personally will handle your affairs. It's why I'm so popular."

"Good," the teen agreed. "I've been writing several articles for some of the newspapers – Muggle and Wizard. I just began just a few days ago." Keyes raised a suspicious eyebrow, a spidery hand adjusting his monocle. "However, I've been going under an alias. I would prefer to keep it that way." His response was an understanding nod. "I would like you to set up and handle the funds that I use and receive under this new account, as well as the assets that I already have in the Potter vault."

A pleased smirk passed on Keyes' face. "I see. Well, this is most interesting. You certainly have me intrigued." Keyes stood up from his seat and reached over to shake Harry's hand. "You have a deal, Mr. Potter. I assume that you want the new account to also take in money from your Muggle earnings? We do offer that option here."

"But of course," grinned the teenager, taking the offered hand. "I have the feeling you won't disappoint me, Mr. Keyes."

"Rest assured that I won't. I've got to be something if I can keep the both the Malfoy and the Black accounts in line," Keyes remarked laughing. The mention of the Black family did give Harry a pang of pain, but he tried his best to ignore it. Sirius died nobly and was a great person, even if his family much to be desired. "If I may ask, what is this alias of yours?"

Harry smiled indulgently. "Harrison Evans."

At the same moment at 12 Grimmauld Place, a girl tapped the feather end of her quill against her face, as if the action would inspire the words to write, her brown eyes contemplative. The parchment beneath her fingers was blank, waiting to be written on. The girl could be described as pretty, even if her hair was slightly bushy. She had that air of someone with scholarly dignity. Though, to tell the truth, this complemented the bombastic nature of her red-haired friend Ron as well as the quiet solemnity that Harry seemed to often exude. This girl was, of course, Hermione Granger.

She was quite the contrast to the rest of the assembly sitting at the table. For one thing, she was actually quiet. A mixture of adults and children, the entire room was filled with the noise of chatter and conversation. Next to her, Ron was telling his younger sister Ginny of the various things he had learned. Ginny, to her credit, did not seem to be listening and kept trying to draw in the round-faced Neville Longbottom into the talk. Brought by Dumbledore because he was a possible target, Neville was trying hard to adjust. But it was difficult for him, seeing how Ron's attitude was…and the fact that his most feared professor was there often. There was also the fact that the portrait of Mrs. Black had taken a distinct dislike to him. Hermione tried her best to make him feel comfortable.

But at the moment, neither Ron's loud comments nor the rest of the Order's rambling was important at the moment. Her attention returned to the letter that had started this slight dilemma for her. The one she had received from Harry, that had no idea how to reply to.

Hey Hermione.

How is everything at Order HQ? Yes, I'm mentioning it straight out. The entire summer's gone by and Hedwig hasn't been harmed on any flights now. Besides, this is the last letter you're getting before we see each other again on the train. Why bother then?

I hope Ron isn't getting you down or anything. Judging from your (and his) letters, I think we're going to have a bit (okay, a lot) of trouble convincing our dear friend to get himself back to sensibility. I can imagine that Malfoy will fit in this somehow. But let's not dwell on that. How is everyone? I suppose you're doing well? You also got 12 OWLs, I see. Now I know for certain. That extra credit really did help and someone actually got Snape drunk enough to give me an O. How else could I equal you? If you happened to be nearby when Snape was drunk, I hope you have some good pictures. I really do need a good laugh.

Everything at the Dursleys is same ole, same ole. Nothing knew really. Do chores, mope, act like a worthless derelict, and be more or less useless, yes, this is what the great Harry Potter does on his summer vacation (according to the ever honored opinion of Petunia Evans-Dursley). Thankfully, the lot of them have been more tolerable. Probably due to the fact that there is a wizard outside the house at all times.

Now, I'm going to tell you something that I haven't told anyone else so far (including the Order). I intend to keep it that way. I trust you, and I hope that you can keep it quiet. Tell no one! Okay?

I assume you've heard of that new writer, Harrison Evans? Yeah…you see, I'm him. I know, I know, I probably shouldn't be doing this. But I feel that I need to. Do you know how wonderful it is, to be listened to without the previous notions and ideas about who I am? If I wrote as Harry Potter, not only would I be beset with the Order, but also people wouldn't be actually paying attention to what I'm trying to get across. They'd only see it as the Boy-Who-Lived wrote something. End of story. But in this way, it isn't the end. Furthermore, I'm famous (I guess you can apply the term loosely here) on my own merit, not for something I barely remember. I'm loving it.

I only told you because…well, you are my best friend. Please don't tell the Order, I'd like to continue with this. Well…tell me what you think. I do value your opinion after all.

Maybe you should think of getting into this business as well. Merlin knows you'd probably do as well as I'm doing right now. If not better.

Waiting for your reply, your friend,

Harry

How was she supposed to respond to that?! Yes, her friend was the up-and-coming writer Harrison Evans, who was quickly becoming a household name! Add to that, he was the famous Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the savior of the wizarding world, and number one on the Dark Lord Voldemort's hit list. Granted, she was proud of him. Instead of making some giant show of himself, flaunting his title and status, he was going out on his own – rather intelligently, she had to add. She had read what he had written before she had found this out and had to agree wholeheartedly. Laughed a few times as well. But he was in danger, nevertheless. And what about the Order? Should she tell them or not? Do think of it, should she tell Ron?

No, she decided. She would be betraying Harry's trust if she did. The Order probably wouldn't approve of what Harry was doing, and some of the Order members didn't like Harrison Evans. Ron, though not officially, didn't support Harrison Evans as well. Certainly, Ron had agreed on some points. But the article that came out two days ago on the conflict between light and dark magic didn't agree with him. She knew Ron completely and totally devoted to the 'light'. Thus, Harry's words on how more cunning and thought should go into the plans instead of full-blown assaults did rub against him slightly. But she had always known that when it came down to it, Harry's views and opinions would always be different and separate from Ron's in someway or the other. It was only now that Harry was speaking out through the alias of Harrison Evans that she truly noticed it so clearly.

Well, she might as well respond truthfully. She was complimented by the trust that Harry evidently had in her. Definitely. But she wasn't going to use that as an excuse for not being honest.

As she composed her reply, her ears pricked at the sound of Remus Lupin's tired voice. Which was understandable. He had just returned from a remote part of Scotland, the full moon just the night before. Indeed, his eyes were shadowed and he was pale and fatigued. The curse that befell werewolves was terrible in her opinion. But he was doing a valiant effort to be there and contribute. Even with the death of his last best friend, the one who he had once believed to be a murder (albeit everyone did), that hung over him. However, the only person there to talk to was the ever-irritable Severus Snape, Potions Master and professor of Hogwarts. The greasy-haired man's face was concealed behind the pages of the day's Daily Prophet apparently absorbed. She listened to them only slightly; only when she was finishing her letter did it become interesting.

"…So," Remus tried again. "What are you reading?"

"I thought werewolves were supposed to have heightened senses."

The werewolf sighed in exasperation. "Not what I meant. I know you're reading the Daily Prophet, Severus."

"If you must know, Lupin," Snape replied testily, "Harrison Evans. There haven't been any good writers anymore since the end of the last war, and even then those were as mediocre as a Gryffindor's potions essay. Thank Merlin Evans has shown up. 'Bout time we have someone with some sense."

"You mean a writer that seems to be a Slytherin."

"Same thing, Lupin. Same thing. Wish I could remember if I had taught Evans, though, if he even went to Hogwarts. Probably brilliant."

Smiling to herself, Hermione finished her letter.

…If you want my advice Harry, then go for it. I know, it doesn't sound like I normally would, but I think you're doing a great thing. I suppose you're going to try to convince me to join you in this scheme of yours?

It does sound intriguing; I'll give you that. We'll discuss it more when we meet up later next week, I suppose.

See you on the train then and keep safe!

Love,
Hermione.

P.S. By the way, do you know that you have Snape as a fan?

Oh, she would love to see Harry's face when he saw that.

He kept the hood of his black cloak up, not wanting to be recognized. It wouldn't do after all to be skulking around Knockturn Alley. Especially if you were number one on Voldemort's personal "Millions of People I'd Happily and Love to Kill" list. The thought made him chuckle slightly. That sounded like one of those silly lists put out those magazines, like "Sexiest Celebrities" or "100 Most Eligible Bachelors" and so on. Subscribe to Gobbling Death, the most widely read magazine for the psychotic and murderous! Discuss torture techniques and the best way to keep evil smiles pearly white!

Now that he thought over his musings, the thought of those lists (not the ones featured in the yet to be published Gobbling Death, the other ones) made him cringe in apprehensive horror. What if he ended up on that list? He had enough to deal with and women throwing themselves at him for his looks and money were bound not to help the situation at all. The very idea brought the image of a panicked image of himself (that looked oddly anime-ish [rakish and freaky black hair, oversized green eyes, and the rest] like the shows Dudley always watched) fleeing from a mob of screaming, hormonal girls, several of whom wore his face on tacky looking t-shirts. Sure, he was safe now. But what would happen when he turned eighteen (he tried to avoid the pressing thought of 'if I live to be eighteen'? Find some place and lock himself up? He was both Harry Potter and Harrison Evans. Basically, in short, and furthermore, he was screwed either way. He'd probably drive himself insane if he locked himself up at any rate. And besides, the whole matter with Cho Chang last year made him realize that girls were extremely difficult to understand and most were not as understanding as Hermione, Ginny, or Luna were. Granted, Hermione and Ginny knew him well and Luna…was just Luna.

On his list of priorities, he mentally added "Somehow make it through teen years, particularly when dealing with the opposite sex or Voldemort." Well, Voldemort would be eventually taken care of at the end of this, one way or the other. The other…he was going to have an in-depth talk with Hermione. Will it confuse him and will most likely end up with him being more confused than he already was? Probably. But he was making an attempt!

Shaking himself out of these…random thoughts…Harry continued down the notorious street. In truth, he was looking for one particular store that he had seen on one of the rare and absolutely lucky attempts he had on breaching Voldemort's mind. Not that he was going to try that any time soon again. The last time knocked him out for half a day, though he was certain that Voldemort didn't get through his own mind either. The memory of his past mistakes and Sirius motivated him enough to keep that terror at bay. Just barely, to put it plainly. But it wasn't as if Snape was a fantastic teacher anyway.

Pausing at the end of the avenue, where the amount of dark magic centered stores had diminished slightly; he looked up at the store. Like many of the other shops, it was old and dilapidated, the paint of the sign faded and peeling. But Harry could make out the name, happy that he had found it, walked in. Into the store that was so charmingly called Hell.

The shelves of the establishment was stocked heavily with various dark books, dust thick upon the shelves. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw several sharp swords hanging on the walls, as well as other weaponry. Still watching his surroundings carefully, Harry made his way to the counter. There was never a time when you needed to be prepared for anything than in a place like this. But if the brief smidges he had gotten from Voldemort's memory of the place, his alignment to what side didn't matter, but rather his loyalty to the store itself. Ironic. Sharply ringing the bell on the counter, he waited, curious as to why a crystal ball covered in dried blood was now glowing a vivid green.

Just a minute later, a tall woman (she looked to be at least six feet) that appeared to be in her early forties appeared from the back room, trying to pin her hair back. Clothed in a tattered black robe, she was covered from head to toe in dust, which was taking a toll on her judging from the coughs. When she stopped wheezing, the towering woman looked down at him, one eye a vivid blue and the other a demure brown. Her nose was long for her face, her mouth a thin line of stern seriousness. Kicking himself, mentally obviously, he tried to not be intimidated. He wasn't expecting this woman, whoever she was. The memory, which had occurred when Tom Riddle was still young and human, had showed a shorter rather unattractive woman with a disturbingly perverted smile.

It was an improvement.

"Are you perchance," he asked, "Jocasta Xaviers? I was under the impression she owned this store." It was best to be sure. He didn't want this entire risky gamble into this forsaken street to be for nothing.

The woman shook her head gravely. "My mother died years ago," she said, her accent that of a native Londoner. "Though the store had always belonged to McCallisters. Why do you come here asking for her though?" Harry did not like that look the woman was giving him. Definitely not. Did she think…gross. That explained why ole Tommy-boy had gone in and out and sent others back for him.

Which wasn't an altogether bad idea.

"I'm sorry then," he replied. "I had heard of his store's excellent inventory for clothing and was told to ask for Jocasta Xaviers. I apologize for causing any trouble." With that he turned to leave, muttering curses under his breath.

Harry needed new clothing badly. It was an acknowledged fact. For one thing, Dudley's old clothes were beginning to wear out from use. And he was beginning to doubt that his belts would ever be able to hold up his pants anymore. The only decent things he had were his Hogwarts uniform and the Weasley sweaters he received from past years. But unlike the case with Dudley's things, these were getting small. He had decided to get his wizarding things while he was there and go shopping for Muggle clothing later (hopefully, getting a lot of help from the store clerks as Aunt Petunia never really taught him the ins and outs of purchasing clothing).

There was also the fact that image came to influence his decision. For one thing, there was always the chance that he had to appear in public. He had to send several letters back apologizing for not being able to attend parties or balls, partly due to the protection and partly because he had absolutely nothing to show up in. Yes, Harrison Evans show up in clothes look large enough to clothe three healthy hippos and a giraffe. Right. And he wasn't a child anymore. He wanted to be taken seriously. And if there were anything that made him appear more helpless, weak, and pathetic looking the most, then it would be his old wardrobe. Voldemort went for years masquerading as the unfortunate but brilliant student Tom Riddle, even now no one suspecting that the two were one in the same. From the memory he had been sucked into, Tom tried to keep his appearance groomed and well-kept, though there was always something messy on him. That, of course, endeared the 'innocent' and 'poor' student with the brilliant (but insane and psychotic) mind to most people. Same principle really.

"Wait, kid." The shopkeeper, flipping back her dusty brown hair (was it graying or not? Harry couldn't tell) as she called him. But her dual-colored eyes gave no indication that she particularly cared whether he left or not. "We still do offer clothing." Her eyes narrowed. "But I need to know who referred you. I don't let anyone wear my creations without knowing who they heard it from first." She crossed her arms across her chest, her chin held high in pride, one pale hand reaching for the wand situated in a leather holster on her belt.

He thought about it and then shrugged. It wasn't as if he couldn't think of something else to cover for him. However, he had the sneaking suspicion that this woman would be able to tell if he were lying, Legimens or not. Sighing, he pulled down the hood of his cloak, noticing from her stiffening posture that she knew without a doubt that he was Harry Potter. "Would you believe by searching through Voldemort's memories while trying to keep him from invading my mind?" Harry responded flippantly.

The woman blinked twice in mulled surprise before her thin lips settled into a wry smile. "I've heard stranger. And I've heard plenty. Take the murderer who came in because he liked the robes his victim was wearing when he did the deed." She turned around, motioning that he should follow her to the back room with an imperious wave of her hand. "The name's Seine McCallister. Come along then. Hopefully, we'll have what you are looking for."

He grinned in triumph. It looked as if he was going to get everything done just in time.

Perfect.

Just a note: this isn't a romance fic. Just letting you know. ---R.D.