A/N: hello again. :)
December 18th, 1998
The door creaked shut behind the delivery wizard, the rain outside bouncing off the eaves of the roof and blurring the flat windows. He brought his food to the couch, the only place really accessible as a seat, and put the containers down on two boxes-turned-coffee-table. The flat had muggle lighting, though the bulbs were dim and the lack of curtains in the windows made it feel like shadows were hiding in the corners of the room. The sounds of Diagon Alley below were muted by the rain, and though it was only half seven, all he wanted to do was find a blanket and curl up to sleep on the couch. He told himself that it was from a long day of moving from the muggle world back to the wizarding one, but the meagre number of boxes in the room cast doubt to that source. He picked up his wand (oh, to the foolish boy who loves his sticks…) and flicked it toward the fireplace, adding more heat to the room. December in London would never be free of a damp chill, and his right arm was aching.
He'd brought a muggle tv with him in the hopes that living on the edge of Diagon Alley would be enough to still get some muggle shows, and he was pleased to find that true. Trash telly, but there was a sort of comfort in wrapping himself in a blanket, eating takeaway, and watching people argue over meaningless things. He glanced around the room at the moving boxes, his first Daily Prophet in months on the floor in front of him, and an unopened embossed letter from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement - Auror Division.
The Prophet flashed at him, unknown Ministry spokesperson at a podium, under the headline Massacre of Godric's Hollow a year later – the still-unknowns.
Out of the corner of his eye, one of the boxes by the kitchen started to rattle a bit. He debated whether to get up or not – he'd packed the boxes himself and so there shouldn't have been any sort of living thing in it – but he'd not been the only one to move the boxes.
The flaps burst open a second later and some streamers flew out, followed by a chorus of out of tune recorders. A shiny red balloon with the words Welcome Back then rose out of the box, with a small bundle of what looked to be several different types of treats from Honeydukes.
He was from a world of magic, from a world of small little moments of happiness and giant explosions of destruction and creation. He'd missed it greatly.
"Welcome home, Harry," he told himself, with a tiny smile.
…
The rain turned into a light snow overnight, and in the morning, Harry fought with himself before getting up from his bed. Seven months after the war, and it still felt odd not to have a set schedule for his days. He made his way over to the kettle in the kitchen and yawned, wondering if he had enough food for breakfast or if that stop needed to be added to his errand list. There were a few small market shops, but whether Harry ended up with Owl'Os or Cheerios would depend on how the day went and whether he wanted to shop amongst wizards or muggles.
He flexed his fingers whilst waiting for tea, debating whether he'd need any pain potion, or if taking along a small phial for later would be good enough.
Diagon Alley had flourished quite a bit in the last few months since Harry had seen it. Whilst most of the actual war and battle had taken place at Hogwarts, stores had still been shuttered and facing destruction from snatchers during the past year, and had started to make a recovery over the summer. Harry had missed most of it, but he was happy to see that the ice cream shop had new owners, Madame Malkin's was open and busy on the chilly day, and Harry was pleased to see a group of young witches and wizards peering through the window at Quality Quidditch Supplies. He was also aware of the furtive glances and stares from other shoppers in the alley, eyes flicking up to where his fringe covered the scar as they passed by.
He made his way to the farther end of the alley, side stepping the morning crowd at Gringotts and giving a glance down to Knockturn Alley as he stepped past. Finally, he found the door he was looking for; the front stone step worn from centuries of people entering.
"I had heard you'd returned."
Harry closed the door behind him and waited as his eyes adjusted to the dimmer light inside.
"I hadn't fully left," Harry replied.
Ollivander peered at him from behind the first aisle of wands, hair wild as ever but looking in good health otherwise. He was wearing a leather apron and Harry could see the handles of carving tools sticking out from the various pockets of the apron. The shop counter was neat and tidy, mid-December not being its busiest time, and behind the counter on Ollivander's desk, Harry saw a thin and delicate wand slowly rotating in the light above a work mat.
"I don't believe one ever fully stops being a wizard," Ollivander said. He nodded toward a stool that was on the other side of the counter top and sat down on his own. "But I don't suppose you're here to speak of sabbaticals."
"Not exactly," Harry said, taking a seat. Through the corner of his eye he saw a person pause as they walked by the shop, recognising Harry through the window. He knew it was something he was going to have to get used to again.
"I wanted to thank you for your information, just before the battle," Harry started. Ollivander floated a tea tray over to the countertop between them, and Harry waited as a cup was poured for him. "Just milk."
"It was correct," Ollivander said, eyes sharp. "You did have the Elder wand."
Harry made a note to himself to find out just what of his speech to Voldemort had been recorded and shared to everyone. He had a pensieve memory of it, but it felt like another lifetime ago.
"Voldemort did," Harry carefully replied. He loosened his scarf a little, feeling the warmth from the shop finally seep into his skin. "More importantly, Voldemort believed in it, and it backfired."
"It doesn't matter what he believed," Ollivander said. "You are the master of the Elder wand."
He was staring at Harry, his look calculating and Harry knew that he was reviewing every bit of information about the Elder wand that he knew.
"I was," Harry conceded. "The wand is now back with who it was stolen from."
He was careful not to say that the original owner was dead. Ollivander may not have known about the Hallows, but he was very familiar with wand ownership and Harry didn't want someone trying to overpower him for the Elder wand.
"You told me that wands can be won, that their allegiance can be changed," Harry prompted, remembering how terrified Ollivander had been the last time he asked about wand allegiances.
"Yes," came the answer, as Ollivander sipped his tea. "Some are easier won than others. It depends on the wood and the core, and how they are taken."
"And that wood, it is very important that it matches the personality of the holder," Harry prompted.
"The performance will be poor if it doesn't," Ollivander immediately said. "This is why the wand chooses the wizard, Mr Potter, and not the other way around."
"Right," Harry said, putting his cup down. "But people have tried to pick their favourites before."
"Never successfully in this shop," Ollivander said, looking rather affronted. "I pride myself in making the best match for a witch or wizard, to ensure they have years of good service."
"Years of service," Harry repeated. "Wands can be broken, wands can be stolen, wands can be won. How often do they simply stop working well for people?"
"All wands will produce magic," Ollivander said. "It is rare that a wand will simply stop working so well."
"But they do," Harry said. He pulled a wand out of his pocket, one he didn't use anymore, but had kept for a reason he wasn't even quite sure of. "This one is hawthorn, a wood that is best suited for people who are uncertain, or going through turmoil."
"You've been studying," Ollivander said, though he didn't sound negative about it. Instead, he was staring at the wand as he was remembering who he'd sold it to.
"And it worked for me when I used it. Very much so. But got less and less powerful after the battle."
"That is what I would expect, yes," Ollivander said, eyebrow slightly raised. He offered nothing more, and Harry knew that Ollivander's business relied on the fact that people broke wands, needed replacement wands, or just wanted them in general. There was no way he could survive on first year wand buyers only.
"And because my old wand was broken —"
"Snapped in two, held by the barest trace of phoenix feather, if I remember correctly," Ollivander interrupted.
Harry had only shown him the broken wand once, in the small dark bedroom at Shell Cottage, but he was not surprised that Ollivander remembered it.
"—I would have to either make do with this one, or buy another."
"Yes, that is correct. One that would be best suited to your skills and personality at this time."
Harry drained his tea cup and nodded.
"Are wand repairs possible? My friend Ron, he had a broken wand in second year and sellotaped it together. Didn't work very well though."
"In general, no." He offered more tea to Harry and filled his own cup. "Why do you ask, Mr Potter? Do you have another broken wand?"
"No," Harry said. He moved Draco's old wand aside and then withdrew his own from his pocket, placing it on the counter in front of them. Ollivander's attention was solely on the wand.
"This is what I mean. I never wanted a new wand. I've had this one since my second day of being a wizard."
"But how..." Ollivander murmured, and Harry was fairly certain he was talking to the wand and not to Harry.
"Elder is a very powerful wand wood," Harry said, watching as Ollivander rolled his wand with a quill. There was no sign of breakage, as Harry knew there wouldn't be. Just a small fleck of black walnut that had been added to the top of the handle. "Even before it is turned into the most powerful wand."
This broke Ollivander's concentration, and he regarded Harry with the sort of fierce interest that made Harry uncomfortable when he'd first been speaking of the power that Voldemort would command with his wand.
"I destroyed it," Harry lied. "No one needs that power."
"No indeed," Ollivander agreed, and in an instant the flash of greed and desire that Harry had seen had vanished.
"But to your point, Mr Potter, when their wands stop working properly, witches and wizards will purchase a new one that suits them best. Most do not have the same attachment with their childhood wands."
Harry found that curious but didn't ask if Ollivander had ever upgraded his own. He pocketed his wand again and placed his tea cup back on the tray.
"Thanks for the tea," Harry said, rising out of his stool. "And thanks for the information. Wandlore isn't taught at Hogwarts."
"It is not a subject that most young wizards and witches find themselves interested in," Ollivander admitted.
"Or in need of the knowledge for their own survival," Harry replied, with a small smile that was more for himself than Ollivander.
…
With his scarf bundled up past his nose, Harry next stepped into Slug and Jiggers. There was a small amount of slush at the door, and he quickly moved aside to allow a witch carrying three cauldrons to leave. His glasses had immediately fogged up, and Harry grumbled at himself for not using a spell to prevent it.
"Thank you, Mr Potter," an older wizard said as Harry shuffled by the tiny aisles to where the dragon parts were kept. Harry's cheeks flushed; he still felt embarrassed whenever someone approached him. He'd settled for only nodding, and pulled his collar up as he browsed the jars of dragon ingredients. In the beginning, before he'd left for a while, Harry used to disguise himself as a Weasley when he went out.
He heard the ding of the bell over the door chime shortly after and ignored it, in favour of digging through the jar of slimy red heartstrings. He wanted one with as few fractures and tendrils as possible, a strong opaque string that wasn't going to disintegrate on touch.
"Two bundles of dandelion root and one phoenix claw."
Harry's hand stilled, holding the end of one string half way out of the jar.
"And a jar of wartcap powder."
Harry dropped the heartstring into his own collection jar and peered around the corner at the front desk. Snape looked much like he ever did at first glance, but his hair was a bit shorter and looked a bit healthier, and his clothes, though still black, appeared to have been fashionable sometime within the last 75 years.
"Will that be all?" the clerk asked, wrapping up Snape's purchases. "Three galleons, six and four."
Harry watched as Snape counted out the galleons, sickles and knuts, neither rushing nor stalling as he did so. His left hand was deliberate and practiced as he stacked the coins. Snape's survival in the war had been a mystery to most of the wizarding world; the real story of how he'd done it had never come out. Harry had never shared it, though an unspoken pact. Snape had also made the paper after slipping out of St Mungo's unnoticed one day. And here he was, on a cold December morning in Diagon Alley, buying potion ingredients as if nothing had gone on. Harry hadn't prepared himself to see Snape so quickly after coming back.
Harry frowned to himself and turned back to his own list of needed supplies. Images whipped through his mind like a storm, of nearly a year beforehand, of a dark and cold night in the middle of Dartmoor. Of blood and scars, skin and fiery nerves. Harry's hand stilled on a jar of cleaning solution, eyes closed and willing away the sense of panic and the smell of burning forest. The footfalls behind him were still recognisable, and Harry turned as Snape approached. Up close, Snape's eyes were a licoricey black, steady as they locked on Harry.
The inspection went both ways, and Harry felt himself straighten up under scrutiny. Snape's eyes flicked toward the heartstring Harry held, curiosity evident.
"Potter," Snape finally said, giving a small nod. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but settled for Harry's name and nothing more.
He then brushed past Harry, exiting the shop without any of the flourish he used to swoop about the school with. Harry's gaze narrowed as he watched Snape go.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered. He quickly paid for his ingredients and threw his cloak hood up, stomping out into the slushy snow and toward The Leaky Cauldron.
…
He sat at a table in the rafters of the Leaky, mug of hot chocolate in his hand with an obscene number of marshmallows in it and leftover Prophet folded in front of him. Harry had purposefully chosen a table in the shadows, away from the downstairs noise and passage to the Alley, and yet an owl had still found him there. A garishly brightly coloured envelope, from the Daily Prophet, a request for an exclusive interview with him for the paper. Harry burned the letter over the candle at his table, more than a little annoyed that they'd known he was back already.
He'd spent six months in the muggle world figuring out who he was after the war and his experiences, and didn't feel like he owed that personal introspection to anyone, most assuredly not a newspaper that had had no qualms about dragging him through the mud as a minor.
He didn't want to think what they would make of Harry Potter as an adult. Their illusion of him as a boy next door hero was laughable now, but as a student, was an intimidating label to live up to.
A shrieking from below interrupted his maudlin thoughts and Harry looked through the wonky balcony railing to spot a gaggle of witches who'd entered the Leaky. They were carrying various shopping bags, each had a broomstick in hand, and they appeared to be having a rowdy conversation with copious laughter. Shouts of hello were made to Tom the bartender, and one by one they passed through the back gate to the Alley entrance.
The normal hum of the Leaky soon blanketed the room again, and the clinking of silverware from the bar below sounded almost like Christmas bells to Harry.
A much different Christmas than the year before, Harry thought, remembering the church bells of the cemetery in Godric's Hollow. A snowy evening, likely more snow in memory than there had been in actuality, and a crisp tenseness in the air to go with the harsh voices in conversation over the Potter gravestone.
A rumbling muggle train passing by close to the other side of the wall brought Harry out of his musings, and he finished his hot chocolate. The wizarding world had brought Harry his first happy Christmas seven years earlier, and he had a quiet hope that it would happen again this year.