Anedoche:

a conversation where no one is listening

Harry readjusted his hold on his kneazle, carrying most of its weight on his left arm, rubbing its brow to coax it to sleep. It would be too much of a hassle to look after seven ravens, so he had simply arranged to pay for everything in advance. As soon as he figured out where he would stay for the time being, he would send the Magical Menagerie a letter to send the remainder of his purchases to his new address. While he would be staying at the Shrieking Banshee, it was merely temporary lodgings as he would prefer to stay on one of his numerous properties to better situate himself and everything.

He turned on his Mage Sight, focusing on the brighter hues of magic which danced around the bunched buildings of Diagon Alley and how the anima—external magic within the physical world—weaved in and out of the narrow spaces between the buildings and the gaps left in the throngs of people. Already, his head pulsed slightly, and he didn't doubt that it would later build up to become an irritating headache to ignore. There were faint traces of darker mana—individual parts of anima—which remained separate from the bright hues of anima, less lively and a stark contrast to the light and airy anima that engulfed Diagon Alley.

It was a faint trail of darker mana which Harry followed, noticing how the darker mana curled almost protectively around various individuals in Diagon Alley. Their alma—internal magic within magical beings—were considerably darker compared to the lighter shades of alma within most of the witches and wizards visiting Diagon Alley.

The differences between the lighter and darker shades of alma was fascinating to watch. It reminded Harry of the typical light versus dark and good versus evil and wondered if the Wizarding World was just as segregated in that aspect. Light alma was unrestrained as it danced within the cores of witches and wizards, playfully interacting with the anima while dark alma was much more reserved in comparison, shrinking away from the bright anima of Diagon Alley. It was interesting to notice the reaction between the light and dark anima as they seemed to almost lash out at the other, both seeming to grow in each other's presence.

The thought remained in Harry's head even as his feet followed the faint trail of darker mana. His kneazle occasionally shifted in his hold, wiggling around to get more comfortable and Harry slowed his pace to keep from jostling the kneazle too much. Thinking about it logically, it only made sense that there was darkness without light—there was none without the other as one would always follow in its presence. One could only exist on its own without the other, when the light was too intense to allow the dark to exist or when there was an absence of light to allow the dark to dominate.

It appeared as though the lighter anima was beginning to filter out as darker anima began to gather. Harry made one last turn around the corner and stopped to watch the clash, like water and oil as light and dark anima collided yet refused to meld together unlike when they merged to form a greater anima. The anima surrounding the entrance of Knockturn Alley was considerably darker than Diagon Alley and felt much less open and friendly. His headache, faint as it was, dissipated entirely and briefly, Harry wondered if it was because of the greater concentration of darker anima before him.

Harry peered through Knockturn Alley, noticing the fewer people and the wide berth that they gave one another. It was likely for the benefit of the doubt as no one knew what the other was capable of and likely wasn't willing to find out. He could make out the tension within the few people's postures, how their shoulders were tense and their backs slightly hunched.

Entering Knockturn Alley felt like a breath of fresh air as Harry strangely felt much more at home, relishing in the dark anima and how his magic relaxed and basked in it all. It wasn't all that strange, Harry amended, not when he should have expected that his magic would be much more inclined to what was likely unacceptable within the Wizarding society. The headaches he had to endure when he turned his Mage Sight on were probably tied into how comfortable he had felt around darker anima.

Harry turned his Mage Sight off and let loose a bit of his magic, letting it drape over him protectively like a cloak. He took his first step into Knockturn Alley and refrained from the almost reflexive shiver as a wave of cold magic washed over him, uncannily similar to the sensation of a rotten egg being cracked directly over his head as the runny yolk dripped over his face. For a brief moment, he turned his Mage Sight and Mage Sense on and was nearly overwhelmed by the sheer darkness of anima within Knockturn Alley and how hidden it was from an outsider's perspective. He felt like he had poked a socket with a metal fork as it was a rather electrifying sensation but strangely lacking in the painful jolts of electricity as Harry just felt overcharged.

He turned his Mage Sight and Mage Sense back off and redirected his attention to finding the Shrieking Banshee. He shifted his hold on the kneazle so that they were resting against his right arm. Knockturn Alley was less in-your-face as signboards were few and not particularly eye-catching enough to be helpful. The entire alley was designed so that only people familiar with Knockturn Alley knew where everything was, probably meant to deter newcomers since there was always risks that came with them.

It was the main reason Harry chose to drape himself with his magic, letting his magic flow with a distinct unfriendliness that would discourage anything from trying anything. He was a newcomer, but worse was that he was dressed straight from the Muggle World, not to mention his young age. Nonetheless, it wasn't something that he would be able to fix at the moment so he would just need to bluff his way through.

Harry took his time walking through Knockturn Alley, making sure that he didn't bump shoulders with anyone and discreetly looking left and right for the Shrieking Banshee. He didn't exactly want to make it obvious for everyone to know that he didn't know where he was going when they could easily take advantage of his ignorance.

It was a short-lived thought when Harry spotted a small signboard that hung overhead in the middle of the alley, attached to rusted chains as it read The Shrieking Banshee in crudely carved letters. He smiled to himself, eager to let his feet rest after walking all day, especially when the sun was beginning to set. Knockturn Alley was dimly lit as buildings leaned overhead while others had slanted roofs, both of which blocked out the sun's light. Harry didn't doubt that there was magic at work to keep the alley darker as well, perhaps for the benefit of other creatures—if magic existed and so did goblins, it wasn't too far off to think that vampires and other creatures vulnerable to the sun resided within Knockturn Alley.

The Shrieking Banshee was far from a pretty sight as it looked moments from falling apart. It was made mostly of ill-fitting wooden planks that were poorly nailed to one another, with broken nails sticking out from some of the planks, worn and jagged and made Harry think of whether he had gotten a tetanus shot. He rolled his eyes at the poor state of the inn and entered regardless. He did take his time to carefully rearrange his hair to hide his scar, as it was one of his apparently most notable feature as the famed "Boy-Who-Lived," as Daedalus had preached before. As an extra precaution, he channeled his alma—internal magic within magical beings—to pinpoint his scar, intent to let it fade out of view temporarily.

As he approached the front porch of the inn, the floorboards creaked with every step he made. He opened the door, frowning at the rusted bell attached to the front door and its near-silent chime to announce his arrival.

"Nuh-uh!" hollered a nasally voice. "I ain't looking after no brat! Not a mudblood like you!"

Harry paused, recognizing the tone as one that was frequently used in his presence as Freak around the Dursleys and knew that "mudblood" was a decidedly derogatory term that he didn't want to hear again. He looked around his surroundings, taking in the barest of similarities between the Leaky Cauldron as there were tables strewn throughout and a bar furthest from the entrance. The interior of The Shrieking Banshee was much larger than it appeared from the outside, but Harry supposed that was the due to the wonders of magic. Different people were scattered around with wooden jugs in their hands and bar grub in front of them. Behind the bar was an old woman with a crooked nose, thin and matted gray hair, and a nasty gleam in her nearly milky white eyes.

Harry smiled casually and slowly approached the bar, letting his hold on his magic release bit by bit with each step he took. His magic began to fill the air as he walked towards the bar, menacing and oppressive as he spotted in his peripheral vision—some patrons sputter and pale, as some began to tremble, and others looked like they were growing short of air. The old woman didn't look much better as her face went chalk-white and her hands shook violently, her teeth clattering and her eyes darting between himself and the backdoor behind her.

Finally, Harry reached the bar and pulled a stool over to take a seat. His magic danced freely in the air, mischievously dancing between the patrons as it seemed to draw entertainment from how the patrons shivered and looked around with wide eyes and shuddering breaths. His magic was particularly unhappy by the predatory look in their eyes, lashing out like an overprotective mother-bear determined to protect her cubs, which made Harry make a note to look into the concept of sentient magic.

As he made his way towards the old woman, Harry channeled his alma—internal magic within magical beings—to alter his voice to mimic the voice of one of the news reporters that were often featured on the television. His regular, childish voice as an eight year old took an edge off his desired intimidation factor. As he felt a warmth bubble and tingle in the back of his throat, Harry announced to the room as a whole, "Rather rude to assume based on superficial appearances."

He let the patrons form their own conclusions, partly to gauge how the minds of a regular witch or wizard functioned on their magical equivalent of common sense, and also to let them fill in the blanks to what Harry himself couldn't, what with his still lacking knowledge in the most basics of information in the Wizarding World. That was something he would need to rectify as soon as possible if he were to seamlessly blend into the Wizarding World.

One man, old and deep creases that lined his aged, warty face slapped the back of the head of his seatmate. "Idiot! Ain't there no kid that daft to wander into the heart of Knockturn Alley!"

As the victim to the backhanded slap silently nursed their aching head, whispers traveled through the room.

"Probably an accident with a potion," whispered a patron.

Another refuted him as they claimed, "Nah. I dun' think so. I reckon the lad got some goblin blood! Dun' there be one of 'em Half 'n' Half at Hogwarts teaching there?"

Harry filed that in his head. Potions vaguely followed the fantastical imaginations concocted within the premises of fictional books if the art of potion-making could be so volatile to cause a so-called accident to his extent. Other than goblins and witches and wizards, the term "Half and Half" implied the existence of other races that piqued Harry's curiosity. He briefly entertained the thought that Muggles weren't so far off with their fantasies considering what he had already browsed in his walk through Diagon Alley—cloaks and pointed hats, broomsticks and wands, cauldrons and so-called familiars as owls and cats and frogs and likely more.

Harry redirected his attention to the old woman behind the bar. Her head was lowered as she tried to avoid eye contact with him. He nonchalantly approached the bar and took a seat at one of the stools. "I believe it's rude of you to not make eye contact when I'm trying to have a conversation," Harry chided nonchalantly.

His magic coiled itself around the old woman like a snake that killed by constriction, warningly tightening around the woman before releasing her. The old woman let out a muffled whimper before she raised her head to look Harry in the eye. There was a look of wild fear in her wide eyes, dripping with unshed tears as the old woman watched Harry with bated breaths.

"Don't you owe me an apology?"

The old woman nodded her head several times. ""O-Of course! M-My ap-p-pologies!" Her speech had become more polite and formal, thick with a strange mix between a Yorkshire and Cockney accent. It grated his ears to hear her speak.

"My, what a horrid voice you have," Harry drawled out before continuing. "I'm going to ask you a few questions and I want you to just nod or shake your head."

The old woman nodded, looking eager to be done with the conversation. The patrons around them didn't look too far off from nodding with the old woman. Some even looked ready to drop down to their knees so that Harry would reign in his magic.

"I want to stay here for a few days. You can arrange your best room for me, can't you?"

The old woman paused and nodded hesitantly. "Or, what you might consider as your best room, if you must," Harry amended. For all that it was implied that the goblins were a race well-befitting of their reputation—prickly beings who staked their pride in being their word—it still didn't guarantee that he would be able to fully immerse himself into the culture of the Wizarding World. Harry was willing to give the goblins the benefit of the doubt as he had nothing to base any ill will against them, but until he truly bore witness to the goblins and their value in aligning himself with them to share relatively common interests, it was in Harry's best interests to spread out his lines to gather the most information he could. It was a bit risky, but all things good couldn't always be attained without a bit of risk.

Using the old woman was one such way he would be able to gather information. Granted, he had no information on her whatsoever, such as even a shallow understanding of her personality to gauge her usefulness to her. At the moment, the old woman was only useful for the inn she ran, highly likely to be frequented by more unsavory folks. Harry was in dire need of information from every facet he could get his hands on. The Muggle World had its black markets and underground rings and he supposed Knockturn Alley was the magical equivalent. It would be tricky to get the old woman to learn what information was useful and what was useless given that, in all honesty, not even Harry himself knew what kind of information he was looking for—only that he needed as much information as he could get. Petunia had indirectly taught him that with her incessant garden meetings to gossip, but the first-informed became the most-informed—able to manipulate and feed edited information to the rest and control the playing field.

At the moment, Harry was the Wizarding World's golden egg, their beloved Boy-Who-Lived. The goblins made it clear that they were not fond of Dumbledore, a man who masqueraded as someone who held seemingly no power yet held the most. Harry was certain that Dumbledore was bound to eventually become his enemy, if he couldn't already label Dumbledore as such given the old man's meddling in his family affairs despite the lack of any blood relation. The fact that the old man had dictated that Harry be thrown into the laps of the Dursley's didn't help his image of the old man.

With such a powerful soon-to-be enemy, he needed all that he could get the upper-hand on Dumbledore. For the time being, the old woman would be his temporary trump card whom he could use to potentially branch out his contacts, possibly spreading an information network in a similar yet more intricate manner than Petunia's feeble garden network of ladybugs.

He thought back to his initial meeting with Daedalus, who had used the supposed disillusionment charm to keep prying eyes off of them. He let his magic surround the old woman and himself, circling around them like a dome with the intent to stave off any eavesdroppers.

In Harry's opinion, magic was all about intent. Harry didn't want anyone listening in on his conversation with the old woman, so he simply made it so no one could listen in. "I'm sure you've noticed, but I'm a bit new here. I still have so much to learn but, you can help me with that, won't you?"

Harry may have worded it as a question, but it was far from a simple request than it was a demand that would bring consequences for the old woman if she didn't follow. The old woman hitched a breath, looking nervous and desperate but silently nodded her head.

"I'm sure you get all sorts of people here. I just want you to relay what you hear. Simple as that."

The old woman paled, and her lips parted, gaping open like a dead fish as she appeared to be at a loss for words. Harry raised a brow, waiting for her to find her words. He sighed when she remained silent but sweating nervously. He reached into his coin pouch and grabbed a handful of galleons that he placed onto the counter. He didn't bother to count and instead watched as the old woman began to waver in face of the gold.

"Of course, you will be well compensated for any useful information you give me. Not so hard, isn't it?"

The old woman nodded slowly. "I-I would be h-honored."

Harry smoothly slid the galleons closer to the old woman and wondered if he would reach for money that was practically dropped onto the old woman's lap as desperately as she had if his pockets weren't lined with riches beyond his lifetime. He counted eight galleons, which was equivalent to roughly forty pounds. However, the inflation was still unknown given that the Wizarding World was sorely lacking in advancements compared to the Muggle World. He reached out over the counter, ignoring how the old woman immediately flinched away from him. He looked at her pointedly and waited for her to extend a thin and wrinkly hand. He grasped her hand and tightened his grip.

"Excellent. We can draw up a proper contract and have it filed up with Gringotts. I do believe that would fall under the jurisdiction of their Legal Services department."

As Harry took another look at the old woman's expression, he clarified. "A proper contract with Gringotts provides us both with a level of security. As long as you provide me with useful information, you will be aptly compensated for you troubles—something Gringotts will assure in full. In the event that either parties wish to terminate the employment, Gringotts will act as an unbiased third party to settle things properly."

The old woman nodded as her expression cleared.

"Of course, we will both need to swear to abide by the contract for reassurance purposes. So long as both of us uphold our end of the contract, Gringott's Legal Services Department will find no reason to pursue either of us for the failure to uphold a contract which we will have willingly signed.

The old woman nodded slowly. She remained silent, likely fearful of how he would react to the question she probably wished to know the most. Harry continued, "The contract will consist of several terms that are non-negotiable. You will be expressly forbidden from knowing my identity, but I will be privy to your identity. Compensation will vary based on the information you can deliver me and will be paid at a minimum of fifteen galleons. Fabricated information for the sake of greater compensation will result in the immediate termination of the contract and swift retribution from Gringott's Legal Services on my behalf. If you wish to add your own terms to the contract, voice them now."

The old woman paused and appeared to brace herself. "H-how do I know that you ain't gonna make me go away if I end the contract? There be folks who don' like other folks sniffing their noses around. How will ya pay me, and how do I give ya information? How do I even know what's useful or nah?

Harry smiled, pleased that the old woman wasn't entirely daft. "Very well. I will add to the contract that you will be outfitted with your own set of protections based on Gringott's discretion. In the termination of the contract, your protections will be removed and failure to return such protections will result in similar retribution. Gringotts will provide you with a letterbox that you may use to send letters to a letterbox of my own, unless you have a different preference."

The old woman nodded her head in agreement. Harry paused for a moment in consideration as it hit him that it would be much safer to operate under aliases rather than using names that could be traced back to one another. It was mostly meant to protect himself as he was now aptly aware of his public image.

Overestimation and arrogance lead to the downfall of the truly great. There was always the chance that someone could be listening in, home into the old woman's reference to his name, be it his first name or surname, and immediately connect the dots. Given his fame even after eight years had passed, it was highly likely that whoever might be listening would sooner come to the conclusion of Harry Potter over someone who might happen to share his first name or surname.

"Very well. When conducting business, you are to refer to me as Stryder, be it meeting face-to-face or indirectly," Harry stated plainly. He supposed that he shared a few parallels with Aragorn from Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings and decided it was a fitting name to use as an alias. After Mrs. Honey noticed Before Harry's appetite for reading, she privately lent him her personal copy of the series to read during recess in the safety of her classroom, which was well worth the so-called humiliation of running to hide in his former year one teacher in the eyes of his year-mates.

Harry chose to make up a random alias for the old woman on the spot. "Henceforth, you will be referred to as Efril when conducting business and will refer to yourself as such as well. For both of our sakes, neither of us will learn our names until the signing of the official contract."

Harry looked her in the eye carefully, looking for any sign of hesitance that could potentially cause him problems in the future. The old woman eyed the pile of galleons and licked her lips before carefully nodding her head.

"Brilliant. I believe I'd like to retire to my room now."

"T-third floor. The last door down the hallway to your left."

The old woman tossed him a slightly rusted key that hummed softly with catena—magic anchored to inanimate objects. Harry nodded and allowed the disillusionment charm and its accompanying silence drop and strode to his room. The door creaked open after he sensed the catena—magic anchored to inanimate objects—within the door lock unlock in response to the key's catena. It was relatively clean by what he supposed was Knockturn Alley's standards. After spending a good majority of his life shoved into the ratty old cupboard, Harry wasn't too pleased in spending his night in a ragged room.

Dreams became something intimately special to Harry. At first, it was his only escape from the Dursley's as not even they could penetrate into his dreams with their twisted faces and ugly words. He used to dream that he lived a life he desired most, coming home to a warm house and loving parents. As he began to read books in school, his dreams changed so that he replaced the main character of any books that caught his fancy. As he got a little bit older though, those dreams changed again so that he didn't exactly dream of anything in particular beyond a rather captivating landscape.

His dreams were peaceful in its simplicity, reflecting his heart's desire as a broad and seemingly never-ending expanse of a great blue sky that hung high above a meadow of greenery. His sky lacked a shining sun and lofting clouds, and never had he dreamed of any storms of lightning or rain, or even the faintest traces of mist come abound to creep on the wildflowers growing abound in the meadows.

In his dreams, Harry loved to sit on his back, arms and legs spread out like a starfish. He would just lie back and watch the sky until he woke, relishing in the sensation of tickling grass and the sound of gentle winds caressing his hair. The sky always looked so lonely, without a sun or any clouds, lacking in bringing about great storms with lightning and rain to bring the low-hanging mist in its aftermath.

Harry loved to look up and see the blue sky but sometimes, he wished he could see something more than just that. He knew that Petunia only ever wanted to see the blue sky, preferably cloudless and minimal sun, but that sounded so boring.

The sun was there as a beacon of light, hidden by the clouds when its light became too intense. The clouds were there to help create a storm of rain to quench nature's thirst. Lightning occasionally accompanied those storms and Harry loved the crackling sound of thunder that followed after the jagged lines that crisscrossed across the gray skies. He loved to run around in the lingering mist that came after the storm and feel its damp coolness brush against his face.

Harry loved it all and wished that his lonely little sky could fill up soon.

While Harry wasn't surprised at all over the Shrieking Banshee's underwhelming standards of quality, that didn't mean he wasn't displeased. Before Harry had the habit of occasionally sleeping in Mrs. Honey's classroom from time to time during recess, desperate to catch up on a lack of sleep caused by the lingering pain from beatings that had yet to recede or from the aching hunger of his belly. During those occasional naps, Harry came to the realization that his dreams felt less like a dream and more like reality when he wasn't stuffed in the ratty cupboard, with its slate air and persistent cobwebs.

After Harry had left behind his identity as Freak—newly bestowed the name Before Harry out of spite for the Dursley's—and subtly prodded Mrs. Honey for any answers she might be able to give him, he came to the conclusion that he could lucid dream. It was only ever when he was outside of the cupboard and Harry supposed it was because he was much freer outside of the cramped cupboard.

At the very least, Harry had a bed that was far superior to the poor excuse of foam that Petunia had shoved into the cupboard, calling it his bed. Harry quickly surrendered to the enchanting call of the bed, feeling the exhaustion from a packed day-trip around Diagon Alley hit him at once. He didn't bother changing out of his outdoor clothes and instead flopped gracelessly onto the bed. His eyelids shut under the weight of sleep and he opened his eyes in the next blink to the familiar sight of the bright blue sky.

*Since I only ever update sporadically, I'm going to constantly include the definitions of the terms I created so that you guys don't have to go back to when I first mentioned them. I've experienced that hassle and want to save you guys from it. If it gets annoying though, let me know and I'll just add it to the bottom.

-Knut — 1 pound
-Sickle — 3 pounds
-Galleon — 5 pounds
*Fuck the exchange rate in the books because I'm fucking stupid
**Also, yes—I am a stupid American (Korean-American, love me Koreaboos but don't feticize over me, ew) and everything you know about America is true