Harry looked at the man who had just asked him if he could help him find his relatives in incomprehension.
While it was true Harry had tried not to think about it, it was somehow hard for him to forget Patrick Evans, the man who had somehow discovered during Halloween that he 'hadn't travelled here through space'.
Before Harry could say anything, the man said, "Never mind. It's obvious you weren't expecting anybody to come here."
What were the odds Harry would meet in London the only man outside Hogwarts Harry sort of knew?
"Why are you here?" Harry finally asked.
"Well, I live here," came the swift answer. "Not King's Cross, mind you, but I needed to grab something. What about you? Why on earth are you using the muggle gate if you're clearly not used to the muggle world?"
Harry couldn't stop a wince at the realization he's just lost his marbles in the middle of the station. "The muggle gate," he decided to focus on that.
"Well, I've never been to 9 and ¾ but there must be a chimney there and other magical transportation to bring students home. Why didn't you take them?"
"I didn't know." Harry turned to the wall behind him and carefully put his hand on the cold stone.
"The gate is closed now," the older man remarked. "The station only opens their magical platforms when a train is about to come or leave King's Cross."
"Should we really talk about this sort of thing here?"
"Oh, the statute of secrecy is going to fine. In case you haven't noticed," the man said as he looked around, "you made quite a scene and nobody but me did anything about it. We can try to blame the proximity of the gate and the charms around, the truth is Londoners can be very blind when they don't want to be bothered."
A woman in front of them coughed and walked faster.
"Closest wizarding place now is Diagon Alley. Only thirty minutes by foot to get there."
"R-Right."
But even though Harry suspected he wasn't going to handle the outside world better, Harry also realized reaching the Leaky Cauldron would not change his situation much. After all, Harry did not have a single knut on him to rent a room even for one night.
Harry sharply inhaled to chase the terror threatening to come back.
"Though it is not very far, I must admit I do not feel comfortable letting you go there on your own. Is there somebody you can call or ask for help?"
The first person that immediately came to Harry's mind was Albus. But as soon as that thought crossed his mind he realized how childish or naïve of him it was to think the Gryffindor could get him out of this mess. For one, Albus still didn't know he was a time-traveller. For two, even if he were to say yes, there was no guarantee his parents would let him bring some stranger home.
The second person was Professor Mesmer. There would be no need to explain why he needed a place to stay after all but Harry had to admit the thought didn't sit well with him. The man had already offered to help him, he didn't want to push it or appear needy. But he didn't have much choice, did he?
"I suppose I could send an owl to Professor Mesmer," Harry reluctantly said.
"Mesmer?" The man seemed surprised. "He must have already left the country by now."
Harry very slowly turned his head.
"He makes a few tours during the summer holidays," he explained. "Starts usually with America before coming back to London and ending with Europe. That's what most seers in the guild do really."
That answer dashed all Harry's hope of not ending in the streets.
"You're really sure you cannot call a relative to grab you?"
"Oh I'm an orph-"
Harry abruptly stopped talking. And his heart stopped as he finally realized something enormous.
Harry Potter might be an orphan in 1996, it didn't have to be true in 1897. In fact, it couldn't be true.
Somewhere, there was another man whose last name was Potter. Somewhere, there was a man who would have a son who would become Harry's grandfather. Somehow, even though he had lost everything else, Harry had his family back.
Harry difficultly swallowed at the enormity of what that meant.
"So there is somebody."
Yes, there was. There was somebody because Harry had his family back. And there was nothing Harry wanted to do more than shouting it in the middle of the station and let some great-grandfather snatch him away from this hell and bring him to meet a family that would be undoubtedly his .
Harry opened his mouth to answer with an enthusiastic yes .
But, as he was about to say it, the elation Harry's been feeling was swept away as a terrible thought came to him.
"W-What if they don't like me?"
There was something almost sad in Mr. Evans' eyes.
Harry looked away.
He was a time-traveller, he couldn't help thinking, and none of them knew him. There was no reason for them to welcome him with open arms. They could call him a liar and close the door on him, they could be like the Dursleys and merely tolerate his presence. Or maybe Harry would tell them what his life was like only to realize that, somehow, Harry was falling short in their eyes.
And if Harry had learned not to be upset by the situation at Privet Drive, he was aware young Harry Potter had dreamed too much about this moment not be destroyed even by mere indifference.
"Very well, then," Mr. Evans sighed. "I suppose there is no other choice then. You're coming with me."
Harry abruptly turned his head. "What?" he numbly asked;
He shrugged. "Well, considering how well you're blending in, somebody is going to steal your trunk before you reach the Leaky Cauldron. If I don't think your death will matter much in the great scheme, I prefer to see as few obliviators as possible. And while living in the streets does forge character, I doubt Mesmer will be very impressed with my excuse if he learns I've let one of his students there."
Harry didn't know what to say. Finally, he settled for, "I don't need your pity."
"You don't," the man acknowledged. "Pity is very often useless but there's a difference between pity and empathy. Also, you don't have many choices there."
"… What makes you think I don't have a place to go?"
"Basically everything."
Harry flinched.
"Also," Evans said, "you strike me as the sort of person to go on an epic quest to save the world only to starve in the middle of a forest because he hadn't even considered bringing food on his trip."
For some reason it was that remark that hurt Harry the most. "I would not," he feebly protested.
But Evans didn't seem convinced. "I hope you realize you got yourself into this mess because you hadn't even considered what you were going to do after leaving Hogwarts. How old are you?"
"… Sixteen."
"Meaning that in a few months you will legally be an adult. You will soon be expected to effectively take care of yourself and you haven't even considered seeking a place to sleep. The real world does not forgive such basic mistakes, Mister Potter, and you will not survive this summer if you refuse my help."
Harry gritted his teeth. "I will."
Evans sighed. "Being an adult is also learning to swallow some misguided pride when it gets in the way of your survival. You may believe to be tough or acting like a responsible person, you're being very childish right now."
Harry tightened his fists.
The worst thing was Harry was perfectly aware the man was correct. Harry just couldn't survive in muggle London.
"Th-Thank you, sir," he said through gritted teeth. "I-I appreciate your help."
"No you don't," the man said, "but the first time you swallow your pride is always the worst so I appreciate the lie. It gets easier over time, don't worry."
"There will not be another time," Harry swore.
Evans laughed as he began heading in the direction of the exit. "Work for it then."
There had been very little books at number four Privet Drive.
With the exception of the rags Aunt Petunia would dutifully read to learn whose celebrity was sleeping with whom, reading to the Dursleys was something only arrogant people thinking themselves better than everybody else did. Normal people did not read books outside schools or work, they watched TV like everybody.
Naturally, what Aunt Petunia enjoyed watching after cleaning the house were soap operas and romantic movies set in the 'good old days of the British empire'. And Harry trapped in his cupboard had been the poor victim stuck listening to Dallas theme song and numerous pompous Victorian soap operas where gentlemen would fight to the death for that lovely lady's hand.
Harry was certain his aunt would stop enjoying these period movies if she just knew just how much Victorian London stank.
Harry violently coughed, overwhelmed by the disgusting smell.
Also pollution, probably.
"You get used to it, eventually."
Harry looked at the man. "Diagon Alley didn't stink like that."
"Of course it doesn't, there are cleaning charms there. Some purebloods said muggles are poisoning the air and killing everybody with that smog so they placed several charms in all wizarding streets and houses. For once, I agree with them."
In front of them, a carriage driven by two horses passed by.
Horses.
But the man paid the creatures no attention and walked away.
Harry cursed and ran before the man could vanish and leave him in that hell.
Harry tried to ignore the muggles around him. He tried not to think about these clothes he had only seen in television before, about the streets and how little they were like those he knew.
Was it really London?
Harry hadn't even finished his thought a bell started ringing.
"Is that… Is that Big Ben?" Harry asked, not quite believing it.
"It is. Probably the only clock besides mine I trust with the time." Evans' lips suddenly twitched. "My father worked on the clock, you see. Charmed it to always be accurate."
"Oh," he said as the bell kept ringing.
Harry suddenly realized he had been focusing so much on the differences and what had yet to come he had entirely missed what was already there.
They entered the smallest building of a narrow street. They then took the stairs to reach the last floor.
As Mr. Evans was searching for his keys, he winced.
"I suppose I should warn you. My wife, she- How can I say it? She-"
The door in front of them abruptly opened.
"Your wife what?" The woman at the other side of the door said. "Choose your next words carefully, Patrick."
Mrs Evans was a tall and thin woman. With her dark hair pulled into a high bun and the apron on her light blue dress, she looked exactly like what Harry had thought women in Victorian were like.
"… You brought another stray," the woman told her husband.
"That I did."
She looked Harry up and down, as if he was a disgusting bug.
"… is he one of them?"
The man grimaced. "Possibly."
She glared at her husband. "Well, what are you waiting for?" she snapped. "Get in before the neighbours see you."
Once the two men entered the small apartment, she closed the door.
"In my defence," Mr. Evans tried, "this one looked really pathetic."
"What?" Harry exclaimed.
She scoffed. "They all look pathetic with you. And honestly, can't his sort just-"
She abruptly stopped when their eyes met.
"Patrick," she said, turning to her husband.
Mr. Evans looked away.
She didn't say for a moment. Finally she sighed.
"Fine, fine. You win. You," she said, pointing a finger in Harry's direction, "you may stay but let's be clear: there are going to be a few ground rules here. First thing first, I don't want you to do any of your stuff here, understand? Or see any of your stuff. I don't want to hear even a whisper of your kind. You understand? We. Are. Normal. And I want nothing reminding me I have to bear with your sort, get it?"
"Now, Maggie that's a bit-"
But Harry raised a hand.
"I got this."
For the first time since he came here, the world made sense and Harry knew what he was supposed to do.
"I'll make myself forgotten," he promised. "You won't even see me and you won't even remember I'm here."
Maggie Evans suspiciously looked at him. "Well," she said, "good."
"I'll even sleep in the cupboard under the stairs if you want."
She scoffed. "I'm certainly not going to move my brooms for his Majesty. No, you take the couch like normal people. Also, Patrick will lend you something decent to wear. Immediately. So take off your dress-"
"It's a robe!" Harry outrageously said.
"Well, it's the same thing really," she stiffly replied.
"No, it's not!"
"Yes, it is. And I don't know how it works with your lot, but I won't tolerate you wearing women's clothes here. My home, my rules."
"You're not going to twiddle your thumbs either," she continued. "You're going to work here, Mister. I know your lot doesn't know what that word means, you are going to learn it."
Thus followed a list of tasks Harry was supposed to do in order to earn his stay.
A lone tear left his eye. "Yes, ma'am."
The woman stopped and slowly moved in her husband's direction.
"What's wrong with him?" she whispered in his ear. "Apart from the obvious."
Mr. Evans shrugged. "I think he likes being told what to do."
She drew back.
"Wow, what a freak."
It took Harry a moment to remember where he was the next day. When he did he sighed.
He couldn't say he liked having to rely on the Evans for his survival. At the same time however, it was clear he didn't really have a choice.
Leaving the couch and taking the too big and faded clothes somebody had thrown on him, he began preparing himself.
Mrs Evans only glanced at him when he came for breakfast.
"Morning."
"Morning," she absent-mindedly replied, her attention on some antic stove.
"Do you want me to help you with that?" Harry asked, pointing at the stove.
She startled and turned to Harry. After strangely looking at him she answered, "I don't need your help. I can perfectly take care of breakfast myself. If you want to annoy somebody, go annoy my husband. What's he supposed to do by the way, Patrick?"
It was then Harry saw the man feeding a flock of white doves by the window.
The man hummed as he gave bread to the birds. "I don't know, what do you think you're supposed to do now, Mister Potter?"
Harry took a pause.
It seemed like the man was expecting a certain answer but Harry couldn't figure out what it could be.
"Do my homework?" he tried before wincing at how childish that sounded.
Harry could almost hear him rolling his eyes. "While I'm sure this must seem important to you, don't you think there is something that could be a little more urgent at the present moment?" Turning to Harry and seeing his confused face he sighed. "How are you going to pay for your books?"
Ah.
He didn't know if him not even considering the monetary problem was the result of him flying by the seat of his pants or the fact he had never needed to worry about money before coming in the past. Probably both. But the more he was thinking about it, the more he realized just how urgent the problem actually was. For one, Harry would have to buy his books and even clothes as Phineas Nigellus Black had taken away the scholarship Dippet had granted. For two, he still owed Hogwarts money and Harry was certain that if the man had not talked about it this year, Phineas Nigellus Black had certainly not forgotten and was going to demand his due soon enough.
"I should try to find a job, I guess. I just… I just don't know where to start."
Mrs Evans scoffed. "Figure your lot does not work."
"Maggie."
She humphed.
"With the current exchange rate it is better for you to seek work in the wizarding side of London," Mr. Evans told Harry. "That is if you manage to secure something there because there is very little work for underage wizards."
Harry slowly nodded. "I suppose I'd go to Diagon Alley and see what I can find then." He paused, wondering how on earth he was supposed to go there without getting lost in victorian London. "Which way is Diagon alley?"
The man took a hat on the doornail. "Fortunately for you, the Leaky Cauldron is not far from where I'm going. If we hurry up, you can be there before the shops open."
Harry hurried and soon the two men left the apartment.
"What do I do if there isn't work at Diagon Alley?" Harry couldn't help asking on their way. "Will I have to work in the muggle world?"
Harry suddenly remembered a book he had read about the harsh working conditions of Victorian England and tried not to wince.
The man briefly looked at him. "Make sure you don't have to find out."
"Well, I wouldn't say no to somebody helping here," Madam Malkins reluctantly admitted after much harassment on Harry's part. "It's just… I don't want to spend time training them."
"Oh, you don't have to," Harry hurried. "This isn't the first time I'm selling stuff. You won't have to do anything. I'm very good at selling stuff. I can sell anything."
The witch blankly looked at him, clearly unconvinced by the lie.
This was the only person in Diagon Alley whose answer for a job hadn't been a clear no and Harry was now desperate.
"Let me prove it to you."
She sighed. "I suppose letting you work here today isn't going to be the end of the world." She got up and summoned the most extravagant purple robe from the male section. "Very well then, you're going to work here for free today. If you manage to sell this today, I hire you."
She looked at what he was wearing and winced.
With a flick of her wand, Harry's muggle clothes shrank until it finally fitted, the faded colours brightening until Harry could fool himself into believing these clothes were brand new and custom-made.
"If I am satisfied with your work today, you may keep this. Now get to work."
Sadly, if Harry had learnt a thing or two in bullshitting his way out, his knowledge in clothing was inexistent. And if the witches would usually giggle at his spluttering mess, the wizards only got annoyed at explaining how terrible he was and Harry knew showing the garnement he was expected to sell would only push them into leaving the shop on the spot.
One hour before the shop closing, Harry was starting to feel desperate. Already he was seeing himself sweeping chimneys before falling to his death or screwing nuts in an assembly line before turning insane.
Harry paused and deeply breathed, trying not to lose it in the middle of the shop.
It didn't matter how he was going to do it, Harry was going to find a moron and do anything to insure he was going to buy this thing.
Now who would be mad enough to buy purple robes?
The bell on the door rang and Harry turned his head to see the idiot he was going to nag.
Albus brightly smiled when he saw him.
"Well, hello Harry."
Albus twirled in front of the mirror several times.
"I don't know..." he hesitantly said, dressed in the robes Harry had given him. "Plum is not really this year's colour. I also don't really know in which occasion I will manage to wear it. Really, I'm not sure if I actually should wear such bold clothes. What if people stop treating me seriously and start thinking I'm just another lunatic?"
"You're Dumbledore!"
Every since Harry had showed him the robe, it had been clear the auburn-haired loved it. For some reason however the man had been trying to convince himself buying the robe was a terrible idea.
And Harry couldn't allow him to leave without the robe.
"It's clear you love it so why are you hesitating?"
"Because," Albus said, "while I do love this robe others may not-"
"So what?"
Albus startled.
"You love it. That's the only thing that matters, no?"
Albus didn't say anything for a moment. "I really don't see when I would wear it though," he softly said.
Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration.
He paused as he thought about something.
"That potion competition," he slowy began, "there's going to be a ceremony for the winner, right?"
Albus' eyes widened, clearly knowing already where Harry was going. "You cannot possible say that I should-"
"When you win it and you go to get your trophy, what are you going to wear?"
"Now, now," Albus half-heartedly said, "while I am flattered to see how highly you think of me, I must say it is just possible that some student from Dumstran- My school robes."
Harry could literally taste in these three words how little Albus thought of their uniform.
"Why wearing something you don't like for your big day when you can wear something you clearly love?"
Albus paused a moment. He looked at himself in the mirror.
"You know," he slowly began, "while I appreciate what you're trying to do, I can't help noticing you've never once told me what you thought about me wearing this."
Harry blinked at that realization. "Does it really matter, what I think?"
Albus looked away. Then, in an hesitant voice, he said, "Maybe."
Harry paused, not quite knowing what to say.
If he was being honest, he hadn't really thought about whether or not the robe fitted him nor had he truly paid any attention to how the man looked.
"Can you twirl again?"
Without a word, Albus slowly did as he was told.
Harry knew Albus Dumbledore was not an ugly man. In his impeccable robes and neatly brushed hair, many witches couldn't help turning their head when the prefect was near and Harry himself had wondered once or twice how that handsome boy could one day become the kind old man in silly clothes Harry knew in the future.
But this man in front of him looked better. Fuller. More complete. It was as if without them noticing they had found a missing piece of the puzzle that was Albus Dumbledore. And it was suddenly clear to Harry that this was how Albus Dumbledore was always meant to be.
"You look… good. Really good."
He then looked away in embarrassement.
"… I can say the same to you."
Harry startled and sharply turned his head, stunned.
But Albus kept looking at the mirror, face red.
For a moment, he didn't know what to say. "Really?" Harry asked, cheeks suddenly feeling very warm.
The auburn-haired mutely nodded.
Not knowing what to do and suddenly unable to look at the other man, Harry sought the closest mirror Albus was not using.
At first Harry thought it was obvious why a tailor such as Madam Malkins would want her seller to look good and charm his clothes to fit him. But the more Harry looked at the black railhead pants and white shirt, the shiny black boots and what Harry now knew was called a fock coat lined with red butterflies pattern, the more he realized that these clothes had always been this way and Harry hadn't noticed they had once been quality clothes before suffering from the damages of time.
"I'm sure that's why you picked them," he heard Albus hesitantly saying.
Harry looked at his reflection, wondering if that stranger in the mirror was truly him. "You know," he slowly said, "when you live with the Dursleys and get your cousin's hand me downs because they don't give a damn about you, you learn to stop caring about that sort of thing."
His recollections of horrible haircuts and three sizes too large rags were interrupted when he heard a soft voice saying, "You know, somebody told me I should stop caring about what people will think of me and just wear what I like. Maybe you should do the same and start caring about yourself."
"So why did you come here?" Harry asked as he took the silver coins Albus was handing him.
Albus, still dressed in his plum robe, gasped. "I was asked to buy something. I can't believe I forgot." He checked the clock on the wall and grimaced. "I know you probably wish to leave as soon as possible but it shouldn't take long so is it possible if-"
"What do you need?"
"Yarn."
Harry startled. "It's June."
"Knitting is life, knitting is love," Albus said, clearly repeating what somebody had told him. Opening the bag where he had put his old robes, he retrieved from a pocket a list. "I was given clear instructions on what to bring back." After a moment's hesitation he handed Harry the list.
Harry frowned to decrypt the crammed words on the page, wondering if that mysterious knitter could be Albus' mother. "I'll try to find where Madam Malkins put the yarn."
As Harry put the correct drawer on the table between them and was trying to find everything on the list, Albus pointed at one ball of yarn changing colour every three seconds. "I'd like this one too, please."
Harry was about to put said ball in the bag when Albus said, "It may be better if you do not put it there. It's- it's a gift, you see. For her coming birthday."
Harry put the ball of yarn out of the bag. "Do you want me to wrap it?"
After Albus answering by the affirmative, Harry sought the wrapping paper. Once he found it, he finally realized he had no idea how he was supposed to do it.
After struggling with the wrapping paper for several minutes, Albus deciding in the middle to join the fight, Harry went to the backshop, took the smallest box he could find, put the ball of yarn inside and uneremoniously wrapped it.
"I cannot thank you enough," Albus told him after pocketing the gift and taking the bag. "I'm sure she's going to love it."
"No, no, it's me who should thank you." Seeing Albus raising an eyebrow he decided to change subject. "Tell her happy birthday for me, will you?"
Albus strangely looked at him for a moment and Harry thought for a few seconds he had just crossed some line there and shouldn't have said anything.
But Albus finally gave him a small smile. "I'll relay the message. I'm sure she will be very touched."
Mr. Evans seemed surprised to see him once Harry finally left Diagon Alley.
He then softly smiled. "I must say Madam Malkins is a talented witch to bring this old thing back to life. I would have thought Maggie would have thrown my old work clothes by now."
Suddenly remembering the clothes Harry currently had were not his but the man's, he said, "She charmed it for work but I can ask her to-"
He raised a hand. "Don't bother. It didn't fit me anymore and I had grown tired of it. It's also good for you to have something that doesn't make you look like a street rat."
Harry sweat-dropped.
"It's also giving me an idea," the man added as he started walking away from the Leaky Cauldron, Harry quickly following him. "While I usually am able to get by, I wouldn't say no to some help at work. As a way to pay me back, you can help me tonight."
Harry startled and thought about it a moment. "I suppose I could. Just... What do you do for a living, sir?"
But the man lowly chuckled and didn't answer his question.
When the two of them approached a theater, he finally pointed at a poster.
When Harry realized the man on the poster was Mr. Evans and what he was doing, his jaw fell.
Patrick Evans was a magician.
