Summary: When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.

Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.

Warnings: Language, Reborn, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings, no Beta

Rating: T

Word Count: 5698

Author's Note: A pretty shitty chapter, if I do say so myself. Nothing but clothes, shopping and a little Harry. Booooring. But I needed to introduce the two somehow and well. Some people complained that there's no Skull and only Regulus and I agree with that, yes, there's only Regulus but as the story progresses (will the stpry progress? i dunno), Skull will (i think?) be making an appearance. There are small glimpses of Skull around the story though. By the way, I failed my driving test yesterday. For the fourth time. Yeah, I feel like crap. I'm so sad cuz it costs quite a bit of money every time you try. And I'm not rich. And one mistake and you fail. Awful. Oh, and I read this story one more time and realized it was pretty shitty but I won't be going bavk and changing anything cuz I don't really wanna deal with the beginning again. Anyway. Enjoy.

Chapter 5

When Regulus woke up, he felt like he had gone a few rounds with a Hippogriff. The assumption that sleep can solve anything and everything was not at all true, he thought blearily. He could quite clearly feel that his body was neither refreshed nor did he sleep well. He didn't actually know how long he slept, there was no clock in his room, he didn't have a wand to cast a Tempus with and even if he did, he still didn't know at what time exactly he fell asleep so he wouldn't be the best judge of that.

He was awake though, years of habits (the years he remembered, at least) making him unable to fall back asleep. He knew that trying to fall back under wouldn't work, he simply needed to get up.

And so he did.

Leaving the comfortable confines of his bed proved to be quite a challenge. He didn't enjoy it one bit. After finally standing up, he discovered the slippers lying by the bed and quickly put them on. Kreacher really thought of everything.

He didn't bother changing, his clothes were too small and coming out dressed in them would only embarrass him further. He could imagine the paintings hooting and jeering and laughing already. Derision and amusement and disgust twisting their painted faces. It didn't matter that it was his family, in fact, it only made it worse because they would have no reservations about holding back on their commentary. Not that they ever would hold back, stranger or not.

So he decided to avoid making a laughing stock of himself and just go in his pajamas. At least he could pretend that he simply didn't care about his appearance, confident. He owned this house, now. Along with a lot of other things, he was Lord Black, after all. He could go around his own house in his pajamas if he damn well pleased, he wasn't afraid of critique. And he was especially unafraid of cutting words that were said by his dead, portrait relatives. Yes.

With those motivational words he nodded to himself and started making his way out of his room and towards the stairs. He paused before he reached them though and turned on his heel starting down the hall again. He will go down there, there was no question about it, but first, he needed to deal with his full bladder.

...

He walked down those stairs like he owned them, he thought hysterically. Which, technically, he did. He really needed to get used to this. He could now behave as though he owns the house because he does own it. Nice.

His mother screeched incoherently when she laid her painted eyes on him and a noise nearly escaped him. He didn't know whether that noise would have been a whimper or laughter and he was glad that he didn't get to know.

He greeted her cordially with a nod and a, "Mother, a lovely morning we are having," and moved down to the dining room when she didn't reply.

Kreacher has already laid out a traditional English breakfast so he sat down at the head of the table and started eating his bacon and drinking his coffee. After the meal, he curiously approached the kitchen from where he heard a few of Kreacher's hissing swears and some banging.

"Alright. What is going on in–" he stopped, his mouth open and his eyes wide as he took in the scene happening before his eyes. Kreacher was hopping on top of a lid which he placed on a pot on the stove, trying and failing to keep eight tentacles contained. The octopus' tentacles were gripping the lid tight and trying to sneak out of the pot. Kreacher was cursing and shoving the limbs back with a wooden spoon.

He sighed.

"Master Regulus brought food to the house, what kind of house elf would Kreacher be if he refused to prepare it and– Get in, you slimy–!" That was when the old elf finally spotted Regulus standing in the doorframe and his face lit up as he began babbling. "Master Regulus! Kreacher found the food Master has been ever so kind to bring with him in the clothes," here the elf spit the word like it was foul poison, "Master was wearing. So Kreacher decided to take it upon himself to prepare the dish!" Here he looked proudly down and smacked a tentacle with his spoon. A screech was heard from inside of the pot and Regulus winced.

"Ahh, Kreacher, my dear, I don't think the octopus was supposed to be eaten. I think it is a pet. Perhaps, even, my pet," the small servant looked throughly disappointed but he did hop off the lid and to the floor. He looked woefully back at the stove and then at Regulus.

Then he dropped to his knees and started banging his head on the marble floor, croaking about punishment and stupid elves and ironing his hands later.

...

After stopping Kreacher from giving himself a concussion, Regulus wandered closer to the stove and peered at the pot from as far away as he possibly could and still see the thing inside. It was still disgusting and slimy, he didn't want it to suddenly touch him or something. Maybe it could jump, he shuddered, that would be frightening.

But he did say that it was probably his pet, it was in that apartment he woke up in, in a tank with a tiny fake castle. That served no other purpose but entertainment. He wouldn't place food in such aquariums. So it was a pet. Maybe not his pet (highly doubtful, he acknowledged, as it was somehow cooing at him, a high pitched sound that would be annoying if some part of him hadn't somehow found it endearing, and the octopus was attempting to climb out of the pot and move in his direction) but he took it with him when he left for home and it was now his responsibility to either take care of it or give it back to its owner.

He remembered the flat, the fact that he was the only one in it and the sight that greeted him out the window (a dirty wall of a building next to his) and down (a filthy and smelly alleyway) and decided that if whoever who lived there wanted to take care of the creature shouldn't have left it alone with Regulus. Especially not for such a long time, and it was a long time that he spent there, first looking at himself in the mirror and freaking out, then talking (crying) with Kreacher.

(He considered the possibility of it all being a prank of some kind, stuffing Regulus in a muggle flat and seeing his reaction, wouldn't that be fun? Sirius wasn't a Slytherin but he was creative with the best of them. Or maybe it was Bella who did it, she was both creative and cruel enough and didn't have a smidgen of humanity left in her after all the things she did for the Dark Lord. It may be his punishment after attacking the Dark Master's soul piece. But the scars on his body, his new height, his dead family and Kreacher all said a whole different story. Besides, Sirius may be cruel but he wouldn't go that far just to see Regulus freak out. Probably. And Bella was apparently dead. By one of the Weasley Family, he thought with disbelief, Kreacher was disdainful enough when he was telling the story that he believed the elf. Where he got that information from, Regulus had no idea but the little servant was always resourceful and clever, it was no surprise that he knew who killed who and in what fashion the killing was done exactly.)

(There was also a different possibility which was that his brain was conjuring all of it up. That none of it was real. Everything was only a dream of a dying man and in reality his body was sinking in that lake full of Inferi. But it was morbid and made him uneasy so he decided to trust that everything around him was, in fact, real. It was easier that way.)

He looked at the octopus flapping and squealing and sighed, "Kreacher, find a big translucent jar or something, big enough for this," he waved a hand in the direction of the pot. "To move around comfortably, fill it with water and put the octopus inside."

The elf nodded and snapped his fingers, vanishing and reappearing a moment later.

"Where should Kreacher put the disgusting slime ball thing, Master Regulus?"

"The living room is good, I think. The paintings will have something to talk about, besides the disgrace of the Wizarding World and filthy Mudbloods taking over," he said dryly.

"Yes, Master Regulus."

...

He needed new clothes, all his old ones were too small, he thought, standing in his walk-in wardrobe and looking around at the many robes he will never get around to wearing again. It was just as well, he never liked them all that much anyway, all big, flapping and irritating. Snape may have pulled the look well but that was because he was big, flapping and irritating himself so the robes only underlined those qualities. Snape was like an overgrown bat, really, he considered it, remembering the pursed lips, wrinkled nose, narrowed, beady black eyes and all the black around him. Yes, he may have pulled that look off fantastically but Regulus wasn't Severus (or the Dark Lord, that was one other person who could pull the look off without any effort, he would look menacing even naked. Especially naked. He shuddered.) and so he didn't know how to look relatively good and comfortable with fabric swishing around his ankles and nearly sending him crashing to the ground with every step. The robes were also often causes of deaths when a flapping piece of fabric got caught in something, be it a branch which stopped a person from moving (and consequently got the person in line of a spell and got the person dead) or a fire spell like Fiendfire which stopped a person from, well, everything, because the person was dead from being burned alive.

He never had any chartable thoughts about robes, they were simply impractical. He remembered time and time again when he got a sleeve of his robe caught in a potion or when the robes were the cause of a spilled bottle of ink. Impractical and irritating.

He wondered whether the Wizarding World's fashion changed in any way in the time he was away. Most likely not, it hasn't changed since sometime around the 18th century.

He almost resigns himself to wearing magically enlarged clothes (it was a dangerous thing, to wear such clothes because you could never be sure when they will revert back to their original form and no one wants to deal with the public embarrassment of that) when he suddenly remembers that Sirius did live here for quite some time a few years back. He had to wear something, didn't he?

(A thought passes Regulus' mind about Sirius, emaciated and mad from Azkaban Sirius, running around the house butt naked, just because no one (their mother and father) could tell him otherwise. It was a pretty plausible thought and Sirius has always been pretty set on getting revenge where it's due. This type of petty act would satisfy him even more with how childish and simple-minded it is.)

With that, he made his way up the stairs to the topmost landing of the house, where his and Sirius' rooms were located, along with a bathroom they both shared. He was going to wear some of Sirius' clothes, how the mighty have fallen. (Although, he was never all that mighty, was he?)

Actually coming into the room proved to be rather overwhelming. The room was decorated in Gryffindor colours (grimace) and banners. There were also pictures of bikini-clad Muggle women and those muggle machines he remembered from the flat where he woke up in, motorbikes. He recalled the name from one of Sirius' rants about the ingenious and resourceful nature of Muggles, when he was in his rebellious phase and still at home. Their mother categorically forbid him from mentioning the Mundanes in such manner but not before doling out some punishment.

He wondered how Sirius felt when he put the pictures up in his room, spiteful to the very end and finally getting his way, even if it was after their mother's death. He steadfastly avoided looking at the scantily clad women. They weren't moving, magical pictures, thank Merlin but their bodies were practically on display and the little pieces of clothing left little to imagination. He felt his face burn, eyes turned down, looking at the floorboards with mortification. Even when he was dead, Sirius still somehow found a way to embarrass him.

He moved quickly to the wardrobe, the same one as his, opening the doors and striding inside. He only hoped the clothes inside will fit him.

There were clothes that fit him in his brother's dresser but they weren't Sirius'. They actually belonged to their father, he remembered seeing him in those suits. Regulus shook his head in disbelief, Siri wearing their father's clothes, how embarrassed and humiliated he must have been, he mused. Sirius must have grown out of his clothes from when he was sixteen and still living in the house (normal, as he was a man in his thirties when he came back) and decided that wearing their father's clothes was the best he was going to get.

It was all pretty understandable, what with Sirius being an escapee from Azkaban, a dangerous criminal to most of the Wizarding World, he couldn't really go to Madam Malkin's now could he? The corner of his lips tugged down, but so was Regulus, he couldn't go either because of it. (People could walk in robes with their hoods drawn up, it wasn't a crime, so he technically could walk through the Alley. But it was bound to attract attention, especially now, after a war. It would remind everyone of the Death Eaters. Also, if he was to get measured for clothing, he would have to remove the cloak because how would they take his measurements while he was still in it. So, for clothing he would have to go somewhere else.)

He gazed at the suits hanging in his brother's wardrobe and steeled himself. He needed to make himself moderately presentable, somehow disguise himself (so that no one will recognize him), aquire a wand and get a read on the political scene of Wizarding Britain. As it was, he was flying blind. He needed to get his hands on some older papers and understand what was going on around him. Kreacher explained most of what he knew but the old elf wasn't all that interested in the politics so he would have to do it himself.

...

He still felt uncomfortable while looking in the mirror. It was him, yes, but the hair and the eyes freaked him out. At least it drew attention away from his resemblance to his brother and father but on the other hand, it drew attention to him. Purple locks weren't exactly common.

He looked away from his reflection and down at the dark suit. It was all black, thank Merlin, he wouldn't have been able to handle red or even green, it would have clashed something horrible with the hair. Everything from the boots (dragonhide, a little big but otherwise perfect, well-worn), dress trousers, dress shirt and longish (nearly to the knee but that was fashion for you) coat was black. And a little too big but he could deal with it while he went out to buy essentials (the most important things, like wand and a whole new wardrobe of clothes). He hesitated, catching a few bangs and bringing them before his eyes, he needed something for his head, too. Lucky that there was a rack of old hats right there, another thing of their father, for sure. He finally settled for one of the least weird hats (there was one with a dead bird) and choose a simple black fedora, the rim wide and easy to hide behind and the ribbon around it a dark grey.

All in all, it looked good, not like he was a little boy wearing his papa's clothes at all. Maybe the shirt was a little loose in the chest and the sleeves were too long, the slacks too wide in the waist but it wasn't noticeable and a belt fixed the second problem.

He stopped by his room to get a leather messenger bag to store the goods in and was ready.

...

He went down the stairs and was met with hums and murmurs of approval. His mother was watching him like a hawk and he immediately looked up to her (painting). Her eyes quickly took him in and a not quite sneer appeared on her face. He panicked, she would say something, he knew she would.

Curiously, she kept silent and he cautiously moved past her, peering up at her painted form and then turning completely away when she still didn't say anything. He put the hat on his head, tucking as much of his hair under it as he could. The mirror by the front door helped and he turned around, looking out of the corner of his eye at the back of his head. The hair there was still visible but there was nothing he could do about it.

"Kreacher," he called out and the elf instantly popped into existence in front of him, looking eager to help. "I'm going out, to Gringotts and then to buy some necessities. I will call for you when I get the money and you will go to stock up on more food. Merlin knows that the feast you made yesterday and today's breakfast was from the preserved rations." He grimaced, even though the food was fresh with all the spells keeping it that way, he still preferred it when it wasn't tampered with. Magic didn't taste any which way (at least he thought so) but he rather liked when the food was fresh on its own.

As Kreacher nodded frantically to show that he understood, Regulus rubbed his neck and the short purple hair there, thinking what else the needed to do. He looked around and it became clear to him immediately.

"Ahh, and start cleaning the house. I think it's a little," he hesitated, not wanting to say that it was rundown because the old elf would start crying or pour hot water on himself or both. "It needs some redecorating," he settled on and now that thought stuck. Because now that he said it he seriously wanted to redecorate the old house. He gazed speculatively at the peeling wallpaper and carpet which was worn thin.

He shook his head, first things first. There was a near silent 'pop' and he lowered his gaze to Kreacher, not even noticing when the elf disappeared. There was a piece of long dark grey fabric in the elf's hands which the family servant extended in his direction. Regulus slowly reached for it and realized that it was a scarf. He touched the back of his neck where his hair was sticking out and looked gracefully at the elf, lips quirking up at the corners. He quickly wound the scarf around his neck and pulled it up so that it covered the hair and the lower half of his face, up to the tip of his nose. A few strands of purple still were there but they were hardly noticeable. He smiled behind the warm fabric and nodded at Kreacher.

"I will be going now."

...

He was actually pretty sure no one looked at him twice, it was cold so the scarf and the hat weren't that unusual. He thought he may have attracted more of the Muggles' attention than the Wizards', what with how they whispered about "these hipster kids and their weird fashion". He had absolutely no clue what a hipster even was and wasn't sure he wanted to know.

When he got to the Leaky Cauldron, he carefully eased his way through the door, casually making his way inside. There was a crowd of people inside, drunk and hungover, after the yesterday's All Hallows Eve. He slipped by unnoticed and soon stood in front of an all familiar brick wall. He needn't have worried about not having a wand, his father taught him that all that was needed was magic and as the both of them took Ancient Runes while in school, they both knew how to transfer even small amounts of their magic without the use of a wand. (He was ever so grateful that it was his father who taught him that because while strict and cold, he was still calmer than his mother and didn't expect Regulus to do perfect on his first try. He could only imagine how his mother would have gone about teaching him something as difficult. She probably would have used a few curses, not one them only verbal.)

He tapped the bricks and waited while the wall folded in front of him to make an entrance and as soon as it stopped moving he started at a brisk walk towards Gringotts.

He walked up the steps to the bank and moved towards the first teller he could find. He freed his mouth of the scarf, loosening it a little. Then he stepped in front of the creature and (even though his mother taught him that all are inferior to the might of a full-fledged, pureblooded wizard) inclined his head slightly, tipped his hat and murmured a, "Greetings."

He was eyeballed and got a sneered," Wizard," in return. Then the goblin leaned forward so he was nearly looming over Regulus and Regulus tamped down on his urge to inch away, he would not show weakness in front of all these strangers.

"I would like to regain access to my vaults," he said quietly so as not to alert anyone around him. The goblin looked at him carefully and tapped his gnarled fingers on the desk.

"And do you have your keys?" The creature asked and Regulus brought out his hand in front of him, presenting his wrist to the worker. The wrinkled face twisted in surprise but then quickly smoothed over (if something as already twisted could smooth over) as the goblin brought out a roll of parchment and laid it out on his desk. He clicked his fingers and immediately a bubble of silence formed over them, privacy spell, Regulus relaxed. Next, he pulled out a thin silver needle out of nowhere and grabbed Regulus' hand in a firm grip. Then he used the needle to prick Regulus' thumb, where a fat drop of blood immediately welled up.

"Three drops," he was told simply as the goblin guided his hand over the parchment. They both waited a few seconds and when the required amount of blood was dropped on the parchment, the goblin released his hand and Regulus brought his thumb up to his mouth to lick the blood away. He didn't want his blood to start dripping all over the place and someone using it. The fact that he allowed it to be used to identify himself was proof that he was desperate enough, he didn't want to announce his presence and the goblin knew it already, casting the privacy spell not only to prevent anyone from seeing that a Blood Spell was taking place (it was labeled as a form of Dark Magic because of the use of blood somewhere in Regulus' infant years, the Ministry of Magic was bonkers) but also to stop anyone from seeing what name came up on the parchment. They waited three minutes in silence, not moving much except to breathe.

Then, after three minutes there was an interested hum from the goblin and Regulus looked up to see the creature regard him with no small amount of curiosity.

"Lord Regulus Arcturus Black, your lordship has been restored and your vaults lay open to you," was all the goblin rasped. Regulus nodded, relief sharp but mostly hidden.

"I would like to make a withdrawal."

...

The future wasn't all that different, really, he thought as he was making his way to Ollivanders Wand Shop. The shops were, the products, fashion, flowers, potion ingredients were all the same. The only thing that changed was people, he didn't know anyone here. And the atmosphere, which was cheerful, people wandering around without a care in the world, nothing like the wary, quick walks he remembered from his own trips to the Alley, where everyone wanted to get their business over and done with and go home as soon as possible. Also, he looked at the window display he was passing by with admiration, the broomsticks. Those were definitely different, he looked at the slick, dangerous-looking Thunderbolt and his fingers twitched, he wanted to ride one of these. He needed to fly one of these, even if only once.

He shook himself as he entered the Wand Shop, the bells jingling above him. He looked around and the interior was more or less the same as he remembered, the shop in a perpetual state of disarray. There was a gasp from the front desk and he looked towards it to see Ollivander. The old man was more frail than he remembered, smaller and older, white hair thinner, silvery eyes wide. The stare was focused though, the man was as aware as Regulus has ever seen him.

"Ahh," the old wandmaker let out a gust of air, "A customer. I remember all the wands I have ever sold. Ten inches, yew with a core from unicorn hair, quite pliant. What brings you here, after so many years, Mister Black?" He asked softly, looking Regulus right in the eye and clearly not expecting a reply as he soon disappeared in the back of the shop to rummage through his supply of wands. Regulus came closer to the desk, cautious. Ollivander recognized him, that wasn't good, should he call Kreacher and give up on acquiring a compatible wand? He didn't expect an answer so when a loud, "Yes!" sounded from the back room, he startled away. He looked up when Ollivander emerged, clutching a box which he thrust into Regulus' hands, "Well, wave it!" So he did.

After ten minutes and six wands, one wand finally choose Regulus as its wielder.

"13 inches, blackthorn, dragon heartstrings core. Unyielding," the old man peered at Regulus with his silver eyes, a thoughtful expression on his face. "A lot of personality, I see. Some choices were made, experience was gained, how interesting. That will be eight galleons."

Regulus looked at him warily, wand clenched in one hand, other digging up the requires amount of money. He handed the gold over, twirled the wand in his hand and after a moment of hesitancy, asked for a wand holster to go with it. He paid additional ten galleons and strapped the holster to his right forearm. He was ambidextrous but his left forearm was Marked and he didn't fancy flaunting it around the shop even if there was no one here but him and Ollivander.

Through this entire process, the man watched him like a hawk and if Regulus thought his mother's (portrait) stare was unnerving, this one was downright terrifying. He stared back, though, all the while repeating Kreacher's name in his head so when the time came, the elf could come and get him in an instance.

Then, Ollivander smiled unexpectedly and said, "You need not worry. I won't say anything," and Regulus stared for a while longer before he inclined his head.

"Thank you," he murmured, clear and crisp but quiet. ("Do not mumble back to me! You don't need to be loud to be heard but you need to be understood! None of this pitiful whimpering and mumbling! You are the son of the House of Black, and we do not-!")

Then he stashed the wand in the holster, corrected his collar and fixed his sleeves. He put a hand on his hat and said, "Goodbye," before walking out of the shop.

...

He felt safer now that he had a wand with him but he still walked briskly and with purpose, wanting to make this shopping experience as short as possible. Next up, he thought, books.

He bought a few books about modern wizards and the Second Wizarding War. Also, after a few moments of hesitation, some (not that the ones about modern Wizarding World weren't) about Harry Potter. He passed on the Daily Prophet copies of the last decades because as much as he wanted to know everything, the newspaper was 1) often inaccurate 2) not always the best source of information, thanks to the censure 3)there were quite a lot of copies of the paper, as it was daily, Regulus simply didn't have time to read all of it. He needed clear facts, fast and concrete, no time for a thorough research. Maybe after he grasped the situation around the Wizarding Britain some more, he would indulge his academic side and buy the Prophet to conduct his own research but now was not the time. Besides, he rather guessed it would look suspicious, an unknown man buying forty years of the Prophet's papers.

So he bought the history books, mixed with some Arthimancy and Runes books, and after a thought, some paperwork about Magical Beasts. It would look less like he was researching something and more like he had variety of interests. Or like he didn't know what he was doing, that worked, too.

He stashed the books in his bag and went back out.

...

He let himself stop in front of the window displaying the Thunderbolt once again, the Seeker in him making him want to look at it again. He felt a smile creep onto his face as he looked at it, slim, dark wood, polished to the extreme, the brush at the end tightly packed and cut into a flattering teardrop-like shape, thin at the very end. Its name was carved into the handle in small, golden letters.

...

Harry sighed as Teddy tugged at his hand, leading him through the crowd of early shoppers and hungover pedestrians. He himself would be nursing a quite headache if not for a Pepper Up potion he took that morning. He loved the kid, he really did, but why does he feel the need to wake up so early in the morning and right after Halloween, too.

But he did promise him that they would go see the newest broom, released on the market just yesterday. Thunderbolt was said to be the fastest broom in the world and Harry himself wanted to see for himself if it was true. He shook his head, maybe for Christmas, he couldn't go around throwing money left and right (even if he practically could, because the Potter family was loaded rich and Harry inherited everything from them). He couldn't decide for whom he would buy it. Teddy, Ginny or himself? Maybe all three? That sounded about right.

They came closer to the shop and Teddy let go of his hand barreling forward and accidentally shoving past a man standing in front of the window. The man stumbled and Harry felt worry as he sped up to a light jog, but the stranger soon regained his balance. Harry trotted up to him, apology already on his lips.

"Are you alright? I'm so sorry for him. My godson got quite excited, he wasn't looking. Teddy, come here and apologize!" He called and the boy winced but walked quickly up to them, head hung.

"'M sorry," he mumbled.

"Don't mumble," was the absent-minded answer and Ted peered up at the man who was looking a little shell-shocked, staring at the boy's blue hair. "And it was nothing." He gripped the strap of a black, leather messenger bag tighter, looking around. Teddy cooked his head and looked underneath the brim of the hat covering the man's head and brightened.

"Hey, are you a Metamorphomagus, too?" He asked eagerly, bouncing in his toes. Harry looked sharply at the man who stiffened, Metamorphomagic was a rare ability, guarded closely by the family it belonged to, what a coincidence for Teddy to meet someone with it.

"Metamorphomagus?" The man repeated, flabbergasted. And then, "I-I must go," he said and started walking away, stride long and powerful, melting into the sea of other people before Harry could even think of stopping him.

Harry looked down at Teddy and instead of the bright blue hair, there was purple that greeted him instead. His eyes, now that Harry looked closer, we're purple too, as were his eyebrows.

"Is that how he looked like?" He asked and received a nod from his godson.

"I couldn't see his face cause of the scarf and his hair was hidden by the hat but some strands escaped and I saw them," the boy looked concerned for a second and then shrugged, turning away and back to the broom on the display.

Harry felt his own eyebrows rising, if that man wasn't a Metamorphomagus, Harry didn't know what he was. Maybe an accident with potion brought the colour? Harry felt pity for the man. That, or he didn't know about his talent. There was no way he looked like that voluntarily, though. Probably. Maybe. Well, Harry himself never would have dyed his hair (and eyebrows!) like that. The eyes may be natural, what with Harry's own strangely bright emerald green orbs but the rest must not.

He shook his head and also turned his attention to the beauty of a broom before him. It was truly a spectacular workmanship.

His thoughts of the weird man faded to the back of his mind as he and his godson continued drooling overthe flying broomstick.