CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Diagon Alley
Life at the Burrow was an entirely new experience for Harry, one he embraced with open arms. For the first time, he understood what it was like to live in a home that buzzed with warmth and affection, where laughter echoed through the halls and the scent of home-cooked meals filled the air. The Weasleys were loud, chaotic, and utterly wonderful, and Harry relished every second of it. Even the smallest things—helping set the table, waking up to the comforting aroma of Mrs. Weasley's cooking, or watching the twins hatch their latest prank—brought him a kind of happiness he had never known. It was the exact opposite of the cold, joyless life he had endured with the Dursleys, and he found himself wishing, more than once, that this was his real home.
A week after his arrival, on a bright summer morning, something unexpected happened. The sun was streaming through the windows, casting golden patches of light across the wooden kitchen table where Harry and the Weasley boys were gathered, wolfing down their breakfast. The room was filled with the sounds of clinking plates and the occasional grunt of satisfaction when Mrs. Weasley strode over, a stack of envelopes in her hand.
"Letters from school," Mr. Weasley announced, plucking two identical ones from the pile and handing them to Harry and Ron. The thick, yellowed parchment felt familiar in Harry's hands, the deep emerald ink unmistakable.
"Dumbledore already knows you're here, Harry—doesn't miss a trick, that man," Mr. Weasley added with a chuckle.
At that moment, Fred and George sauntered in, still clad in their rumpled pajamas, looking as though they had just rolled out of bed. They yawned as they flopped down into their seats, just in time for Mr. Weasley to wave two more envelopes at them.
"You two have got yours as well," he said, handing them over.
For a few minutes, the only sound in the kitchen was the rustling of parchment as everyone read through their letters. Harry's eyes skimmed the page, confirming that he was expected to board the Hogwarts Express from King's Cross on September first, just like every year. Below that was a neatly listed set of required textbooks for the upcoming school year. As he glanced over the list, a particular name jumped out at him—again and again.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
Harry frowned. Nearly all of his books were written by this man. Who is this Lockhart bloke? he wondered. Why haven't I heard of him before?
Fred, glancing over Harry's shoulder, suddenly let out a loud snort. "Oh, you've got to get all of Lockhart's books too! The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be a huge fan—bet it's a witch."
At that, Mrs. Weasley shot him a pointed look, and Fred quickly busied himself with slathering marmalade onto his toast, deciding it was in his best interest not to push his luck.
The conversation turned to the book list, with the Weasleys exchanging opinions about Lockhart. In the midst of it all, Harry learned something new—Ginny would be starting at Hogwarts this year. He stole a glance at her, only to find that whenever he addressed her directly, she would turn an alarming shade of red and quickly avert her eyes.
Harry, his mind filled with Voldemort's memories, recognized how easily this kind of admiration could be exploited. Tom Riddle would have taken full advantage of Ginny's shyness, twisting her feelings into something he could use for his own ends. But Harry wasn't Voldemort. Instead of avoiding her, he resolved to make her more comfortable around him. The more he spoke to her, the less intimidated she would feel—or at least, that was his hope.
Partway through breakfast, Percy entered the kitchen, his usual air of self-importance intact as he greeted everyone with formal nods. He carried himself with the rigid dignity of someone who believed himself above the morning chaos.
Then, as he pulled out his chair to sit, he let out a startled yelp and leaped back to his feet as though he had been stung. A large, bedraggled shape tumbled off the chair and landed unceremoniously on the table with a soft thump.
At first glance, it looked like an old, battered feather duster. But as Harry leaned in for a closer look, realization dawned—it was an owl. A very exhausted, very disheveled owl.
"Errol!" Ron gasped, immediately lunging forward to scoop up the poor bird before it could slide onto the floor.
The ancient-looking owl lay limp in Ron's hands, its eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, feathers ruffled and askew.
Ron gave a resigned shake of his head. "He brought back Hermione's reply," he explained, before turning to Harry. "I wrote to her, telling her we were planning to break you out of the Dursleys'—but, well, that turned out to be unnecessary since you showed up just as we were getting ready."
Harry couldn't help but grin. If there was one thing he had learned since coming to the Burrow, it was that life with the Weasleys was never dull.
Ron carried Errol toward the perch by the back door, handling the old owl with as much care as one would a particularly fragile teacup. But the moment he tried to set him down, Errol simply flopped off the perch like a sack of potatoes, landing in an undignified heap on the draining board with a soft thud. Ron groaned, rubbing his face in exasperation.
"Pathetic," he muttered under his breath before tearing open Hermione's letter, the parchment crinkling as he unfolded it.
Clearing his throat, he began to read aloud. Hermione's tone was a mixture of exasperation and relief. She was glad they hadn't actually gone through with their reckless plan to break Harry out, relieved that he was safe, and had wasted no time in asking about everyone's well-being. Near the end of the letter, she suggested they all meet in Diagon Alley before term started. She also mentioned that she had already arranged to meet up with Daphne Greengrass.
At the sound of that name, Harry's mind drifted. Daphne. She had promised to see him at Diagon Alley, to fill him in on her summer. He wondered what she had been up to, whether her plans had changed since their last conversation, whether she had—No, he shook the thought off before it could take root.
Breakfast soon wrapped up, and with full bellies and the morning's tension forgotten, they dashed outside for a game of Quidditch. The Burrow's backyard transformed into an impromptu pitch, the summer air filled with whoops of excitement and the rush of wind as they soared through the sky. The makeshift teams darted back and forth, dodging and weaving, passing the Quaffle between them with expert ease. The golden sunlight bathed the fields in warmth, and for that time, there was nothing but the game—pure, unfiltered joy.
Eventually, the game slowed, the high-energy rush fading into easy laughter as they made their way back toward the house. As they trudged through the grass, the twins turned their conversation to Percy.
"He's been acting weird lately," George commented, furrowing his brow. "Even after getting twelve O.W.L.s, he's still... off."
"Maybe he's just being old, boring Percy," Fred suggested with a dramatic sigh. "Merlin knows that's bad enough."
But the lighthearted teasing didn't last long, shifting instead to a more serious matter—money.
"With Ginny starting this year, I don't know how Mum and Dad are going to manage all these books," George admitted, running a hand through his hair. "Especially with Lockhart's entire library on the list."
The weight of the words settled in Harry's chest like a stone. He remained quiet, but guilt curled uncomfortably in his stomach. He had more gold than he could ever need, locked away in his Gringotts vault, more than enough to buy every book the Weasleys needed ten times over. But he knew they would never accept it. They would see it as charity. The last thing he wanted was to make them uncomfortable.
Still, the thought lingered, heavy in his mind, as they reached the Burrow once more, the warm, slightly wonky house standing tall against the golden glow of the late afternoon sun.
The next morning, chaos reigned as the household bustled in preparation for their trip to Diagon Alley. Mrs. Weasley, ever the commander in moments like these, gathered everyone in the kitchen, herding them like a general rallying her troops.
"We'll be using Floo Powder," she announced, holding up a small, ornate pot filled with the shimmering, grayish powder.
Her gaze landed on Harry. "Now, dear, this might be new to you—"
But before she could finish, Harry stepped forward, scooping up a handful of the powder with practiced ease.
With Voldemort's memories guiding him, he walked into the fireplace without hesitation, moving with a confidence that caught Mrs. Weasley slightly off guard. The moment he stood within the hearth, he tossed the powder at his feet and, without waiting for further instruction, called out clearly, "Diagon Alley!"
Instantly, brilliant green flames erupted around him, rising high and swallowing him whole. The world spun violently, colors and heat blending into a disorienting blur as he was yanked forward by an invisible force. His stomach twisted, but he clenched his teeth, bracing himself against the familiar sensation until—thud!—his feet found solid ground.
The dizziness ebbed, and he stepped out of a large hearth, dusting the soot from his robes. All around him, chimneys lined the entrance of Diagon Alley, each a gateway from homes across the country.
He had barely taken a step forward when, with a whoosh, Ron came hurtling through the fireplace behind him, stumbling wildly before regaining his balance. One by one, the rest of the Weasleys arrived, each emerging from the flames with varying degrees of grace—Percy with stiff dignity, the twins with casual ease, Ginny with nervous hesitation.
Ron straightened, eyeing Harry with curiosity. "You know, I thought this was your first time using the Floo," he remarked. "But you handled it like a pro."
Harry forced a casual shrug, keeping his expression neutral. "Just lucky, I guess."
Ron nodded, seeming to accept the answer. But Harry knew he had to be more careful. He couldn't afford any slip-ups from Ron, who knew the source of his powers. He couldn't have people knowing, not now. And certainly not ever.
The streets of Diagon Alley pulsed with life, filled with the chatter of witches and wizards bustling about their daily errands. The scent of freshly baked cauldron cakes wafted through the air, mingling with the sharper tang of potion ingredients spilling from shop doorways. Harry walked alongside the Weasleys, his eyes flitting over the colorful storefronts, when a voice suddenly cut through the crowd, calling his name.
His head snapped toward the sound, searching until he spotted Hermione and Daphne standing just outside the imposing white facade of Gringotts Bank. Their parents stood nearby, engaged in quiet conversation.
Their group altered course, weaving through the sea of shoppers toward them. Warm greetings passed between them, voices overlapping in the happy buzz of reunion.
Daphne tilted her head slightly as she took in Harry's appearance, a small, knowing smirk playing at the edges of her lips. "You look good, Harry."
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected remark, before nodding and responding smoothly, "Thanks, Daphne. You look great yourself."
Her smirk deepened, and before he could analyze it further, Hermione chimed in, her agreement laced with genuine warmth.
From there, they easily fell into conversation, trading stories about their summer holidays. Hermione animatedly recounted her family's trip to France, while Daphne spoke about the social events she had been forced to endure. The lighthearted back-and-forth flowed naturally, but Harry remained deliberately vague about his own summer. He offered small snippets about his time at the Burrow, careful not to mention Sirius. That was something he wasn't ready to share.
Even as they talked, he felt Daphne's eyes on him. Unlike Hermione, whose curiosity was often accompanied by an open eagerness, Daphne's scrutiny was sharper, quieter—calculating. She wasn't just listening. She was analyzing.
Then, as the group began moving toward their families, Daphne reached out. With a gentle but firm tug on his sleeve, she pulled him back a step, just enough to separate them from the others.
Lowering her voice, she murmured, "So, why do I get the feeling you're not telling us everything? Tell me, what did you get up to this holiday?"
Harry met her gaze, green eyes locking with sharp blue. He didn't want to lie. But he wasn't ready to explain everything—not yet.
"Not now," he said, his voice quiet but certain. "I promise I'll tell you on the way to Hogwarts. On the train."
Daphne studied him for a long moment, searching his face for any sign of deception. Whatever she found there must have satisfied her, because she gave a small, accepting nod.
"Good," she said simply. Then, with a small quirk of her lips, she added, "I have a few things to tell you too."
Harry raised an eyebrow at that, curiosity flickering in his mind. But before he could ask, she had already turned back toward the group, her expression unreadable.
They caught up just as their families gathered at the bank's entrance. Inside, more greetings were exchanged, hands shaken, introductions made.
And then came Daphne's younger sister.
She was eager, practically bouncing as she engaged Harry, her admiration embarrassingly obvious. Her wide eyes sparkled as she spoke to him, her enthusiasm reminding him uncomfortably of Ginny's crush on him the previous year.
Speaking of Ginny—
Harry could feel the simmering irritation radiating from her, even without looking. A quick glance confirmed it. She stood stiffly, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line as she watched the interaction unfold. The irony wasn't lost on him.
With as much grace as he could muster, Harry handled the attention, navigating the conversation with careful politeness until, at last, the moment passed.
Once the pleasantries concluded, the families proceeded deeper into Gringotts to withdraw the necessary funds for the upcoming school term. The clink of gold and silver filled the air as vaults were accessed, galleons exchanged, and budgets calculated.
As they exited the bank, Harry lingered behind.
"I'll catch up," he told them, breaking away from the group and slipping into the flow of pedestrians, heading toward the corridor that led to the curse breakers' offices.
His steps were purposeful, navigating the busy halls with ease. Over the past few weeks, he had grown accustomed to visiting Victoria—enjoyed it, even. She had become a familiar presence, and now, he found himself looking forward to seeing her again.
As he neared her small cubicle, he slowed. A small gathering stood just outside her office; their presence unusual enough to give him pause.
A tall, muscular man stood at the center of the group. His dark skin, deep as polished mahogany, carried an almost regal quality, his broad shoulders and sharp gaze exuding a quiet but undeniable authority. He looked to be in his middle years, his handsome, chiseled features lined with the experience of someone who had seen things, who had done things. He was dressed in a well-fitted Muggle suit, giving no immediate indication that he was a wizard at all.
Beside him stood a strikingly beautiful woman, her long, flowing brunette hair cascading down her back like silk. Her skin was fair, her large gray eyes gleaming with intelligence. High cheekbones, full lips, and an air of refined elegance made her seem almost otherworldly. The expensive Muggle dress she wore only added to her regal presence, as if she had stepped out of a world where power was woven into the very fabric of her being.
And then there was the boy.
He stood in front of the woman, clearly her son, judging by the resemblance. He looked to be around Harry's age—maybe a year older. He was slightly taller, but what stood out most was his physique. Broad shoulders, a powerful frame, solid muscle—not the stocky build of someone who simply grew into their size, but the well-trained, disciplined body of someone who worked for it. His skin was a rich caramel tone, and his short, neatly styled curls were cut in a tapered fade that framed his face sharply.
Next to the muscular boy stood a younger girl, perhaps a year his junior. She was noticeably shorter—her head barely reaching her brother's shoulder. While she shared the same striking features as Victoria, her resemblance leaned more toward their mother. Her dark curls were tied into playful pigtails, bouncing slightly with every small movement she made, giving her an air of youthful energy and mischief.
As Harry stepped closer, all four members of the family turned toward him in unison, their gazes assessing. It was subtle, but Harry didn't miss it—the way their eyes flickered over him, measuring, weighing. It wasn't outright hostile, but it wasn't casual either. They were studying him.
Before he could react, Victoria suddenly emerged from her office. Her face lit up with a warm, welcoming smile as she strode toward him, her steps brisk and confident.
"Harry!" she greeted cheerfully before wrapping him in a brief but firm hug. Her embrace was quick—friendly, not lingering, yet undeniably familiar. As she pulled back, she gestured toward the group with an easy smirk.
"Come meet my family."
Turning, she introduced them with a casual wave. "This is my mom, Hilda, and my dad, Samson."
The two adults smiled; their expressions friendly but still tinged with that same quiet scrutiny.
Hilda was the first to speak, her voice carrying a strong American accent. "Nice to meet you, Harry. We've heard quite a lot about you."
Harry let out a nervous chuckle, scratching the back of his neck. "Nothing bad, I hope."
Samson, who had the same composed presence as his son, shook his head, his deep voice carrying an accent that Harry couldn't quite place—American, but different. "All good things, we promise," he assured. "It's good to see that Hogwarts has exemplary students like you. We were worried the school wouldn't be able to keep up with our children."
Harry wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he simply nodded, his mind already analyzing the way Samson spoke—like a man who expected excellence as the standard, not the exception.
Victoria then turned to the two younger ones and smirked. "And these two gremlins here are Alex and Isolde, my siblings."
The so-called "gremlins" reacted immediately, sticking their tongues out at her in perfect unison.
Victoria sighed in mock exasperation, rolling her eyes.
Harry chuckled and gave them both polite nods. "Nice to meet you, Alex, Isolde."
His attention lingered on Alex.
Victoria had compared Harry to her brother before, and now that they were face-to-face, Harry could see why. There was something sharp in Alex's presence, something tightly coiled, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike. His posture, the way his eyes continuously scanned their surroundings, the way he held himself—it was familiar.
Because Harry had started doing the same.
Ever since Voldemort's memories and instincts had been absorbed into his subconscious, he had developed an acute awareness of his environment, a predator's wariness. And Alex… Alex had it too.
Harry extended his hand, offering a friendly nod. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, mate. Your sister speaks well of you."
Alex studied him for a moment, then smirked before grasping Harry's hand in a firm, controlled shake. His grip was strong—confident but not overpowering.
"Vicky talks about you a lot too," he said casually, though there was an unmistakable teasing lilt to his voice. "Swear, if she was our age, I'd think she had a thing for you, dude."
Victoria let out a dramatic chuckle before flipping her hair over her shoulder with feigned arrogance. "Oh, please," she drawled. "If I were his age, I doubt he'd be able to handle me."
A sharp gasp came from Hilda. "Tory!"
Victoria just laughed. "Jeez, Mom, I'm just kidding. Besides, Harry's like a little brother."
Alex snickered. "Ouch, friend-zoned."
Victoria grinned, utterly unbothered. "Oh, shut up, Lexi."
Alex's expression immediately soured. His eyes flicked to Harry, and he deadpanned, "She always goes for the low blow. Every time."
Before Harry could respond, Isolde suddenly perked up, her bright eyes practically glowing with curiosity.
"Can you tell me what Hogwarts is like?" she asked excitedly. "What house do you think I'll be in?"
Harry's lips curled into a smile at Isolde's eager inquiry, and he dove into an animated explanation of Hogwarts. His voice took on an excited edge as he painted a vivid picture of the ancient castle, detailing the enchanted ceilings that mirrored the sky, the staircases that moved of their own accord, and the ghostly inhabitants that floated through the halls. He spoke of the four houses—Gryffindor, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff—describing their unique traits, the kind of students they attracted, and how the Sorting Hat determined where each newcomer belonged.
Alex, not one to be left out, leaned in with a smirk. "Alright, so that's Hogwarts. Doesn't sound that different from Livermorny," he said, his tone filled with pride.
He launched into a breakdown of the American wizarding school, describing its grand structure, which was nestled atop Mount Greylock, its deep-rooted history, and how it differed from Hogwarts. He spoke about the four Ilvermorny houses—Horned Serpent, Wampus, Thunderbird, and Pukwudgie—outlining their characteristics and how students were sorted differently than in Britain.
The conversation quickly evolved into a lively exchange of comparisons between their magical educations. They traded stories about the different traditions of their schools, and even a few humorous tales about their respective teachers.
Time slipped away as they spoke, and eventually, Harry glanced at his watch. He sighed, reluctant but knowing he had to go. "It was great meeting all of you," he said, looking at Victoria's family with a polite nod, "but I need to get back to the others and finish my shopping."
Just as he turned to leave, Hilda stepped forward, her expression warm but expectant. "Harry, would you mind taking Alex and Isolde with you?" she asked. "They still need to get their books, and it would be good for them to start making friends early."
Harry met her gaze, then looked at Alex and Isolde. He saw no reason to refuse. With a small shrug and a nod, he said, "Of course, I'd be happy to."
Victoria grinned and held up her fist. "See you later, Marv."
Shaking his head in amusement, Harry chuckled before returning the gesture, bumping his knuckles against hers. "Later, Tory."
With parting farewells, he turned on his heel and strode toward the exit, Alex and Isolde following closely behind.
As they stepped out into Diagon Alley, a rush of warm summer air hit them, carrying with it the scent of parchment, ink, and fresh pastries from the nearby bakery. The street was alive with movement—witches and wizards bustling about, vendors calling out their wares, and excited students weaving through the crowd with their families.
Isolde, completely unfazed by the noise and chaos, kept talking. Her voice was a constant, excited stream of facts and observations, barely pausing for breath. She rattled off historical tidbits about Hogwarts, snippets of spells she had read about, and theories about magical creatures.
Harry cast her a sideways glance, slightly amazed. How had she not run out of breath yet?
Beside him, Alex let out a chuckle, as if reading his thoughts. "Yeah, she does that a lot," he said with an amused smirk. "Whenever she's nervous, she just starts spewing facts from all the books she's read. You get used to it."
Isolde, hearing the remark, turned sharply and stuck her tongue out at her brother. "I do not! I just want to make sure I'm not caught off guard."
Alex snorted. "Right, because knowing the exact date Hogwarts was founded is gonna help you in a duel."
Harry laughed at their banter. The girl oddly reminded him of Hermione—bright, bookish, and unshakably curious.
Shaking his head, he decided to shift the conversation. "So, Alex, where's your family originally from? Tory once mentioned to me that you had family in Britain?"
Alex shook his head. "Mom's family is British. But one of our ancestors moved to the States ages ago. Dad, though? He's from Nigeria. He comes from an old wizarding family, but magic isn't exactly well-accepted there. A lot of people think it's evil or bad luck or something, so he left when he was younger and made a name for himself in the U.S."
Harry nodded thoughtfully, absorbing the information. That explained the subtle accent in Victoria and Samson's voices—American with a distinct undertone of something else.
Alex then turned to him with an interested expression. "How about your family? Mom and Dad said your parents were some kind of war heroes."
Harry hesitated.
Talking about his parents always felt strange—especially with people he had just met. But after a moment of consideration, he decided to answer honestly. He told Alex about his parents, how they had fought against Voldemort, and how they had been murdered by the Dark Lord himself.
Alex listened intently, nodding as he processed the story. "The dark wizard who almost took over Britain," he murmured. "Dad thinks he's still alive, y'know. Says he could be out there somewhere."
Harry's stomach twisted slightly, but he kept his expression neutral. "Oh?"
Alex shrugged. "Yeah, I dunno how, but Dad has a theory. Won't tell us what it is, though. Just says he's certain Voldemort's not completely gone."
Harry mulled over that piece of information, his mind already spinning with possibilities.
Victoria's parents… they clearly weren't ordinary wizards. If Samson Steward suspected Voldemort was still alive, that meant he had knowledge most people didn't. That level of awareness was rare.
Harry couldn't help but wonder—if the war came to a head, would they be allies? Would they be willing to fight?
For now, though, he would listen. He would observe.
And if the time came, he would see where their loyalties truly lay.
The lively hum of Diagon Alley buzzed around them as they wove through the crowd, heading toward Flourish and Blotts. The chatter of excited students, the calls of street vendors, and the rustle of shopping bags created a familiar symphony of sound. Then, a booming voice cut through the din like a thunderclap.
"Harry!"
Harry turned just in time to see Hagrid towering over the sea of witches and wizards, waving enthusiastically. Even among the bustling crowd, the half-giant was unmistakable, his wild mane of hair and thick beard making him stand out like a mountain amidst hills. Beside him stood the Weasley family, Hermione, and Daphne, all clustered together.
A broad grin stretched across Hagrid's face, his beetle-black eyes twinkling with warmth.
"Blimey, it's good ter see yeh, Harry! And who've we got 'ere?"
Introductions followed quickly. Harry explained that Alex and Isolde were new students from America and that they were Victoria's younger siblings. The Weasleys exchanged curious glances at the mention of Victoria, but before they could ask anything, Hagrid engulfed Alex's and Isolde's hands in his massive, calloused grip, shaking them with enthusiasm.
"Any friends o' Harry's are more than welcome ter tag along!" he declared cheerfully.
With that settled, the ever-growing group merged into the flow of Diagon Alley's shoppers, moving together toward the bookstore.
Hermione wasted no time in engaging Alex, her curiosity practically radiating from her. "So, what's Ilvermorny like compared to Hogwarts? Do they have similar classes? What's the curriculum like? Oh, and I read that the Sorting ceremony is completely different from ours! Is that true?"
Alex took the rapid-fire questions in stride, answering with patience and thoughtfulness. "Yeah, the sorting's different—we don't use a hat. The four houses have these magical statues, and when your name is called, they react to you. Some students even get chosen by multiple houses, and then they pick which one they want to join."
Hermione's eyes sparkled with excitement as she listened, clearly fascinated.
Daphne, however, remained more reserved. She chimed in with an occasional question or comment but mostly observed. Her sharp blue eyes studied Alex with quiet scrutiny, assessing rather than engaging.
Harry, meanwhile, was watching Alex in an entirely different way.
Harry's Enhanced instincts had sharpened his ability to recognize dangerous people—those who carried themselves like warriors, who had been trained to fight. And Alex had that same air about him. The way he moved, the way he held himself—not stiff, not tense, but always aware, always positioned in a way that suggested readiness. It reminded Harry of how Victoria carried herself when she was serious.
He wasn't just some ordinary wizarding student.
Meanwhile, further ahead, Isolde and Ginny had hit it off instantly. The two girls were chatting animatedly, their excitement spilling over as they speculated about Hogwarts.
"What house do you think you'll be in?" Ginny asked, eyes gleaming with enthusiasm.
"I don't know yet, but I think Ravenclaw sounds interesting," Isolde replied. "Or Gryffindor! But honestly, I just can't wait to see the castle! I've read so much about it, but I want to experience it for real."
Ginny grinned. "You're going to love it. Hogwarts is amazing, my brothers told me wonderful things about it."
Their energetic conversation carried on, their personalities clicking effortlessly.
As they neared Flourish and Blotts, a large, colorful sign caught Harry's eye, displayed prominently outside the shop:
"GILDEROY LOCKHART – BOOK SIGNING TODAY! Meet the legendary wizard and get a signed copy of Magical Me! Midday to Late Afternoon!"
Twin gasps of excitement erupted from Hermione and Ginny.
"We actually get to meet him!" Ginny nearly squealed, her eyes wide with delight.
Hermione beamed, clasping her hands together. "He's amazing! Just think of all the things he's done! His books are incredible!"
Daphne, however, was far less impressed. She folded her arms and raised a skeptical eyebrow. "He sounds too good to be true, if you ask me."
Hermione turned to her so fast it was a wonder she didn't get whiplash. "What do you mean?" she demanded. "He's clearly an accomplished wizard! You don't get to write about all those adventures unless you've actually done them! That kind of thing is verified."
Daphne scoffed. "Or maybe he's just really good at making people believe whatever he writes. Think about it—how many powerful wizards do you know who take the time to publish their adventures?"
Hermione bristled. "That's ridiculous! Why would he lie about something like that?"
And just like that, the two fell into a heated debate. Hermione defended Lockhart with unwavering enthusiasm, citing his numerous books and supposed heroic deeds, while Daphne countered every point with cold logic and piercing skepticism.
Harry shook his head in amusement as he listened to them go back and forth. He was shocked that Hermione hadn't seen anything fishy about Lockhart yet. She could be incredibly sharp, but sometimes, she had a bit of a blind spot when it came to authority figures she admired.
While the argument raged on, Harry's attention drifted to Ron.
His best friend had been oddly quiet throughout the entire exchange. Usually, Ron had plenty to say, especially when Hermione was locked in a debate with someone. But now? Silence.
Harry frowned slightly, studying him. Something was off.
Alex seemed to notice it, too. In an attempt to get him talking, he casually turned to Ron and asked a question.
Ron barely responded. A one-word answer, curt and dismissive.
Alex tried again. Another attempt—another halfhearted reply.
After a few more tries, Alex gave up, exhaling softly before turning back to Harry instead. With a shrug, he asked, "So, who exactly is this Lockhart? Some famous wizard?"
Harry smirked, a knowing glint in his emerald eyes. "From what I've heard from the Weasleys, he's some famous wizard who's written a bunch of books about his supposed adventures. He's going to be our Defense Against the Dark Arts professor this year."
Alex listened closely; his expression thoughtful. Then, with a small shrug, he said, "Huh. Interesting. Most powerful, famous wizards I've heard of don't usually go around making their exploits public. And when their deeds do become public knowledge, it's never because they wrote about it. It's usually from witnesses, other people spreading the word. If someone goes out of their way to document their own greatness… well, that just feels like an attention-seeking tactic."
Harry turned to him, grinning. "Right?! That's exactly what I was thinking too."
The two boys launched into a quiet conversation about Lockhart, debating whether the man was actually as skilled as he claimed or just a well-dressed fraud with a talent for storytelling.
As their discussion carried on, the group stepped into Flourish and Blotts, the heavy scent of parchment and ink immediately wrapping around them like an old, familiar cloak. The air was thick with the rustling of pages and the murmur of conversation, but one sound stood out above all else—the excited chattering of eager witches, most of whom, Harry noted with mild amusement, seemed to be around Mrs. Weasley's age. They practically vibrated with anticipation, clutching copies of Magical Me to their chests like prized possessions as they shuffled forward in a long line.
At the head of it all, basking in the glow of their adoration, sat Gilderoy Lockhart himself.
His wavy golden hair shone unnaturally bright under the shop's enchanted lights, his perfect, pearly-white teeth flashing in a dazzling grin every time he turned to greet a fan. Dressed in extravagant robes of sky-blue silk, he looked more like a celebrity attending a grand gala than a supposed master of the Dark Arts.
Harry hated the idea of standing in line for hours just so some pompous wizard could scribble his name across a page didn't appeal to him in the slightest. But he stuck with the group regardless, standing off to the side as they inched forward through the shop.
Hermione and Daphne were still locked in spirited debate, and Alex and Isolde had joined in, the four of them fully engrossed in their discussion. With them preoccupied, Harry turned his attention to Ron, lowering his voice so only his best friend could hear.
"Alright, what's with you, mate?"
Ron, who had been sulking for the better part of their trip, crossed his arms tightly over his chest. His expression was pinched, lips pressed into a thin line. "What do you mean?"
Harry gave him a pointed look. "You've been giving Alex the cold shoulder ever since we met him. What's the deal?"
Ron scowled, shifting uncomfortably. "I dunno," he muttered. "I just don't trust him."
Harry frowned. "Why not?"
Ron hesitated, then exhaled sharply, voice edged with frustration. "He's just too perfect, alright? The perfect face, perfect mind, perfect body—everyone thinks he's just the greatest. Something doesn't add up about him."
Harry arched an eyebrow. "Come on, mate. Really?"
Ron didn't meet his gaze, just gave a half-hearted shrug. "I've got a bad feeling about him," he mumbled. "Something about him just seems… off."
Harry studied his friend, taking in the way Ron's jaw clenched, the way his fingers curled tightly around the edges of his robes. This isn't about mistrust, Harry realized. This is about insecurity.
Alex was young, confident, undeniably talented, and already had Hermione and Daphne's interest. That alone was probably enough to make Ron feel threatened.
Harry glanced over at Alex, who was currently laughing at something Hermione had said, his posture relaxed and open. He didn't seem the least bit suspicious.
Before Harry could press the issue, the line suddenly lurched forward, and the group found themselves within direct view of Lockhart himself.
Near the signing table, a short, irritable-looking man clutched a camera, his mouth twisted in a constant sneer as he snapped photos and barked orders at the crowd. "Clear the way! This is for The Daily Prophet!"
Ron scoffed under his breath. "So what?"
Unfortunately, his muttered remark must have been just loud enough to carry over the hum of the bookstore.
Lockhart's head snapped up instantly.
His piercing blue eyes landed directly on their group, and in the blink of an eye, his entire face lit up with exaggerated delight.
"It can't be—Harry Potter?"
Harry barely had time to react before Lockhart was already on his feet, his chair scraping loudly against the floor as he strode toward them with the enthusiasm of a performer taking center stage.
Daphne rolled her eyes but smirked in amusement. Alex, however, simply raised an intrigued eyebrow, clearly assessing the situation with sharp interest.
A pulse of irritation surged through Harry, sharp and immediate. He already didn't like where this was going.
Before he could even think of stepping back, Lockhart seized his hand in a grip that was both firm and absurdly enthusiastic, shaking it up and down with unnecessary force. Then, with a sudden yank, the man dragged Harry forward.
A brilliant flash exploded in his vision.
"Nice big smile now, Harry! Together, you and I are worth the front page!"
The words sent Harry's irritation spiking into outright distaste. So that's what this is about, he thought bitterly. He's a limelight seeker.
The realization settled uncomfortably in his mind, pieces falling into place. Lockhart's books were filled with grandiose tales of his supposed heroism—tales that, now that Harry thought about it, seemed far too incredible. More importantly, he had never met a single person he trusted who had actually seen Lockhart in action. It was all too… perfect.
And just like that, a nagging suspicion that had been simmering in the back of his mind solidified into certainty.
This Lockhart is clearly a fraud, most competent wizards tended to stay away from the limelight unless unavoidable, but this one sought it out.
Before Harry could even begin to process the implications, the celebrity wizard whirled away from him, throwing his arms wide in a dramatic flourish.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" he called, his voice rich with theatrical flair.
The murmurs in the bookstore dimmed instantly, all attention turning to the spectacle unfolding before them. Excitement crackled in the air.
"What an extraordinary moment this is!" Lockhart continued, his dazzling grin growing even wider. "The perfect moment, in fact, for me to share something I've been sitting on for some time!"
Harry's stomach twisted. A deep, instinctive sense of dread settled in his gut.
Lockhart turned toward him, eyes practically sparkling with delight. "When young Harry stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, all he wanted was to buy a copy of Magical Me—which I will now be happily presenting to him, free of charge!"
Applause erupted from the crowd.
Harry's hands clenched into fists at his sides. He didn't want Lockhart's stupid book.
But Lockhart wasn't finished.
"Oh, but he had no idea," he went on, clapping a hand onto Harry's shoulder and giving him a firm shake—one that nearly sent Harry's glasses tumbling off his nose—"that he would be getting much, much more than just my book! In fact, he and his fellow Hogwarts students will be getting… the real Magical Me!"
A lead weight seemed to drop into Harry's stomach.
The crowd collectively held its breath.
"Yes, ladies and gentlemen!" Lockhart declared triumphantly, "I am delighted to announce that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!"
The bookstore exploded into cheers. Witches and wizards clapped, some even gasping in delight, their admiration shining bright.
Lockhart soaked it in.
Harry, meanwhile, felt like he'd just been hit with a Bludger.
A fraud was going to be teaching them Defense Against the Dark Arts? What in Merlin's name was Dumbledore thinking?!
Before Harry could fully process the disastrous implications, a massive stack of books was unceremoniously dumped into his arms. Lockhart's entire collection.
He staggered under the weight, barely managing to stop himself from toppling over.
Gritting his teeth, he pushed past the crowd, maneuvering toward the edge of the room where Ginny stood beside her newly purchased cauldron, her mouth wide open in awe.
Without a word, Harry dumped the books inside.
"You have these," he muttered, still fuming. "I'll buy my own."
Ginny blinked in surprise, opening her mouth as if to respond—But before she could, a slow, mocking drawl sliced through the air, dragging Harry's already frayed patience even thinner.
"Bet you loved that, didn't you, Potter?"
Harry's jaw tightened. He already knew exactly who he was about to see.
Sure enough, Draco Malfoy stood before him, arms crossed over his chest, his mouth curled into a smirk so smug it practically demanded to be hexed off his face.
His cold grey eyes gleamed with amusement as he took in Harry's irritation.
"Famous Harry Potter," Malfoy drawled, his voice thick with mockery. "Can't even walk into a bookshop without making the front page."
Harry let out a slow breath, forcing his expression into something polite.
The kind of polite that meant anything but.
He tilted his head slightly, his own smile sharpening. "Do you really want to play this game, Draco?" he asked, voice smooth as silk.
Malfoy's smirk widened. "Oh, please, Potter. What are you gonna do? Lecture me about fame? Must be exhausting—having to pretend you don't love all this attention."
Harry chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "No, I was thinking we could relive your great time as a rooster." His smirk deepened. "I'm sure that would make the front page."
The confidence evaporated from Malfoy's face.
A flicker of fear crossed his grey eyes, his back stiffening. "Magic isn't allowed outside of school," he said quickly. "You'd be expelled for that."
Harry pulled out his wand, twirling it between his fingers. His expression remained pleasant, but his eyes glinted dangerously.
"Not before I permanently transfigure your annoying face, leave you with something to remember me when im gone," he murmured, voice almost gentle.
Malfoy's gaze darted toward the nearby adults, who were now staring in their direction.
And just like that, his smirk returned, arrogant and unshaken.
"You're bluffing, Potter," he sneered. "You wouldn't dare perform magic with so many witnesses around."
His smugness was still firmly in place when the rest of the group arrived at Harry's side.
Daphne stepped up next to Ginny, her sharp blue eyes narrowing in clear distaste as she assessed Malfoy.
Beside her, Ginny's face was flushed with indignation, her grip tightening around the edge of her cauldron. She glared daggers at Draco, ready to jump in.
Harry didn't look away from Malfoy, his wand still twirling lazily between his fingers.
Draco had no idea just how close he was to regretting every word that had just left his mouth.
"Leave him alone!" Ginny's voice cut through the air, sharp and unwavering, carrying the kind of steel that left no room for argument.
It was the first time Harry had ever heard her speak in front of him, and the sheer fierceness of her defense caught him off guard. But if Malfoy was rattled, he didn't show it. Instead, his lips curled into a smirk, eyes gleaming with the opportunity to twist the moment to his advantage.
"Oh, look, Potter," he drawled, his tone dripping with mockery. "You've got yourself a girlfriend."
A soft chuckle escaped Daphne as she shook her head, completely unruffled. "And how exactly is that a bad thing, Draco?" she countered smoothly, her voice carrying an edge of amusement. Then, with a tilt of her head, her tone turned razor-sharp, laced with a biting mockery of her own. "That's more than you can say. I find it hard to believe anyone could love an annoying little troll like you."
The words hit their mark. Malfoy's expression flickered—his usual arrogance cracking ever so slightly under the weight of the insult.
Beside Daphne, Ginny turned a furious shade of scarlet, clearly caught off guard by both the unexpected retaliation and the fact that Daphne had just casually called her Harry's girlfriend. Harry, on the other hand, groaned in irritation, running a hand over his face. The last thing he needed was that rumor starting to spread. But his annoyance was nothing compared to Malfoy's reaction—the pink creeping up the pale boy's face was impossible to miss.
Before he could snap back, a new commotion in the crowd signaled fresh arrivals.
Ron and Hermione finally shoved their way through the mass of people, each struggling to balance an armful of Lockhart's books.
Ron's eyes immediately landed on Malfoy, and his face twisted into an expression of deep-seated disgust. "Oh, it's you," he said flatly, his voice brimming with disdain, as though he had just stepped in something foul. "Bet you're surprised to see Harry here, eh?"
Draco, still recovering from Daphne's verbal strike, latched onto the moment to regain ground. His smirk returned, sharper now, more venomous.
"Not as surprised as I am to see you in a shop, Weasley," he sneered, his gaze flicking down to the books Ron was holding. His smirk widened. "I suppose your parents will have to go hungry for a month just to pay for all those."
The effect was instant. Ron's ears went scarlet, the color flooding all the way down his neck. His grip on his books tightened, his knuckles whitening, before—without warning—he dumped them into Ginny's cauldron with a loud clatter.
Then, with a growl of pure fury, he lunged for Malfoy.
Harry and Hermione barely had time to react. They both grabbed the back of Ron's jacket, yanking him backward just in time to keep him from swinging.
"Ron!" Hermione hissed; her voice taut with alarm.
Before the situation could spiral further out of control, a new voice sliced through the tension.
"What are you doing?"
The tone was firm, exasperated, and unmistakably parental.
Mr. Weasley had arrived.
Pushing his way through the throng of people, he grabbed Ron by the shoulder, his expression a mix of weariness and warning. Fred and George loomed just behind him, eyes alight with interest at the unfolding drama.
"It's too crowded in here," Mr. Weasley said, his tone carrying the kind of authority that left no room for argument. "Let's take this outside."
A slow, deliberate voice cut in before anyone could move.
"Well, well, well—Arthur Weasley."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Lucius Malfoy stepped forward, one hand resting lightly on Draco's shoulder, his sneer a near mirror of his son's—but the cold, calculating malice in his steel-grey eyes was far sharper.
"Lucius," Mr. Weasley greeted him, his voice clipped, ice creeping into his usually warm tone.
Lucius tilted his head, the picture of false civility. "Busy time at the Ministry, I hear," he remarked smoothly. "All those raids… I do hope they're paying you overtime?"
Without waiting for a response, Lucius extended a pale hand toward Ginny's cauldron. With the casual air of someone handling something distasteful, he plucked out a battered copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, turning it over in his fingers as though it were something diseased.
"Obviously not," he murmured, his voice thick with feigned pity. Then, with a sigh so exaggerated it barely concealed the cruel delight underneath, he added, "Dear me… what is the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don't even pay you well for it?"
The change in Mr. Weasley was immediate.
Color flooded his face, his neck turning a shade redder than Ron's had moments ago. His hands curled into fists at his sides, his shoulders stiff with barely contained fury.
"We have very different ideas of what disgraces the name of wizard, Malfoy," he said, his voice tight, barely restrained.
Lucius's lips curled into a smirk. But his eyes slid away from Arthur, drifting instead toward Mr. and Mrs. Granger, who stood nearby, watching the exchange warily.
His expression turned to one of pure contempt.
"Clearly," he sneered. "The company you keep, Weasley… and to think, I once believed your family could sink no lower—"
CRASH!
Ginny's cauldron went flying.
Before anyone could react, Mr. Weasley lunged.
He slammed into Lucius with enough force to send them both crashing backward into a bookshelf. The impact sent a cascade of heavy spell books raining down on their heads.
The bookstore erupted into chaos.
"GET HIM, DAD!" one of the twins bellowed over the noise, their voices alight with excitement.
Mrs. Weasley's shriek pierced through the mayhem, sharp and furious.
"Arthur, NO!"
The bookstore erupted into chaos. People yelped and scrambled backward, knocking into shelves in their desperate attempt to put distance between themselves and the brawling men. Books tumbled to the floor, pages fluttering as stands were upended, and the cacophony of shouting and gasps filled the space.
"Gentlemen, PLEASE—PLEASE!" the frazzled assistant cried out, his voice high-pitched and utterly ineffective against the storm of fists and fury.
Then—BANG!
A powerful shockwave pulsed through the air as an unseen force blasted the two men apart. Arthur and Lucius were thrown backward, colliding against opposite bookshelves, sending even more volumes cascading to the ground.
A new voice sliced through the mayhem, cold and authoritative.
"ENOUGH, YOU TWO!"
The entire shop froze. "How dare you fight in front of the children?" All eyes snapped toward the woman striding forward.
Hilda Steward, a formidable presence with sharp features and piercing gray eyes, commanded the room as though she had stepped onto a battlefield. Her expression was severe, her disapproval radiating in waves, and her drawn wand made it clear that any further foolishness would be met with consequences. The crisp edge of her American accent only made her words hit harder, each syllable cutting through the stunned silence like a whip.
Arthur and Lucius staggered to their feet.
Arthur's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his lip split, fresh blood tracing a path down his chin. Across from him, Lucius scowled darkly, rubbing at his eye—already bruising from where an Encyclopedia of Toadstools had clocked him square in the face.
Another voice joined the fray, smooth yet laced with disappointment.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Samson Steward's voice was quieter than his wife's but carried no less authority. His dark eyes were serious, his gaze locked on the two men with an air of judgment that even Lucius Malfoy seemed reluctant to challenge.
"Is this the standard the Ministry and its employees set for its citizens?" Samson continued, his words deliberate, piercing. "Brawling in the streets like common hooligans?"
Neither man responded.
Arthur, his fists still clenched, remained silent, though tension rippled through him like a held-back storm. Lucius, pride wounded but too shrewd to escalate things further, merely sneered.
And yet, despite his bruised ego, his fingers still curled tightly around the battered Transfiguration book he had taken from Ginny's cauldron.
Then, suddenly, he thrust it back at her.
His pale eyes gleamed with malice as he leaned in just enough for his voice to slither past his lips, low and venomous.
"Here, girl," he hissed. "Take your book—it's the best your father can give you."
Ginny stiffened but said nothing.
With that final parting shot, Lucius turned on his heel, his cloak billowing as he strode toward the exit. With a sharp jerk of his chin, he motioned for Draco to follow.
Draco hesitated for the briefest moment—his gaze flickering toward Daphne and then Harry—before schooling his features and falling into step behind his father.
The Malfoys swept out of the shop, disappearing into the crowded streets of Diagon Alley.
A tense silence settled over the store. Harry exhaled, his mind racing.
Something wasn't right, thanks to his memories, he knew how Lucius behaved when he was up to something, and he was definitely up to something.
His enhanced instincts screamed at him to think, focus, rewind.
His mind replayed the scene. The way Lucius had palmed the book. The way his fingers had curled around it for just a fraction of a second too long before shoving it back into Ginny's arms.
And then it hit him. The realization slammed into Harry like a rogue Bludger to the chest. His breath hitched. His stomach turned to ice.
Lucius Malfoy planted a book with Ginny, and not just any book, but the diary.
Lucius Malfoy hadn't just been discarding something dangerous—he had been planting it. Dobby's warning came rushing back to him in sharp, chilling clarity.
Harry's pulse thundered in his ears.
This wasn't just about getting rid of a cursed object. Malfoy was framing the Weasleys. Worse still, that diary—whatever dark magic lay within it—was now in Ginny's possession.
And no one else had noticed. Harry's jaw clenched. Not on my watch.
A plan formed in his mind within seconds. If he played this right—if he was careful—he could cripple Malfoy and destroy a Horcrux in one move.
Before he fully processed his next action, his body was already moving.
With an easygoing smile, he stepped toward Ginny. "Here, let me help," he said, voice casual, reaching for the books she struggled to balance in her cauldron.
Ginny blinked at him, still flustered from the confrontation with Malfoy. "Thanks, Harry," she murmured, offering a small, grateful smile.
He nodded, hands moving deftly.
As he stacked the books, his fingers ghosted over the old, tattered diary. His pulse quickened.
And in one seamless, practiced motion, he slipped it free, tucking it into the folds of his robes.
Ginny didn't even register the missing weight.
Nearby, voices rose once again—this time in hushed urgency.
Arthur Weasley stood with Samson and Hilda Steward, their expressions tight with exasperation and concern. The confrontation was over, but its repercussions were just beginning.
The sharp scent of ink and parchment still lingered in the air as the tension from the fight slowly dissipated. Mrs. Steward, her posture straight and authoritative, leveled a pointed look at Arthur Weasley, her piercing gray eyes flicking over the fresh cut on his lip. With a swift motion of her wand, she murmured an incantation, and the wound sealed itself, the stinging pain vanishing instantly.
"You cannot let a man like that provoke you," she admonished, her voice crisp with disapproval. "He wanted you to react—probably so he could use it against you later."
Arthur sighed, rubbing his jaw with a sheepish expression. "I know, I know. But you heard what he said—"
"And that's exactly why you shouldn't have let it get to you," Samson Steward interjected smoothly. His voice was deep, calm, yet firm in a way that left no room for argument. Even without raising his voice, he carried a presence that demanded respect. His very stance—broad-shouldered, upright, and composed—made it clear he was a man accustomed to command. "From what I've heard about Lucius Malfoy, he excels at this sort of thing. He knows exactly how to push the right buttons. You have to be smart enough not to take the bait."
Arthur let out another long breath, rolling his shoulders, the tension there finally beginning to ease. "Seems I have you to thank for stopping me from embarrassing myself further," he admitted.
Samson inclined his head, accepting the sentiment without making a fuss.
With the immediate conflict resolved, the conversation turned to introductions.
"We are the Steward family," Samson said smoothly, his dark eyes assessing Arthur and Molly with quiet scrutiny. "We recently moved from America to integrate into British wizarding society." He turned slightly, motioning to his wife. "This is my wife, Hilda. She's a highly skilled Healer."
Hilda stepped forward, shaking Arthur and Molly's hands firmly.
"And as for myself," Samson continued, "I've been a senior Auror under MACUSA. I'll be transferring to the Ministry soon."
Arthur's eyebrows lifted with genuine interest. "A senior Auror? Well, we could certainly use more good ones here, pleasure to meet you."
Meanwhile, off to the side, an entirely different discussion was brewing.
Alex folded his arms across his chest, shaking his head in mild amusement as he turned to Hermione and Daphne.
"So," he drawled, a smirk tugging at his lips, "y'all have racist, pureblood supremacists too. Except, unlike the ones I'm used to back in the states, yours seem to have free reign around here."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Unfortunately, yes. That's just the Malfoys, though. They're rich and powerful, but tend to hate anything that's not pureblooded."
Alex huffed out a short laugh. "And let me guess," he said, jerking his thumb in the direction Draco had disappeared, "that kid throws his weight around at school too? Like he owns the place?"
Daphne sighed. "Yep. Couldn't have described it better myself."
Alex let out a low whistle. "Wow. Dude's a walking cliché. I mean, really. It's like he watched one of those cheesy high school movies and thought, 'Yep. That's the guy I'm gonna be. He speaks to me.'"
Hermione giggled despite herself before quickly sobering. She peered up at him, brow furrowing slightly. "Wait—you know about Muggle movies? Aren't you pureblood?"
The curiosity in her tone was immediate and intense. Harry didn't blame her. Alex was pureblood—the very idea of one being familiar with Muggle technology was… well, rare, to say the least.
Alex simply grinned. "Of course. My dad made sure I knew about both worlds. Besides, Muggle tech is dope."
That single statement cracked something open. Within minutes, Hermione and Alex had dived into an animated discussion, bouncing from Muggle films to the principles of electricity. Daphne listened with mild amusement, though her slight frown suggested she was only half-following the conversation.
A few feet away, Isolde had pulled Ginny aside, her voice gentle as she made sure the younger girl was alright.
Harry chuckled to himself. Those two are fast becoming friends, he mused. They're going to be an unstoppable pair.
Just as the parents carried on their discussions and the other conversations unfolded, Alex abruptly shifted his focus.
He stepped up to Harry with an unreadable expression, his dark eyes sharper than before.
"So," he said, his voice dropping into a casual murmur. "Yo! So, I noticed you took something from Ginny's books. What was it?"
Harry's stomach clenched.
For a split second, he considered brushing it off. But the look on Alex's face told him he wasn't the type to let things slide.
Harry chuckled quietly, forcing his expression to remain light. "Look, it was nothing, mate. Just a book."
Alex's eyes narrowed slightly. "Mind if I see this book?" Harry hesitated.
His mind worked quickly. It's not like he knows what a Horcrux looks like, he reasoned. It should be fine.
With a small shrug, he reached into his robes and pulled out the diary, handing it over.
Alex took it, flipping through the brittle pages. His fingers lingered on the parchment. His expression darkened.
A long, tense moment stretched between them.
Then, without a word, Alex handed the book back, his frown deepening.
"I don't know what that is," he said slowly, voice laced with certainty, "but it feels… off. Like a cursed object. I recognize the feeling anywhere." His jaw set. "I'm telling my dad, maybe he can make something of it."
Harry stiffened. The hell? How did he know that?
His thoughts raced. He's been trained. That much was obvious. The way he picked up on the diary's aura so quickly—it was too sharp, too instinctual. If Alex really had that kind of intuition, he was either going to be a powerful ally… or a serious problem.
Harry's grip on the diary tightened.
Quickly, he placed a hand on Alex's shoulder, lowering his voice.
"No, don't," he said firmly. "That's not a good idea."
Alex's frown deepened, his dark eyes locking onto Harry with piercing intensity. His stance shifted slightly, weight settling onto the balls of his feet, ready—waiting.
"Why the hell not?" he demanded, his voice edged with sharp suspicion.
Harry exhaled, forcing himself to stay calm even as his mind raced through the possible answers. He couldn't just brush Alex off. The other boy wasn't the type to let things go, and if Harry pushed too hard, it could turn him into a problem rather than an ally.
"Listen," Harry said carefully, lowering his voice. "I can't explain right now. Not yet. Not until I know I can trust you."
Alex's expression didn't soften. If anything, his features hardened, his gaze sharpening with something more dangerous than mere doubt—calculation. He was thinking, analyzing, picking apart every word Harry said, looking for cracks.
"No," Alex countered flatly. "You're going to have to tell me what's going on."
Harry clenched his jaw. He had hoped to put this off, hoped to delay for a little while longer. But Alex wasn't giving him an inch. He wasn't backing down.
Harry let out a slow breath, his decision made.
"Fine," he said at last, relenting. "I'll explain everything. On the train ride to Hogwarts. Meet me there."
Alex didn't move for a moment, simply studying him, gauging whether or not to accept the offer. The air between them felt heavy, charged with silent tension. Finally, he gave a slow nod.
"Fair enough," Alex said, extending a hand.
Harry took it, gripping firmly. Their handshake was brief but strong, a silent agreement sealed between them.
Nearby, Arthur and Mr. Steward were still engrossed in conversation, their voices rising with animated excitement as they discussed Muggle inventions and their potential applications in the wizarding world. Meanwhile, the rest of the group wrapped up their shopping, finishing their last-minute purchases.
Before long, it was time to part ways.
They exchanged farewells, promises made to meet again at King's Cross when school started. Laughter and chatter filled the air as they scattered in different directions, heading home with their new supplies and fresh anticipation for the school year ahead.
But as they walked away, only Harry understood just how critical this year would be.
His mind whirled with everything he had to accomplish—Secure the Chamber of Secrets and the Basilisk.
Clear Hagrid's name. Frame Lucius Malfoy. Destroy the Horcrux. And, somehow, free Sirius Black.
His hands curled into fists at his sides. There was so much to do, and not nearly enough time.
And now… there was Alex Steward. Was he going to be an ally? Or the one thing Harry couldn't control?