CHAPTER 1
Freedom. It was curious how such a simple word could carry so much weight. For Harry, in that moment, it was more than just a concept—it was a living, pulsating feeling, almost tangible. A scream trapped for years, finally echoing through his mind, free from the invisible chains of Privet Drive. No Dursleys, no oppressive rules, no disapproving glances— for the first time, he could simply be Harry. A regular boy. Not The Boy Who Lived.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let his fingers slide over the worn blanket. The rough fabric almost felt familiar, a distant memory of Hogwarts. Around him, the muffled hum of the streets of London rose up the building's walls, a chaotic symphony of voices, footsteps, and engines. It was a stark contrast to the oppressive silence of the Dursleys' house, but here, in this modest room at the Leaky Cauldron, the chaos was freedom.
He slowly stood up, his bare feet meeting the cold wooden floor. The chilly touch made him shiver for a moment, but he didn't mind. He walked to the window, his movements slow, almost automatic, as his thoughts wandered. With a determined tug, he opened the curtains. The light flooded the room, like a gust of fresh wind. Outside, the street was teeming with anonymous figures, coming and going without noticing the boy watching them from above. It was curious how everything seemed both mundane and magical at the same time—a delicate balance that only the wizarding world could offer.
The glass of the window was warm to the touch. Harry pressed his forehead against it for a moment, letting the warmth of the sun spread over his skin. There was something about the simplicity of that moment that made him feel a peace he rarely found anywhere he had ever called home. That room, small and unassuming, felt more welcoming than all the years at the Dursleys'. Maybe less so than Hogwarts, when he wasn't seen as the next Dark wizard.
Just over ten days ago, after the disastrous incident with Aunt Marge, Harry had been allowed to spend the rest of the holidays at the Leaky Cauldron. The permission had come directly from the Minister of Magic, which still seemed surreal. The Dursleys, of course, couldn't have been happier to be rid of him for an entire month.
It was almost unbelievable that he had escaped punishment for using magic outside of Hogwarts, considering the strictness with which the Ministry dealt with such transgressions. The previous summer, when Dobby, the house-elf, used magic at the Dursleys' house, Harry had been threatened with expulsion. The fact that Cornelius Fudge had ignored the incident this time seemed suspicious.
In the first few days, he came up with conspiracy theories regarding this unexpected leniency: maybe the Minister was trying to gain popularity in an election year. Or maybe the weight of the name "The Boy Who Lived" still opened doors Harry would have preferred to keep closed. But deep down, he suspected that Sirius Black's escape had something to do with it.
He sighed and turned his gaze back to the world outside the window. Spending more than a day in Diagon Alley was a new experience for him. He had always imagined that place as a refuge of colors and novelties, but now the atmosphere felt different. There was something in the faces of the older wizards that hadn't been there before. Distrust. Tension. As if every corner hid a secret no one wanted to uncover.
The news of Sirius Black's escape hung over the wizarding world like a storm about to break. He wasn't just any fugitive—he was a name that made even the bravest wizards look over their shoulder. Old wounds had been reopened, wounds that the community clearly wasn't ready to face.
Harry stepped away from the window and let his gaze wander around the room. The dark wood furniture gave off a subtle scent of something old, as if they held stories from a forgotten time. The impeccably tidy room showed the careful work of Mrs. Thorn, the Leaky Cauldron's housekeeper. She was a woman of few gestures and even fewer words, but Harry liked her. Even Hedwigs, perched on her stand near the dresser, seemed to have accepted her presence, silently watching her with attentive eyes.
He crossed the room to the dresser, where the clothes were folded into a perfect pile. He grabbed the first set he found and walked to the bathroom. The door creaked slightly when he opened it, revealing a small, but functional space. As he turned on the tap, he let the warm water flow over his hand for a few seconds before stepping into the shower.
As the warm water poured over his shoulders, Harry closed his eyes. It was strange to think that, just over a week ago, he had been fleeing into the night with his suitcase and Hedwig's cage. Now, there, with the sound of the shower muffling the world outside, he could feel something he almost never felt: tranquility.
He knew it wouldn't last. There was something in the air, an omen he couldn't identify, but it was there, persistent, like a shadow lurking. Still, Harry promised himself he would enjoy every moment of this brief calm before the winds of the storm caught up with him.
The smell of the Leaky Cauldron embraced Harry as soon as he descended the stairs. It was a mix of onion soup, butterbeer, and fireplace smoke, cozy in a nearly magical way. The dark stone walls, covered in soot, exhaled a subtle warmth, and the crooked pictures, with their worn frames, seemed to watch him like old friends.
The tavern was already full. Wizards and witches hurried toward the back, where the entrance to Diagon Alley was, while others spread out at the worn tables. Some whispered in small groups, their heads inclined and faces tense. Others sat alone, hidden behind copies of the Daily Prophet. Harry noticed that no one was speaking about Sirius Black aloud anymore—and the newspaper hadn't mentioned the fugitive in weeks. It seemed that routine had softened the fears.
Harry chose his usual spot: a discreet corner near the back wall. From there, he could observe without being noticed, a rare relief on days like these. It wasn't easy to eat in peace when someone recognized him. He had lost count of how many times strangers had approached to shake his hand or give him words of encouragement for "surviving."
He ran his fingers across the tabletop, feeling the rough wood under his fingertips. If those people knew how much he would trade that stupid title for his parents, maybe they would never look at him with that silly admiration again.
— Still wearing that face? — Edgar's hoarse voice snapped him out of his thoughts.
Harry raised his eyes and met the familiar face of the bar owner. Edgar Bennett had messy gray hair and a long scar beneath his left eye that always made him look a bit too serious. But there was a spark of irony in his eyes that betrayed his severe appearance.
— It's just that the world insists on being heavy, — Harry replied, letting out a short laugh.
— Or maybe you're just too light. — Edgar placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of him and shrugged. — Drink this. It'll help.
Harry took the cup and took a sip, feeling the warmth spread through his body.
— You observe too much, Edgar. Almost like you can guess. Are you a magician?
— It's not magic, kid. You furrow your brow like you've been punched every time you're brooding over something. — He started cleaning the table beside him, without haste. — I've told you before: if you let your thoughts cool down, they turn into crap, just like old coffee.
Harry laughed, shaking his head. — Talking's easier than doing.
— Of course it is, — Edgar wiped his hands on a cloth. — But you're the one in charge of them, not the other way around. He winked, a quick and unexpected gesture. — Do you want the usual?
Harry nodded, and Edgar disappeared into the kitchen.
While he waited, Harry let his gaze wander around the tavern. An elderly witch, wrapped in a shawl covered in silver stars, adjusted her glasses as she read a scroll. Two young people leaned over a small map stained with ink, whispering enthusiastically. Further away, a burly man drank in silence, his eyes fixed on the door, as if waiting to be surprised at any moment.
Shortly after, Edgar returned with a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon, the irresistible smell filling the air.
— You're getting spoiled with this breakfast, kid, — Edgar commented, placing the plate on the table with a swift movement.
Harry laughed. — It's your fault! You introduced me to this.
— I'll take the blame, but only because you're eating properly now. — Edgar crossed his arms, a light smile still on his lips. — Are you spending the day in Diagon Alley again?
— Yeah, I still need to buy some things... and decide on my electives. — Harry sighed, cutting a piece of bacon. — Maybe a trip to the bookstore will help me decide.
Edgar raised an eyebrow. — I've told you before: choose what makes you happy. And forget about what others expect.
Harry smiled wryly. — I'll try to remember that.
— Good kid. — Edgar gave the table one last tap before moving away to attend another table.
Harry turned his focus back to his breakfast. The day was still young, and although doubts and worries followed him like shadows, he knew he had to make the most of these moments of calm.
Harry walked through Diagon Alley, now even more crowded as the end of the holidays approached. The air was filled with animated voices and laughter, as parents and children hurried between shops, looking for the last-minute school supplies. Wizards of all ages crossed paths, some carrying heavy bags, others simply enjoying the vibrant energy of this unique place.
The most curious thing, Harry thought, was how the wizarding society seemed trapped in its own time. Their long robes and pointed hats were completely out of place compared to the modern style of London streets, but no one seemed to notice—or care. It was as if the magical world refused to keep up with the times, oblivious to the changes outside.
Passing by Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, Harry was taken by the sweet aroma of vanilla, strawberry, and other exotic flavors. He smiled, remembering the lazy afternoons he had spent there, when Florean insisted on giving him free ice cream while he did his Hogwarts homework or just killed time. It was the kind of simple and unexpected kindness he had never received from the Dursleys. Maybe I'll come back later, he thought, already imagining one of the new flavors on the menu.
Further ahead, the Quidditch Supplies shop was surrounded by a crowd admiring the Firebolt displayed in the window. The broom's golden bristles gleamed in the sunlight, sparking murmurs of desire. Harry paused for a moment, his eyes fixed on the Firebolt, imagining what it would be like to fly on it—the wind in his face, the perfect curves in the air. The thought almost made him smile, but then the uncomfortable reminder of the price came. He looked away with a sigh, as though stepping physically away from the window was enough to ignore the temptation.
When he arrived at Flourish and Blotts, the familiarity of the place embraced him like an old friend. Despite usually being busy with eager students, the shop was surprisingly calm. Only the soft sound of pages turning and the murmur of a conversation in the background filled the space.
Harry lost himself among the shelves, the cozy scent of paper and aged leather surrounding him. His fingers slid along the spines of books, caressing the textures of their covers and the raised gold lettering on the titles. There, in the quiet of the store, he felt the weight of the world lift. It was as if, surrounded by centuries of magical knowledge, he could finally breathe.
In the section of old books, something caught his eye. A thick volume, bound in brown leather, with worn golden letters on the title: "Magical Healers: The Ultimate Guide to the Art of Healing." Harry carefully took the book off the shelf, feeling its weight in his hands, and flipped through the rough, yellowed pages.
Healing spells, magical herbs, complex potions, and stories of famous healers who had saved lives in desperate situations. He thought of Madam Pomfrey, with her almost supernatural precision, treating injuries that he would never understand how to heal. He had never stopped to think about how much that required—the learning, the patience, the courage.
An idea began to grow, uncertain and fragile. What if he could be something more than "The Boy Who Lived"? Someone who helped others, not with attack spells or forced bravery, but with a different kind of strength—a quiet, careful strength.
As he reflected, Hermione's voice echoed in his mind. "You have a natural talent for Defense Against the Dark Arts, Harry. Maybe that's who you are." He frowned. But was that really it? Was being a "fighter" all he could be?
— Interested in the art of healing? — asked a gentle voice.
Harry looked up. The shop assistant, a woman in a light blue robe and a warm smile, was pointing at the book in his hands.
— I don't know, — he answered, hesitating. — I found it interesting. I've always wondered how people learn to do what Madam Pomfrey does.
The assistant smiled, a glimmer in her eyes.
— All healers undergo rigorous training, you know? Most start at St. Mungo's Hospital, but there are many paths. It's a challenging career, but few things in our world are as rewarding.
Harry tilted his head, thinking. He had never considered that before. Being a healer seemed to require just as much as facing a duel—maybe even more.
— And is St. Mungo's the only place where you can learn? — he asked, curious.
— In the UK, yes. — The woman leaned over the counter. — But there are also independent healers, specialists in more specific areas like experimental magic or potion development. It's hard work, but the feeling of saving someone... Well, it's priceless.
Harry looked at the book in his hands. He still didn't know for sure what he wanted to be, but for the first time in a long time, he felt like there was more than one choice.
— It sounds amazing! — He said, with a shy smile.
The assistant laughed, straightening a pile of books on the counter.
— Maybe you'll discover a new talent.
Harry paid for the book and carefully placed it in his bag. As he left the shop, the midday heat enveloped him. The sweet smell of ice cream and the sound of distant laughter pulled him back toward Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.
Sitting at an outdoor table with a chocolate caramel ice cream and the book beside him, Harry looked at the movement around him. For the first time in a long time, he felt that the future didn't have to be defined by the past. Maybe there was a different path, one that he could choose for himself. And maybe, he thought, as he began to flip through the book, it was possible to live—not just survive.
Harry was so absorbed in the book that he completely lost track of time. Each page seemed to pull him deeper into a world of precise spells, intricate potions, and stories of healers who turned tragedies into hope. The soft sounds of movement in the ice cream parlor had long since faded, leaving only the gentle murmur of his own breath as company.
He didn't notice when the lights in Diagon Alley began to glow, casting a golden, ghostly glow over the increasingly empty streets. He was only snapped out of his reading when he felt a gentle hand rest on his shoulder.
— Time to close, Harry — Florean said with a calm smile.
Harry blinked a few times, as if returning to reality, and saw the chairs being stacked inside the shop. He closed the book carefully, as if storing something precious, and gave a silent nod of thanks before stepping out into the cool night.
The air had a refreshing crispness, almost as if the evening breeze was clearing away the heat of the day. The shop windows glowed under the flickering light of magical lanterns, and Diagon Alley felt more introspective, almost melancholic now that the bustle of shopping had stopped.
As he walked back to the Leaky Cauldron, the book in his bag felt heavier than its size suggested—not because of its volume, but because of the meaning it was beginning to take on. He could already feel the idea taking shape within him, like a seed that he didn't yet know if it would bloom, but somehow felt promising.
Passing through the small stone archway back to the Leaky Cauldron, Harry was enveloped by the familiar warmth of the tavern. The comforting aroma of onion soup and freshly baked bread lingered in the air, mingling with the muffled sound of conversations and the clinking of glasses. It was a comforting contrast to the quiet outside.
As always, he chose the most secluded table, a discreet corner that was already starting to feel like his own. He sat down, took the book out of his bag, and opened it on the table, letting himself be drawn into the yellowed pages and the words that intrigued him.
— I didn't imagine you as a healer, kid!
Harry looked up, surprised, and found Edgar standing there, the familiar dish towel draped over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand. The rough, familiar voice had a light tone, but there was something more to it—a genuine curiosity.
— Neither did I, to be honest. — Harry pointed to the book with a shy gesture. — But there's something here that caught me. Helping people, you know? Not because someone expects it of me, but because it's something I'd choose to do.
Edgar pulled up a chair, a rare gesture, and sat at the table with Harry. He rested his elbows on the table, his tired yet attentive eyes fixed on the boy.
— Choose, huh? — Edgar leaned forward. — That's rare, kid. Knowing how to distinguish between what others expect from you and what you decide for yourself. And, look, it's not always easy to follow your own path.
Harry looked away, thinking about the old man's words. His fingers absently traced the edge of the book.
— Sometimes it feels like my whole life has been written by other people. — His voice came out low, almost a whisper. — The Boy Who Lived, the kid who defeated Voldemort... but I never chose that, you know?
He looked at Edgar, who just listened in silence, not interrupting him. The words began to flow, as if they had been stuck for too long.
— But this here, being a healer, would be something I'd choose. Something that's just mine.
Edgar sighed, looking at the table with a distant expression for a moment. He rubbed the dish towel in his hands, as if seeking some comfort in the routine action.
— I know exactly what you mean, kid. My family, for example... They wanted me to follow their path. They always talked about how important it was to have a job at the Ministry of Magic, something that would earn respect, you know? They wanted me to become someone important in British wizarding society. They thought a job at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was what I should do.
He looked at Harry, a nostalgic smile on his lips, but his eyes carried a bitter undertone.
— I tried, at first. But it wasn't for me. I wanted something different, something simpler, something that was mine and would let me be free. It wasn't easy. There was a lot of friction, but in the end, I realized that if I didn't make my own choice, no one else would make it for me.
Harry absorbed Edgar's words, a subtle smile forming on his lips. He understood exactly what the man meant.
— So, how did it go? — Harry asked, genuinely curious.
Edgar shrugged, as if the answer didn't matter. But at the same time, his gaze reflected a peace that hadn't been there before.
— It wasn't easy, but it was the best decision I ever made. I found my place, even if it ended up being here, at the Leaky Cauldron. Sometimes, the right path is the one you choose, not the one others expect you to take.
Harry nodded slowly, feeling a deeper connection with the old man. He didn't know if he wanted to be a healer, but he already knew that the choices were his to make, and that, in itself, was liberating.
— Well, kid, if that's what you want, then that's what matters. The rest of the world will always have something to say, but in the end, the one who lives your life is you.
With a grunt, Edgar stood up, stretching his back as he grabbed the towel from his shoulder.
— By the way, we have onion soup on the menu today. What do you think?
Harry let out a low laugh and responded simply:
— Sounds perfect.
He closed the book and set it aside while he waited. When Edgar returned with a steaming bowl and a piece of crispy bread, Harry nodded in thanks before diving into the food.
The warmth of the soup seemed to melt away a tension he hadn't even realized he was carrying. As he chewed the bread, his thoughts wandered to his friends. He could almost hear Ron teasing him, calling him "New Hermione" and imagined Hermione with a sparkle in her eyes, already planning to bring stacks of books on the subject.
A smile escaped as he thought of them, the warmth of the food and memories pushing away any fleeting doubts. For the first time in a long time, he felt that he was thinking only about what he wanted, not what the world expected of him.
When he finished, he pushed the empty bowl aside and closed the book. The idea was still uncertain, but there was something comforting in knowing that it was his choice.
Edgar passed by the table again and gave Harry a quick glance.
— So, what's on your mind? — he asked casually, with a subtle smile.
Harry looked up, tranquility evident in his voice.
— I'm not sure. But I appreciate the advice. Living life the way we truly want.
Edgar nodded, satisfied, and walked away through the tavern.
Harry gathered the book, climbed the stairs to his room, and closed the door behind him. Inside, the silence was absolute, interrupted only by the rustling of his clothes as he prepared for bed. The book, now on the table beside his bed, seemed more than just an object—it was a starting point.
Lying in bed, Harry closed his eyes. For the first time in a long time, the future seemed like something he could build. And with that, sleep came easily, wrapped in the lightness of a day that, though simple, had been full of meaning.
A/N:
Follows, favorites and reviews are greatly appreciated.
English is not my mother tongue.
"In case I don't see ya, good afternoon, good evening and good night."